This is one of those recurring threads but as there’s some more newbies, i’ll share my experience again.
I got done NHS so local only, but where my NHS trust contract out to marie stopes it was at least in a nice clinic at a time of my choosing. Tea and biscuits in the waiting room as a procession of men march in and shuffle back out doesn’t add to the sense of anticipation, but finally my name’s called and it’s my turn. The nurse shows me into an ante-room with a chair and a clothes hook and tells me to get ’em off. Now, I may be the only one on here without carnal knowledge of nurses, but this wasn’t how a nurse telling me to drop my undercrackers went in my dreams. Nor was her parting shot, as she goes through the other door, telling me to keep my socks on as the floor’s cold.
So, indignity #1 is the 15 foot ‘Donald Duck’ walk across to the table under the collective gaze of a senior doctor, a trainee (really!) and 2 nursing staff. Should you offer to shake hands? Make conversation?
[Ref: http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Donald+Ducking ]
Once on the table it’s all very friendly, check a few details, any medical conditions (only micropenis, at this stage – fear + cold is a great combo) and then we’re away. Indignity #2 – which means they put a green sheet with a square hole in the centre of it over your loins, and then pull your cock’n’balls through the hole. Conversation becomes somewhat strained.
But wait! There’s still the third and final indignity to come. Not content with your ‘not usual scale’ having become effectively disembodied from the body beneath thanks to now being the only thing on display….. it’s the wrong colour! They only work on brown ones! And as yours is the traditional pink with a purple end, there’s only one thing for it. The nurse produces some iodine and a brush, and sets to work like a demonic Rolf Harris (the one we used to like, not the horrible paedo one). ‘Can you guess what it is yet?’ Yep – it’s my tiny cock and withered balls redone in a 70’s colour scheme!!
After that the op itself is a cinch – minor scratch and a bit of tugging; sizzling and burning smell as the tubes are sealed off, and you’re done. Although frankly after having my balls pulled through a sheet and painted brown, they could have done anything at that stage as long as it was a/ fast and b/ didn’t involve eye contact.
Soon I was Donald Ducking back to the anteroom, furnished with a jiffy bag and a pot and on my way. Recovery from the pain was good but i got a minor post-op infection in the wound that needed cleaning out (which was painful, i think he used a brillo pad and dettol) and that kept me off the bike for 4 weeks – apparently a warm, damp chammy isn’t considered a suitably sterile environment.
All clear after the required 50 shots (I may have exaggerated the number to the wife) and now i stand proudly yet sheepishly in front of you all, as a confirmed Jaffa.
