Into the "Procedure room."

Anyone joining the party here should go back here and read the story from the start. I really wish the blog tool allowed one to write things from the top down.

As you recall, dear readers, when last we left the stalwart young feminist Tripp he was walking bravely into the "Procedure room," the room where the minor procedure, not much more than removing a splinter, really, was going to be performed. Let us resume the story there . . .

I walked calmly into the procedure room, shoulders back, chest out, with, I would like to think, a certain elegant ease which showed that not only did I have no fear, but which also showed that I was a man of the world, I was on top of my game, and certainly nothing as minor as just a vasectomy would knock me off of my pedestal.

I entered the "Procedure room" and Dr. Gray, the female Dr. Gray, left the room, presumably to wash up. I noticed that she had left and I thought, "Well, the whole point of the procedure, after all, is sterility. Ha Ha." I made myself laugh with my private little joke. Then I laughed a little more, to myself, and I impressed myself with how cool I was under the circumstances. "Tripp," I thought, "you are impressively cool under these circumstances."

A young man then walked in, and I presumed he was perhaps the towel boy, bringing linens, or perhaps a busboy of some kind, ready to clean away any clutter. I ignored him as he went to a cabinet and removed some cloths. I ignored him as he turned around, and I ignored him as he put a Pampers disposable diaper onto a chair. I did not ignore him when he instructed me to remove my pants, remove my underpants, and sit down on the chair. He instructed me to sit down on the chair with the Pampers curled halfheartedly on it like a mostly-dead fishing worm. He instructed me to sit down on the chair which I saw, when I looked at it closer, had leg restraints!? WTF?!

I realized, at that moment, that this young man was the Nurse, and I realized that it would be him who would be preparing me for the surgery. Yes, dear readers, you are understanding me correctly. You get the picture. I got the picture. A MAN would be pseudo-fondling my, um, wedding tackle, and a WOMAN would be hacking away at my vas deferens, my sacred manhood. Um, I mean she would be performing the little snip snip.

That was the first moment when it occurred to me that this minor event in my life, this teeny tiny little 'procedure thing' may not go exactly as I had planned. That was the moment when I knew, as much as any man knows any thing, that I had a choice - I had a very distinct choice. I could "Man up" and get fondled by a man and hacked by a woman, or I could bolt from the room and never come back, and face a lifetime of condoms and a lifetime of condemnations and a lifetime of pointed reminders about the time when Tripp ran like the wind.

Once again, I must leave you, dear readers. I am called elsewhere. But tune in tomorrow for the next chapter in the story of "How Tripp Manned up and met Mr. Sparky."