The Scrotal Sector

“Getting Fixed”

by Maui Holcomb

This is so not going to work.  Squeezed into a tiny room with hollow-core doors on two sides, lit by a single yellowish fixture, and I’m squeezed in front of a grimy sink in full view of myself in the snot-streaked mirror; foul smelling toilet two inches to the right should be encased in concrete.  Honestly, shouldn’t a hospital crapper be a bit more sanitary?  Got the plastic jar in left hand, jeans around ankles.  Working away with my right, but can’t keep it up.  Distracted by hair and stains on the floor.  The gap under the door behind me stretches at least a foot, and the light is brighter out there, where the lab tech, a woman of course, talks on the phone.

“No, patient was not here” comes her thick accent. “Never come for test.” I stroke away, sweat dotting my forehead.  She hangs up, and I hear heels.  Another one walks in, starts telling a joke.  This is nuts.  I begin to lose it again.

Trying to focus on mental porn, eyes screwed shut.  No, relax.  Work it.

One of them laughs right behind me – I jump, snap open eyes, but the door’s still closed.

“Gina, you need something, or you just come here for joke?”

“Dr. Lewis needs all these filled out again.”

Paper shuffling.

“Ooh, that man, he so…”

“I hear ya.”

Heels pass again.  I hear this Gina’s feet in the hallway outside the other door.  Christ, it’s unlocked.  I Stop and bolt it, fumble for the tap, water spurts out and I let it run.

An ant walks across the edge of the sink.  This place is a bonanza for him, crud on every surface.  He disappears down the side but will be back with a troop before I shoot this load.  The tap whines and water gurgles down the pipes.  I picture Gina’s ass pointed up, nothing but leg down to those heels.

A few weeks earlier I had a hop in my step, gliding down the fourth floor hallway of the Alameda Medical Building.  Assorted doctors’ offices appeared on either side at regular intervals and faded away in my wake.  Podiatrists, dermatologists, gynecologists, family specialists.  I smiled at each, pleased with their existence.  Valium will do that.  My wife steered my arm as I swayed going around the corner, and we turned into Dr. Z’s office.  So bright and cheerful.  Real orchids springing from a ceramic vase, a “Best of LA” Physicians’ plaque on display.

Popped the pill before leaving the house twenty minutes earlier.  Rush hour traffic melted away as we drove in, dropping the kids off en-route.  Started to feel spacey while riding, the radio fading in and out, the car expanding in every direction, but the drug swooped upon me immediately upon stepping to the pavement.  The parking garage walls swung away and wheeled back before I caught myself on the door.  Outside the structure a pleasant breeze tickled my hair and the bright April sun toasted my face as we walked to the building.

“You feel it?” Carol asked with a sidelong glance.

“Yup.”  I grinned and drank in her wry blue eyes and cascading locks and nearly missed the step to the curb.

“Whoa, watch out hon.”

Inside, I rocked on my heels as the elevator zoomed up four floors.

They schedule these particular procedures for the hour prior to normal business, to minimize embarrassment when the patient leaves with an ice pack clutched to his crotch.  The Valium had eliminated all anxiety and awkwardness by this point, which was good, since Teresa the nurse would be assisting with her dimpled smile and shimmering black hair.  She grinned as my wife helped me onto the examination table, then handed me a gown.  They both seemed to be smiling at a private joke.

“Put this on, Max, but tie it with the opening in front.” went Teresa.  “I’ll be back with the doctor.”

My wife followed her out after giving me a peck.  “Good luck.”

Peeling off my clothes was the most natural thing to do in the world.  I folded them and placed them on a chair.  The clock on the wall ticked, and the gown’s fabric tugged at my arm hair.  Shaved off all my pubes in the shower before leaving, and, why yes, it WAS mildly arousing.

“The main thing to think about,” Dr. Z had said when I first consulted him about this, “is if, God forbid, something should happen to the girls, would you and Carol want to start over, have another child.  It’s very difficult to reverse a vasectomy.  Possible, but I don’t want you to think about it that way.  Think about it as permanent.”

I had nodded and glanced out the window.  A squirrel in the tree outside added refinements to its nest among broad green leaves.

“Oh, I see,” I said.  “Well, the thing is, I can’t see ever wanting to go through all that again.  The diapers and the baby food and the teething and all that.  Two times is enough.”

Dr. Z nodded.  The nicest doctor on earth, mid-forties, Filipino, he trained first as a nurse to enhance his bedside manner and then served his residency in the Navy.  Been my doctor about 15 years, since I was around 23, 24, and always a nice successful contrast to the clouded misdirection of my twenties and thirties, but I guess he learned in school not to rub it in.  Trim and mild-mannered, he looked down and made a notation in his ever-present as I studied the home improvements of the local rodent.  Imagining what it would be like to suddenly lose my daughters.

“Also, if we wanted to start over, we could always adopt.  We’ve thought about doing that anyway.”

“I hear you.”  Well, talk it over with Carol, think about it, and, when you’re sure, call Teresa.  We do these on Fridays so you’ve got the weekend to recover.”

It hadn’t taken long to decide.  We’d gone through the post-childbirth, busy-life doldrums, but lately things had improved, and more transient methods of prevention no longer satisfied.  She was sick of the pill, I of condoms, so once I came to terms with fear of the knife I was back in this room, in my gown, not a care in my head.  This time the squirrel appeared to be out, but its impressive digs made me smile through my Valium haze.

With no other patients and office hours approaching, they didn’t keep me waiting for once, and in a minute Dr. Z knocked and stepped in.  Teresa followed him in, mask dangling around her neck and hair pulled back.

“Feel okay?” said the doctor, smiling.  “Valium working?”  He didn’t look up, using his stylus on the computer screen.

“Oh yeah,” I said.  “Feel great.”

“Good,” he looked up then and winked.  “Lie back.  I’m going to open your gown.”

“No prob.  Go right ahead.”  An intricate pattern of intersecting lines snaked across the ceiling tiles and instrumental jazz filtered out of the ceiling.  I vaguely recognized that Teresa was preparing a syringe with her gloved hands.

“First we’ll administer some anesthetic,” said Dr. Z.  “This will sting.”

A sharp pain sliced into my scrotum, and I gritted my teeth and turned my head to the wall opposite the window, where a watercolor of a sparrow on a branch held my attention.  Four brown brush strokes, some red dots for berries and a blue-gray splash perched on the end.  The doctor straightened up, and the pain eased away.

“Okay, now we’ll just let that settle in for a minute.”

“Oh, okay,” my lips formed words with no real effort.

Dr. Z counted seconds by the wall clock.  I studied the bird and avoided looking down my body.  The drug dulled the distress of my crotch being exposed to these two, but no need to push it.

The doctor asked a couple of small talk questions about Teresa’s weekend plans.  She and some guy named Brian going to Pismo Beach.  How lovely.  Then he turned from the clock and reached down.  She did something down there, too, holding a scalpel or my cock or something.  I remembered that he’d said they’d tape it back to my stomach to get it out of the way.

“Feel that?” he asked.

A small pressure, heavy and distant.

“Hurt at all?”

I shook my head no, examining the ceiling pattern again, permitting my mind to coast on waves unconcern.

“Good.  I’ll make the incision.  Let me know if you feel any pain.”

There ensued a few minutes of tugging and pushing, which he narrated.

“Pulling out the vas deferens on the right side…snipping a piece out…tying the ends off…Now the other side…”

Teresa smiled with encouragement when I forgot and caught her eye.  Then she turned back to my split-open ball sac.

“Okay, that’s it,” he said eventually.  “Now we’ll put a bandage on.  No stitches necessary.  The great thing about the scrotum is it shrinks right up and heals itself, if you just leave it alone.”

He demonstrated these remarkable scrotal properties with his blood-tipped hands, eyes sparkling.

Teresa packed ice around my lacerated privates.

“Hold that there for the next few hours,” said the doctor, pulling off his gloves.  “Rest, take the pain medication, come back on Monday, and we’ll check it out, okay?”

The Valium faded away as we drove and discomfort took over.  My head and my crotch throbbed in turn.  LAs spring became cold and gray.  At home I struggled up the stairs and climbed into bed, gulping pills.  I lay there with my legs spread wide as the slowly melting ice pooled around my ass.  When the kids got home they giggled and ran away when I described in broad terms what had been done to me.

By Monday the pain had receded and I could move around a bit more.  Doc removed the bandage and approved of my progress.

“So, no intercourse for a week,”he said.  “Then keep track of ejaculations.  Continue using birth control.  After about ten ejaculations, any remaining sperm should be cleared out.”

To be positive of that, I’d have to get a sperm count done at St. Joseph’s Hospital across the street.  If it came back zero, all would be good.  Simple enough.

Except lemme tellya, fellas, if you want to turn your wife on, get yourself fixed.  Something about ensuring that you’ll never have a child with another woman seems to really light the spark.  And when you’re married with kids, it’s hard to pass up any opportunity, even if all you can do is satisfy her.

So ‘no intercourse for a week’ proved to be a bit of a challenge.  She was a minx, prowling up in her tight jeans, lips parted, sliding her hand down my ass.  What could I do?  As long as I didn’t actually set things flowing down there, should be cool, right?

The wound had closed, but getting hard hurt like hell!  All that blood pumping around, throbbing against tender places.

“Does it hurt,”she panted.

“Naw.”

I kept one hand down there, trying to keep it still and blunt the pain, while I worked her over with the rest of me.  But couldn’t resist pressing a bit against the mattress.  “FUCK!”  I groaned.

“Sorry,” she gasped, arching her back.

Later, she had regrets, we worried that the tied-off tubes would break free, but the pain dissipated after a bit, so…  A few more days of that and, sure enough, had to try to screw.  It had been ALMOST a week, after all.  At climax pain crested over me and I kind of choked it off.  Snapped off the rubber and pressed both arms between my legs.  Not sure if technically I had “ejaculated”  Scene: repeat, for several days, she wanted it, my mind agreed, body hesitated, but it got easier, and we knocked off the required number of discharges.  Figured that should do it, even if the first few had been pinched off.

Dr. Z didn’t seem surprised when I called.  He said I could do the deed at the hospital but most patients preferred the comfort of their home.

“Get the sample to the lab within one hour.  Otherwise it’s useless.  When you check in, show them the cup and they’ll speed you through the paperwork.”

So, after the morning traffic died down, I took care of business, this time angling into the wide plastic jar the nurse had given me.  Screwed down the lid.  In those days we were about thirty minutes from St. Joe’s, so I should be fine as long as traffic was cool.

Which it was not.  The Hollywood Freeway crawled along, so I took the first exit and used the surface streets, my jizz stuffed in my pocket to keep it warm.  If anything still thrashed around in the juice, they wanted to know about it.  I stressed mile after mile, at each intersection, watching the clock, and finally turned east on Alameda and made it to the hospital.  An attendant handed me a ticket, and my semen and I dropped into the underground parking garage.

The lobby elevator slid open to reveal a pristine white hallway with marble floors, the smell of antiseptic, and a framed print of Mary and Jesus on the opposite wall.  The irony of bringing a sperm sample to a Catholic hospital, procured by spanking my meat and intended to confirm my successful birth control surgery, was not lost on me.  I felt defensive before meeting a single person.

I crossed to the two smiling, white-haired retirees, male and female, at the Information Desk.

“Can I help you?” went the woman, crucifix bouncing against her purple turtleneck.

“Registration?”

“Just around the corner,” said the grin, pointing.

Registration turned out to be a cramped room with numerous cubicles, all occupied at this moment by patients being sorted by the Registration Staff.

“Hello Sir,” said another grandmother behind a desk by the door.  She indicated a sign-in sheet.  The place seemed to be filled with affluent, healthy, mostly white seniors serving as volunteers and a feebler, more diverse group in cheaper clothing making up the sick.

“Please sign in and take a seat.”

I wrote “lab work” after my name and found a seat by the wall.  Patients and family members crowded the patterned seats.  A television played medical news from a mount on the wall and magazines lay on the little tables between the chairs.  I slumped onto a cushion and checked the time.  Forty-five minutes since lift-off.  When do I show the jar to get this expedited?  Might be amusing to see the old ladies’ smiles falter when confronted with my cum.  Or maybe they could tell exactly why I was there by the bulge in my pocket and couldn’t care less.

Fortunately, only a couple minutes passed before they called me up.  I stepped up to the only unoccupied cubicle.  A heavy-set Mexican woman swathed in a loud print dress sat behind the desk pecking at a keyboard with inch-long nails.  She turned as I approached and took the papers from me.  Looked at them, then up.

“Oh,” she glanced around my midsection.  “Do you have the…”

“Yeah,” I said, tapping the bulge.

“Has it been an hour yet?” she asked, turning back to her screen.

I checked my phone again.

“Nearly fifty minutes.”

She cleared her throat, and I wondered if she was thinking back to what she’d been doing fifty minutes ago.  The room buzzed with conversation, typing and phones.  She filled in a few notations, hit a button and got up.  I watched her sashay over to a printer and collect what came out.  Which turned out to be for someone else.  My knees bounced and I eyed the wall clock.  Tick-tock.  Another sheet slowly spurted out, and she swished back and handed it to me.

“Alright, go straight down to the diagnostics lab,” she said, looking at my face for the first time.  “Just take a left and go all the way to the double doors at the end.  Cross the courtyard on the right and you’ll see a door marked Central Lab.  Take the stairs down, show this and they’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks.”  I took off at a jog.

That night, confident the test results were just a formality, we rode bareback for the first time since she went off the pill.  Nice.  Round two before the kids woke next day.

Then Dr. Z called with the results.

“Your count is too high.”

“What?”

“You’ve still got some sperm.”

The blood emptied from my face.

“How?”

“There’s a small possibility that the tubes reconnected.  I’ve never seen it, but it can happen.  I had the pieces we removed tested, and we did cut the right tubes.  That can sometimes happen, too.”

“Uh huh.”

Shit. To knock her up after all that…

“So, what now?”

“First, continue using birth control.”

“Uh huh.”

“Clear the tubes out with a few more ejaculations, and you’ll have to get retested. Hopefully you’ve just got some sperm still backed up in there.”

“But, well, we did it a LOT of times…”

“You’ll have to do it a few more times, I’m afraid.”

This time I thought I’d better shoot the junk at the hospital, just to make sure.  When the same woman asked if I had brought the sample I said no, so things weren’t so urgent, but she still seemed anxious to move me along.

It was your typical medical lab.  White walls, an aluminum sink, labeled cabinets; colorful posters showing cross-sections of various body parts; and, above a desk in the corner, photos and cards and children’s artwork stuck to the wall – a brown stick figure with a stethoscope clutching a smaller figure with yellow circular crayon scribbles on top and the words “THANKS YOU DR. GEBRDIAN FOR MAKE ME BETTER” – stuff like that.  A middle-aged Japanese woman in a lab coat and spectacles glanced up as I entered, rose from her stool, and indicated a wooden chair by the wall.  Small and straight-backed, one flat wooden arm sticking out, it had the look of a torture device for elementary school students.  I sat.  She took my paperwork and began to unwrap a syringe, at which point it dawned on me.

“Uh…no, I’m not here to give blood.”

She peered down through her frames, first at the form and then at the empty plastic jar I held up.

“Oh,” she said, dropping the syringe on the counter and pulling off her latex gloves.  She turned from me.

“You can go in there,” and indicated a door in the corner at right angles to the doorway I had just walked through.  âJust put in the tray when you’re done.”

She pointed at a metal tray marked “Samples” and returned to her stool.

I entered the tiny bathroom.  Looked around for some reading material.  Nada.  Just a filthy toilet and sink and little space to maneuver.  This was nothing like The Right Stuff.  I’d been about ten when my mom took my older brother and me to see the movie and I saw my first masturbation scene, though in my pre-pubescence that fact took awhile to sink in.  My brother sat on the other side of Mom as well as that particular threshold of life.  They were probably uncomfortable, I, intrigued.  But, anyway, our Mercury program heroes got pornography and a room with music and cushions within which to provide their semen samples. I’d assumed my first sanctioned beat-off session at a public facility would be similar.  No dice.

So there I am, jerking off in a cramped, filthy latrine with two flimsy doors separating me from the hallway on one side and the blood lab on the other.  Hospital business going on nonstop, the P.A. system paging this doctor after that.  The water running in the sink, she knows damn well why.  Eyes clenched, images of legs, tits, middle-aged Japanese women flinging their lab coats aside.  Getting there, almost there, almost there- Luke about to blow up the Death Star, Jordan pulling up with the clock at three, two, game on the line, the faucet whines, a cackle comes from behind me and SPLOOM- nearly miss the cup at the last moment, no, I’ve got it, I’ve done it, my head expands and I grab the edge of the sink.

I step out a minute later.  The nurse barely looks up as I drop the jar in the tray, just nods and continues to type.  I scoot out of there as fast as possible, adjusting my diminishing package as my feet trip down the hallway.

Out front two elderly men with walkers and oxygen tanks wait for the elevator, so I cross the lobby to take the exterior stairs.  The volunteers stand behind the Information Desk in their cardigans and smiles.  I walk under an enormous carved wooden Christ gazing at me from the wall above the automatic doors, which swish shut behind me.  Fat raindrops pelt the drop-off zone and wet my shoulders as I jog to the shelter of the parking garage, feeling flushed and comfortably sterile.