Today I went to see a consultant about my vasectomy. It’s something that we’ve been planning for the rest a while, but now finally seems the right time. I’m too happy with my kids and too fucking old to go through it all again. And from a selfish point of view I want to be able the time to be a little more spontaneous (and sensitive!) on the occasions that we are both in the mood for a reason sex.
“What if we split up and you meet a hot twenty-year-old?”. I think my wife massively over estimates my pulling power, and I’m slightly concerned for a second about why she cares what happens if she leaves me (because I’m clearly never leaving her if the last few months has taught us anything).
The appointment itself was the epitome of English reserve and politeness to a fault. I walked in to find the doctor and a nurse scrubbed up and ready to go, and they asked me for my consent form. I had only come to discuss the surgery, but for a few seconds I seriously considered just getting it done there and then. You know, so as not to be rude.
Luckily I questioned it and a minor surgery was averted at the last second. It’s made me value my sperm though, and I feel bad that I nearly ended them without ceremony in the name of my British stuff upper lip.
So I’ve decided not to book out a hotel and take her with me and see my boys off in style. Hopefully the combination of the luxury apartment, expensive wine, and a smidge of sympathy will give my balls a good night of sucking and fucking before they head to the gallows…