What Dr Baraba Simcock doesn’t know about the male genitalia isn’t worth talking about. At the last count in 2005, she had done over 16000 vasectomies and still counting. That is a minimum of 32000 balls she has peered at and pondered about. An amazing feat. I hope she sleeps soundly. If anyone is deserving of a Dame/Knighthood, surely she is. She looked at mine in 1972 when it, the vasectomy not the testicles, was still a bit of a novelty. A commercial TV station, channel 9 interviewed me live afterwards on telly interspersed with advertisements for Cadbury Marsh bars. ‘How is your performance now afterwards,’ the smirking girl asked? According to Helvi, who watched the interview, I visibly shrunk and leaned back in my chair. ‘Oh, very nice’, thank you’, I answered ever so politely.
My mum, previously a devout believer in ‘letting the little ones come’ was surprisingly tolerant having watched the TV segment of her son’s interview. She even wished the procedure would have been available during her years of green meadows fertility and almost yearly pregnancies. I am not sure if dad would have volunteered. They were different times.
Dr Barbara wished me well after I walked out of the Family Planning Clinic, testes bandaged securely, gave me a packed of coloured (and flavoured) condoms and urged me to ‘do it as often as you like’ ‘clearing all systems of life sperm is important’, she added. Also ‘You need to give a sample in 6 weeks time to determine, how diligently you have been, and that you are ready for a lifetime of sex without worrying about unwanted pregnancies. I couldn’t wait. Surely, the advice ‘ as often as you like’ also needed an equally enthusiastic partner, unless of course, a helping hand was allowed in the clearing of the ‘vasa deferentia’. I was given the address of the pathologist that would determine my sample to see if everything was ready for a full steam conjugal trip around the world for ever and ever.
I don’t want to get too medical. I’ll keep it short and to the point. Those who have followed so far but who are likely to get upset about explicit sexual references have the chance to leave now or look askance and think of Brussels Sprouts, or depending on cultural backgrounds, of Spanish Chorizos.
After a hectic six weeks and looking pale, I wearily made my way to the City pathologist in the bus from Balmain. It was the 401. The girl at the counter smiled friendly and supportively, gave me a small glass jar and led me to a room. ‘You will have plenty of time, the next client won’t be here till another hour’. ‘Please, you can lock the room behind you, she added’. She smiled again but not too much so. Just supportive and so typical of her gender. No fuss..
The first thing that struck me of the room was the total lack of a romantic ambience. I thought it would be softly furnished with a warm pink glow. The wall was adorned with a horrible print of a greenish Egyptian Pharaoh woman that one sees in op-shops. Nothing but a few magazines and some shelving, on top of which was a packet of Kleenex tissues. What was I supposed to do? I sat down in the Parker chair feeling dejected and not at all keen, staring at my little glass jar. What had I got myself into and what will the girl at the desk think when I hand over my empty jar?
I perused the magazines. They were full of the most provocative and beckoning ladies. What I thought were ads for chicken wings turned out to be close ups of shaven genitals. On top of all that, was I going to be unfaithful in this hour of such desperation (and of which was no return) to chicken wings? I looked at my watch. Thirty five minutes had passed already and to make things worse, a couple of male voice were outside my door. Are they queuing up now? I panicked.
It was all still so flappery floppery.
But then, I relaxed and thought, surely you can do it. Something was awakening, a kind of ‘doing it for your country and the over- population scourge together with a lust to prove to the girl behind the counter, I was still a man. I took action by first moving away from the Pharaoh woman’s gaze on the wall. Resolute and determined I decided to re-call my most and best top ten in the hit parade of sexual imaginings. The ones that withstood the test of time, over and over again. I think it was number six with the heaving and sighing and languid look, that IT rose to the occasion. My little glass jar tilted at the ready, was now ever so willing and able. There were still 16 minutes left and I relaxed to the point of ‘might as well make the most of it’ heroically relishing the lovely tingling creeping up my spine and, while recklessly easing off a little, took my time and gave helping hand a bit of earned rest , only to resume my previous momentum, except a little faster and more urgent now.
I unlocked the door, and triumphantly handed over my discretely wrapped in Kleenex tissues compliant glass jar to the smiling girl.
I had still seven minutes left. I could hardly have asked for extra time and enjoy a post conjugal nap as well.
There was another ‘client’ waiting.