Usually when I’m on an airplane, I make a game of trying to fart loud enough to wake the nearest sleeping person to me. Today, my focus is on my balls. My swollen, bruised balls.
You see, I got a vasectomy three days ago.
From what I gather, I’m healing at an average pace, so in about 3 or 4 more days I’ll be back to normal size and feeling decent.
Before the procedure, I’d say my balls were about average size, and quite hairy. I’ve trimmed them before, but never with a razor. It’s a requirement to Bic them beforehand.
It took a couple of days for my sack to swell to roughly the size of a tennis ball (but not as fuzzy). I graduated from tighty-whiteys about 19 years ago, just after I started getting laid, so my junk is accustomed to swinging freely and in complementary sync with my gait.
I ride a motorcycle, and the wife is out of town with the kids, so I slowly walked to the closest store to find something to make for dinner.
I could feel my huge, aching, bald nuts on my thighs as I walked.
Oh yeah, I live in Phoenix, and it’s also July.
My hot, giant, hairless scrotum stuck to my leg and stretched with each step. It was just short of agonizing, but there was nothing in our house to eat but pretzels.
“Why don’t you just wait until it cools off?” you ask. Well, you obviously haven’t been to Phoenix in July if you believe that “dark” means “cooler.”
So I’m on a Southwest plane, and the seats are a little thin. I’m forced to do my best to cradle my tender nut sack in my lap kind of on top of and in between my thighs, and pray to God my neighbor doesn’t bump my leg.
Yes, I just popped a Hydrocodone about 15 minutes ago, but they can’t seem to relieve me of the deep, penetrating lower-gut ache- the same ache that makes you want to puke when you get kicked in the junk.
I also pray my wife doesn’t want to have sex, because she will find out about the procedure. It’s doubtful though, because we haven’t fooled around since 2010.
A man needs a signature and approval from his wife to get a vasectomy, but a woman’s privacy is protected from her husband by medical laws if she wants an abortion.
There is a section of the city that seems to attract dying cars. As if they are getting close to sucking in their last petrol vapor, their drivers take them on a ride to see the golf course on the south edge of town.
Under the erect building “A” of Novell Inc, lies the carcasses of station-wagons, light pickup trucks, and sedans. Heavy steam slowly escaped through the edges of the hood; today an Audi Quattro joined the graveyard. It’s driver unceremoniously got out and started walking the highway-junction towards the streams and ponds where he’d find ducks and corporate employees feeding them. The end-of-life automobiles almost forgotten behind them.