It’s been nearly 2 years since I had the ol’ snip-snip or, as my doctor preferred to call it, my vasectomy.

You won’t find many guys willing to talk about their experience. It’s a bit like peaking over the urinal. But, I believe men everywhere need to know what to expect. I believe this story should be told!

Over the Internet.

To a bunch of people I don’t know.

The air was crisp and the temperature mild on that Friday December day back in 2008 when my wife dropped me off at the butcher’s… I mean doctor’s… office.

As I exited the van, my wife gave me a kiss and then, I noticed, a slight smirk.

I didn’t know what to make of that.

I walked up to the receptionist’s desk and told her my name and murmured that I was there for a vasectomy. “A what?!” she hollered. “A vasectomy,” I repeated a little louder with my teeth clenched thinking, ‘it says it right there on your computer you…’

A few minutes later I was called back by a young and gorgeous blond nurse. ‘OH CRAP!’ I thought. If she was going to be in the operating room, I was going to be in trouble.   A man just can’t control certain parts of his body, especially if they are being touched by a gorgeous blond nurse!

She led me to a changing room where I was told to take off all my clothes and put them in a locker. The tight-fitting underwear they had told me to bring was to be put in the pocket of my surgical gown.

I was then shown to another waiting room to sit among a few other naked-under-our gown-with-underwear-in-our-pocket guys awaiting the inevitable.

After some nervous fidgeting through the various magazines lying about, a much less attractive and older nurse with a smoker’s raspy voice called me back to surgery. Thank goodness.

No need to worry about an unfortunate mishap with my unfortunate member!

She had me lay down on the table and before I knew what was happening, she rolled my gown up to my chest and started to shave me.

Down there.

I thought, “A nice hello, how’s it going? My name is Nurse Hatchet,” would have been nice! I stared up at the bright surgical light as she handled my package as if it was a tamed serpent.

I was grateful it stayed tame.

Then, just as unexpectedly she brought out a rubber band. She called it “our most important piece of equipment.”

‘What the hell are you going to do with that!’ I screamed in my head.

She grabbed ‘me,’ put one end of the rubber band around it and attached the other end to a clip on the edge of my gown. ‘Uh, this is REALLY awkward,’ I thought.

As if she heard me, she said, “You don’t want that thing getting in the way, now do ya?”

In the way of the KNIFE?! Well, no, I suppose she had a good point there.

I was liking the rubber band a lot better now.

The doctor then came in and quickly got to work inflicting pain in an area that a man shouldn’t feel pain. He gave me a couple of shots in the nether regions to numb up the area near where he was going to make an incision, pull out the tubes that my sperm traveled, cut them, cauterize them, stuff them back into my body and sew me up.

See why no other guy is willing to explain this to you?

The whole time I’m lying there prostrate, I kept chatting with the doc. I wanted to keep my mind off what he was doing, but this just annoyed him especially when he began to have a little trouble with the tube on my right side. I tried talking to the nurse, but she wasn’t interested either.

Oh how I wished for this to be over!

Finally, 10 hours later which was probably really only 2 minutes, whatever the trouble was, the doc fixed it (I didn’t ask; I didn’t want to know). The rubber band was removed, an icepack was strategically placed and the nurse helped me put on my briefs.

More awkwardness.

She wheeled me over to a recovery area where I had some snacks and orange juice. When that stayed down, I was allowed to get dressed, call my wife and get to the good part: two full days of watching football on TV UNINTERRUPTED!

By the time I got home, though, the local anesthetic started to wear off and the pain began in earnest. I felt like I had been kicked in the crotch with a steel-toed boot by a guy who’s already going to hell and doesn’t really care anymore. I was told this would last for 2-3 days.

It lasted about three weeks.

Thankfully the pain did recede and our love life got back on track.

But I have never been able to look at a rubber band the same way since.