What They Don't Tell You About Vasectomies

There's a secret about vasectomies that you don't discover until you're committed to the little operation. You have to have a lot of sex before it works.
The actual operation is quite simple and painless: a bit of intravenous Valium takes your mind not only off your balls being cut on but pretty much everything else as well, and you're out of the doctor's office inside of 45 minutes. There's not a whole lot of pain afterward despite the location of said surgery, and you're back on your feet in a day or two. You can resume sex anytime you feel up to it; certainly within a week in most cases.
And the sooner the better, because the meter is running: You have to ejaculate 15 to 20 times before all the living sperm are flushed from your system.
My doctor believes 'tis better to err on the side of caution; he gave me a little plastic jar and told me to come back with something in it in eight weeks, but only if I had ejaculated at least 30 times.
"Are you kidding? I ask him, quickly doing the math in my head.
He laughs to show me that he's not. "No, he says, showing me the door. "Have fun.
At home, I discuss this with my wife. She asks me what I asked the doctor. In her case, I have to get out the written documentation he sent home with me before she believes me.
I can tell that she's less than thrilled with this news; the reason I had a vasectomy is that she was informed by her doctor that she could no longer take birth control pills and neither of us at this point in our relationship were very satisfied with condoms.
"Well, we'll do what we can, she said, and then added, "but I'm not sure I can do this 30 times in two months. She looks at me. "You might have to help.
"Well, of course, dear, I say, chuckling. "It's rather obvious, isn't it, that I will be 'helping'.
"You don't understand, she says. "I mean helping on your own.
I stop chuckling. "You mean¦?
"Have fun, she says.
So, two months of fun later, it's time to produce the sample. The specimen, as it's known in medical and scientific circles. It has other names in other circles, but we're not going there right now. The doctor told me I need to have the specimen in his office within one hour; if distance was a problem, I could produce said specimen there in the office. I prefer the comforts of home.
I glance at the time; it's 15 minutes to the doctor's office, so I'll allow myself 15 minutes to do the business at hand. A little stimulation is in order ¦ anyway, we arrive at the climax, such as it is, and with admirable foresight I've remembered to unscrew the top to the sterile jar ahead of time. I'm all set, it's about time, here I ¦ whoa, baby, how exactly do you do this. It's hard enough to pee in one of these, but geez, I have to think about this. No, no, this is no time to think. We're on the clock, after all, and we can't be falling down on the job. Hmmm, how about if I just stick this there and ¦ that's not working. How about if I ¦oops, well, sure, that ought to work. It's mostly in there. Gee, is that all there is? It sure seems like more during sex. I wonder if that's enough for a sample? I could ¦ no, I couldn't. That's all there is, and that's all they're going to get out of me.
Okay, let's get going, the clock is ticking. Should I put this jar in a bag? Yes, a brown paper bag. Here's one ¦ no, no, no, it's got my daughter's name on it. Curse my wife for recycling every damn thing in this house, including school lunch bags. Here's one; let's go, time's awasting.
Hop in the car, out of the driveway, race down the highway. I glance at my watch; the time is good, my specimen is good. Life is good. Except is that cop stopping me? No, not that, not now.
I pull over. Big highway patrolman right out of central casting strolls up to my car, mirror shades hiding his eyes.
"Goin' pretty fast there, weren't you, sir? he inquires politely.
"Was I, officer? I say stupidly.
"Yep. Suddenly, he takes off his shades. His eyes are looking past me to the passenger seat. "What's in the bag? he asks.
"The bag? I look over at it and back at him. "Not what you think, I say a little too quickly.
He frowns. "What do you think I think it is?
"Um, something illegal.
He studies me in silence.
"It's not, I manage. "Illegal, I mean.
He keeps staring at me. I sigh in resignation.
"It's a sample, I tell him in a low voice.
What kind of sample, he wants to know. Defeated, I pull the jar out of the bag and hold it up to let him see. He squints at it.
"Doesn't look like much in there, he says. "And it doesn't look like urine¦ Realization dawns on his face and he hastily puts his sunglasses back on. "All right, sir, you may go, but lets' keep it within the speed limit, shall we?
"You bet, I call to his retreating back.
I make it to the doctor's office in another eight minutes. I check the time; I'm still within the one-hour window. I decide that the paper bag is a sign of immature embarrassment here where trained medical professionals are used to dealing with samples of all sorts of excretions and ejaculations on a daily basis. So I boldly waltz into the reception area with my jar. After all, I'm just dropping this off and then I'm out of here.
I tell the receptionist my name. She checks her list, like I might be some guy off the street who gets his jollies by donating sperm samples to doctor's offices uninvited. Whew, I'm on the list. She smiles at me.
"Have a seat, sir, and someone will be with you in a moment.
I freeze. A seat? I don't want to sit. I want to make my deposit and leave. I open my mouth and the receptionist closes her little sliding window. I slowly turn around to survey the waiting room. Only one other person is there, but I feel my stomach knot: It's a little old gray-haired woman. The only good news is that it's not my mom.
I take a seat, trying to find somewhere to hide my little jar. The only choice is between my legs, and I don't think that is such a good idea. So I hold it on my leg.
She glances up from her magazine and I see her eyes narrow. She looks back down at her reading. I study the ceiling. I feel her eyes back on me or, more precisely, my little present for the nurse. Time has slowed; I sneak a look at my watch and see that a whole two minutes have passed since I sat down. I shift uncomfortably and send out a prayer that a nurse comes and rescues me. I know this elderly woman is wondering what's in my jar. She can see, like the cop, that it's not urine. Does she know? Of course she knows, you dolt, she was young once. But maybe they didn't look at the stuff back then, I think. I mean, maybe she doesn't have a clue what this is. Right, that's why she's snickering. No, I bet she's just smiling at something in the magazine. Oh, please come and save me, please, please, please.
Oh, blessed angel of mercy, there you are. Has ever there been a sweeter sound on heaven or earth than your nasal calling of my name? Clutching my jar like it was holy water I dash to the door of the inner sanctum and follow the nurse to a room.
"What sample is this? she inquires.
Is this a trick question, I wonder. "Um, I say and take a guess. "Semen?
Wrong answer. She smiles as though she's dealing with a small child. "No, is it your first one?
Well, no, actually, this would be about number 29, I am about to say, when I realize she means is this the first time I've had it tested. I nod my head numbly.
"Fine. You can give us a call late this afternoon, okay? she says brightly. I nod again.
"Is that all, then? I ask, hoping as I say it that she doesn't make some joke about me contributing a little more to the jar.
"That's it, she affirms, and I bolt out of there, not bothering to look at the little old lady on my way out. I make it to the safety of my car and sit there gripping the steering wheel.
Wow, I say to myself, when is it in life that I get to start acting like an adult?