My testicles feel like they have been kicked in the ass by a mule. Now they look like a patched and stitched up pair of wrinkly leather sacs, and seem to drag me down to the ground as if bar-bells were clamped to them. I walk funny too, and have been instructed not to bathe til Saturday, so let's hope the sofa's comfy. Oh my preciousssss ballssss!!
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Ok, now I am awake (10:24 am Saturday) and still trying to shake off the effects of the general anaesthetic, which gave me a choker of a headache after the procedure. Waking up to find one's balls and brains as sore as a cranky monkey is bad enough; my throat and tummy creaked as well, having had no nourishment for nearly 15 hours (no food or water from the midnight before the operation, said the nurse).
For this surgical virgin, even a day session proved more tedious than expected. We got up at daybreak and after some delay (let's just say I had to make two pit stops), we took a cab to the hospital and checked-in at the ambulatory services unit of the urology centre. I dumped my clothes into a locker, changed into a loose airy overall and was assigned a bed. A nurse hands me a stack of forms to sign (presumably so that I can't sue if the surgeon cuts the wrong tube or organ) and asks: "do you want egg, tuna or chicken?" referring to the light sandwich meal they would serve some 6 hours later.
Next came the part I don't particularly like, since the sight of sharp objects (especially ones inserted into my hide) triggers wrenching mental spasms and bloody flashbacks. After setting up the saline drip, they wheeled me to the theatre and unceremoniously
transferreddragged me onto the operating table. The anaesthetician pumped his knock-out juice through the drip infeed (a slightly tinging, piquant sensation), while a mask was placed on my face to hasten the flight to a dreamless sleep.
The next thing I knew, I woke up in a recovery room to the din of my head throbbing, balls aching and stomach growling. Rather bloody bits of dressing were evident on both sides of my scrotum and my wang had shrunk in revulsion to a near inevident size. I was still on the drip. After a while, a nurse came and handed me an egg sandwich (the 7-11 type) and cup of Milo. A few hours of observations were needed, and I drifted through anaesthetic-delayed episodes of floating castles and flighty fancies that were punctured by pounding foreheads and the uncle in the next bed who lacks a volume control. Every hour or so, a nurse would come and check that my parts were still whole. I was also told to waddle to the toilet to check if my piping works. There was a string by the loo which you could pull if you somehow fell into your own poo. Unfortunately, while the golden shower streamed out cheerfully, I could not yet determine if another vital function was up to it. Finally, close to dinner time, a doctor came to do a final inspection and change my dressings. The antiseptic stung like a swathe of red hot chilli pepper oil, driving me to groining delirium.
I got up and changed out of the wardwear. The nurse gave me a crude "Voluntary Sterilisation Certificate" which certifies that I have understood and accepted:
a) the advantages and disadvantages of sexual sterilisation as a form of contraception;
b) that it may not be possible to reverse the operation; and
c) that there is no guarantee that the operation will be totally effective in preventing conception.
All very assuring in an official sort of way. Later, I am told a more ornate and frameable scroll will be sent, which I may proudly display as proof that this duck fires blanks.
In about a month's time, I will have to verify that the procedure has indeed kept my lil' ducklets out of action as well as remove the stitches. Three days before the test, I am not allowed to fuck or wank so that a sufficiently concentrated sample can be obtained. The printed instructions note: "Semen is best produced strictly by masturbation. Wash hands and penis before..." Sadly, my fancies of tactile aid from a young female intern (mrs budak suggests a strapping male nurse) were put to rest by the staff nurse's clarification that specimen collection is to be done at home (at the unarousing hour of 7 am!) and the filled container rushed to the laboratory within an hour. Can anybody kindly spare me a few top-rated Vivid videos in case mrs budak isn't in the mood?