So the vasectomy wasn't as bad as I thought, but it wasn't a piece of cake, either.
They wheeled me in to the surgery, gave me a little happy juice, and as the room started to waver and breathe around me in psychodelic grooviness; I had to deal with the discomfort of an attractive female nurse - who wasn't Mrs. Zombie - touching, moving, manipulating, and all around fondling my junk as she shaved me.
I find, at times like this, that the best course of action is to focus on the ceiling and say the Bene Gesserit Litany against Fear over and over again - in my head - in the hopes that there is no embarrassing tumescence. I'm sad to report that I failed.
Seriously, I'm powerless to control it. I am like a 14 year old kid who's just cracked the erection technology... my little zombie does what it wants and can't be negotiated with, can't be reasoned with. It just keeps doing what it does and won't stop. That's right, he's just like a Cyberdyne Systems T-808 cyborg!
So, just as I started to ... rise to the occasion... I got another shot of the anaesthetist's magical elixir and found myself drifting off to a dream land. And it was a wonderous land where every day is Halloween and I get to dance all night with Velma and Daphne from Scooby Doo, Gillian Anderson, and Adrienne Barbeau circa John Carpenter's Escape from New York. While we dance and kiss and eat Pixie Sticks and candy corn - the soundtrack is the awesome theme to The Munster's.
I awoke from this Freudian goldmine to find ANOTHER good looking nurse fondling my junk in the recovery room; looking for bleeding, swelling, and other signs of imminent catastrophe.
Only this time... Mrs. Zombie was there. Watching.
I looked at her, she looked at me, and she rolled her eyes in disgust.
"What is wrong with you?!?" she asked, as the nurse lifted my member and checked my stitches, "You've just had surgery, you're still groggy from anaesthesia, and you still have the energy to look at me like that? And no... we won't be having a threesome. Pig."
"Crap." I said as I drifted back to sleep.
So... a week later. I'm still sore, I have some swelling still, I'm bruised, and I'm itchy as hell because my freshly shorn dingus and melon-sack have a five o'clock shadow.
The things we do for love. And - more importantly - sex.
And, for the record... it's not an easy recovery.
So, I spent the rest of the week wearing tight underwear, sitting on the couch, and trying not to let my nards bang together like bocce balls. I was only partly successful.
And I think a threesome's the least I can get considering the massive sacrifice my manhood's taken.
Don't you agree?