The first day was fine, the novelty of benzos and a Tuesday off had me in a good mood. I spent the afternoon on the couch icing my groin, watching Iron Chef, and musing about how easy the surgery had been. That night I mixed up my anti-inflammatories, with my short burst concentration medicine, and slept quite poorly. A mistake I didn’t catch for a week. I blamed the euphoria of impending sterility for the strange dreams and powered through. I do not believe this impeded my recovery
The days that followed were difficult. They’d given me a dick bra to keep my junk static, but it constantly rubbed up against the quarter sized disc of hardened glue. It felt like I had accidently affixed a pog to my nuts and decided to just roll with it out of shame. The cats were banned from the bedroom for being serial dick-steppers, so they meowed ceaselessly outside the door. I was barred from lifting more than 10lbs, minced about like a concubine, and dreaded sneezing my guts into my scrotum. I was infirm and petulant but it passed.
Twenty days later I began the first of ten medically mandated wanks. The literature suggested that it could be bloody and that I shouldn’t be concerned. I was quite concerned, but it had been twenty days and I refused to live in fear. As I began the audio visual component my wife burst into the room to change socks, mid-day, for no reason. I started over, she came back in to check if the cat was under the bed. Third try, and I had to explain that I couldn’t talk to my parents right then as I had to gingerly bring myself to climax on doctor’s orders. She left. I finished. It was mostly regular.
Ten rounds down and I felt I had vanquished the guerrilla sperm hiding in the jungle. Months had passed and I was mostly healthy. My final task was to send a sample to the lab to confirm the sperms defeat. I was provided several unlubricated condoms made of prison grade latex, and a fancy two part jar to store the sample within. Digging deep I raw dogged the Michelin Man three times in an hour, and then responsibly stored my sample in the fridge for pickup the next day. My wife found the sample, read the side, and explained that refrigerating ruined it and I’d have to call the nurse to get a new kit.
I retrieved the kit in person, repeated the process, and then failed three times at entering the online code required to arrange delivery. I suspect my zero key was jammed up for unspecified reasons. I had to call the nurse again to have her manually set things up. She was gracious, but her victory was absolute. A week later I got an email declaring me sperm free and child immune. I stepped out of the gene pool, toweled myself off, and swore this would be my last surgery.