syd
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2005
- Messages
- 273
You were twenty four, finger tips already stained yellow from smoking.
Standing in the waiting room, viciously hung-over, at the Health Grades Center this is all starting to feel like a really bad idea. You step forward and hand the large, tired woman your insurance card. You have to wonder how awful you most look, three day bread, blood shot eyes, slouched shoulders, trembling hands. She hands you several forms and offers a weak smile.
You find a seat in the crowed waiting room and wonder, is there really this many cock problems in the world?
Filling out the forms you notice again how yellow your finger tips have become. You try and get comfortable in the hard chair, but your tight white underwear you were instructed to wear is making it impossible. You hadn’t followed all the instructions, but you begin writing hoping it won’t matter.
Shaving had been fun. You let her do it despite the four bottles of red you had split. She cut you and laughed and it took forever, but she also blew you when she was done. You remember running your hands through her hair and telling her to stop, that you couldn’t cum before the procedure. She had stopped and pointed to the hand that held the dark red wine, indicating that you weren’t supposed to drink alcohol either.
Sitting in the waiting room, trying to be discreet about scratching the freshly shaving skin, you look around and realize if there was one place outside your own home you could scratch you balls and not feel self conscious about it, this was it.
Finishing the forms and struggling to your feet, you hand them to the tired woman behind the glass and take you seat again. Without the forms to occupy your mind you begin to feel nervous about being here again. This had all been your idea. No one had forced you here. Your own self loathing had brought you to sitting in this crowed waiting room with tight white underwear on.
Looking at your stained fingers you again remember why you came here. It wasn’t that you didn’t like children. The worry free sex had more to do with it than that. However most of it had to do with bringing an innocent person into the confused downward spiral you call your life. It wasn’t fair for you to force all your horrible and weak characteristics onto another human being who never had a shot at a fair life. It wasn’t fair for them to have all of life’s terrifying questions, with only you to give them the false hope and disappointments that you have found. It wasn’t worth the risk of their fingers being stained yellow at twenty-four.
It was this sort of thinking that lead you here. As you begin to sweat form the nervousness or the hangover, you start to think of leaving again. With the way you look and feel you could certainly pass for sick. Just postpone it for a while. A vasectomy isn’t something you should rush into. Looking at your trembling hands, you sadly resign yourself to what must be done.
To take your mind away from this awful waiting room, trembling hands and stained fingers, you think back to a few days ago when she had drove you here. You had tried to cum in that little cup yourself, but the cold sterile white walls and shitty pornography had been too much. She had slipped through the door, and given you that sweet understanding smile. She pressed her warm body against yours without a word, and slipped her hand down the front of your tattered jeans.
Startling you out of the already fading memory, a kind looking nurse has just called your name. Walking to the back she asks if you are feeling ok. You give her the best smile you can find, and tell her you are just nervous.
She tells you to get undressed, and leaves you alone in one of the bright cold rooms. Stripping to the tight white underwear you tell yourself it’s not too late. You could tell them you changed your mind, you just weren’t sure yet. You catch your reflection in one of the small mirrors and notice how sad your tired eyes are. You sit heavily on the table and stare at the shiny instruments while waiting on the doctor.
He slips through the door much the way she did, and although you have met, he could be anyone. He busies himself with some papers and makes pleasantries, still not looking at you.
So, how are... He stops at the sight of you.
Have you been drinking?
Not this morning, no.
Last night?
A couple glasses of wine with dinner. I was hoping it wouldn’t matter.
I apologize. I don’t mean to disappoint you, but we can’t do this if you’ve had any alcohol in the last forty-eight hours.
Well it was just a couple of glasses. It can’t be that bad right?
I’m sorry. We’re liable here. If something was to go wrong...
So there is no chance?
I don’t know what to tell you. Reschedule. Follow the instructions more carefully.
I understand
He slips out. Everyone in this place slips in and out. Everyone knowing people are getting their cocks checked out, they move with caution. You dress slowly.
You walk through the entire office passing the tired woman without making another appointment, feeling relief and the sadness at another failed idea.
Sitting here writing this, you watch him play your guitar, strumming all the same cords you once did, thankful he will never know how close it came to never happening.
Standing in the waiting room, viciously hung-over, at the Health Grades Center this is all starting to feel like a really bad idea. You step forward and hand the large, tired woman your insurance card. You have to wonder how awful you most look, three day bread, blood shot eyes, slouched shoulders, trembling hands. She hands you several forms and offers a weak smile.
You find a seat in the crowed waiting room and wonder, is there really this many cock problems in the world?
Filling out the forms you notice again how yellow your finger tips have become. You try and get comfortable in the hard chair, but your tight white underwear you were instructed to wear is making it impossible. You hadn’t followed all the instructions, but you begin writing hoping it won’t matter.
Shaving had been fun. You let her do it despite the four bottles of red you had split. She cut you and laughed and it took forever, but she also blew you when she was done. You remember running your hands through her hair and telling her to stop, that you couldn’t cum before the procedure. She had stopped and pointed to the hand that held the dark red wine, indicating that you weren’t supposed to drink alcohol either.
Sitting in the waiting room, trying to be discreet about scratching the freshly shaving skin, you look around and realize if there was one place outside your own home you could scratch you balls and not feel self conscious about it, this was it.
Finishing the forms and struggling to your feet, you hand them to the tired woman behind the glass and take you seat again. Without the forms to occupy your mind you begin to feel nervous about being here again. This had all been your idea. No one had forced you here. Your own self loathing had brought you to sitting in this crowed waiting room with tight white underwear on.
Looking at your stained fingers you again remember why you came here. It wasn’t that you didn’t like children. The worry free sex had more to do with it than that. However most of it had to do with bringing an innocent person into the confused downward spiral you call your life. It wasn’t fair for you to force all your horrible and weak characteristics onto another human being who never had a shot at a fair life. It wasn’t fair for them to have all of life’s terrifying questions, with only you to give them the false hope and disappointments that you have found. It wasn’t worth the risk of their fingers being stained yellow at twenty-four.
It was this sort of thinking that lead you here. As you begin to sweat form the nervousness or the hangover, you start to think of leaving again. With the way you look and feel you could certainly pass for sick. Just postpone it for a while. A vasectomy isn’t something you should rush into. Looking at your trembling hands, you sadly resign yourself to what must be done.
To take your mind away from this awful waiting room, trembling hands and stained fingers, you think back to a few days ago when she had drove you here. You had tried to cum in that little cup yourself, but the cold sterile white walls and shitty pornography had been too much. She had slipped through the door, and given you that sweet understanding smile. She pressed her warm body against yours without a word, and slipped her hand down the front of your tattered jeans.
Startling you out of the already fading memory, a kind looking nurse has just called your name. Walking to the back she asks if you are feeling ok. You give her the best smile you can find, and tell her you are just nervous.
She tells you to get undressed, and leaves you alone in one of the bright cold rooms. Stripping to the tight white underwear you tell yourself it’s not too late. You could tell them you changed your mind, you just weren’t sure yet. You catch your reflection in one of the small mirrors and notice how sad your tired eyes are. You sit heavily on the table and stare at the shiny instruments while waiting on the doctor.
He slips through the door much the way she did, and although you have met, he could be anyone. He busies himself with some papers and makes pleasantries, still not looking at you.
So, how are... He stops at the sight of you.
Have you been drinking?
Not this morning, no.
Last night?
A couple glasses of wine with dinner. I was hoping it wouldn’t matter.
I apologize. I don’t mean to disappoint you, but we can’t do this if you’ve had any alcohol in the last forty-eight hours.
Well it was just a couple of glasses. It can’t be that bad right?
I’m sorry. We’re liable here. If something was to go wrong...
So there is no chance?
I don’t know what to tell you. Reschedule. Follow the instructions more carefully.
I understand
He slips out. Everyone in this place slips in and out. Everyone knowing people are getting their cocks checked out, they move with caution. You dress slowly.
You walk through the entire office passing the tired woman without making another appointment, feeling relief and the sadness at another failed idea.
Sitting here writing this, you watch him play your guitar, strumming all the same cords you once did, thankful he will never know how close it came to never happening.
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