Scheduling Castration
Alyna has been up my ass much more aggressively than usual lately about getting a vasectomy. We both agree that two kids is the limit, and she keeps claiming that she hates using condoms. I don’t understand how she can even develop a hatred for something we only use two or three times a month.
I’m sitting in my doctor’s office on my lunch break. He’s giving me the phone number of a urologist friend of his who he claims is the best at clipping guys’ balls. I’m sure my doctor just gets a kickback for every sucker he refers to this guy, but whatever. It seems like a pretty simple procedure. I’ve heard of only a few mishaps where vasectomies are concerned. My irrational fears of losing my dick or testicles during the procedure give way to an even more irrational thought: I find myself actually hoping that getting a vasectomy will increase the number of times Alyna and I fuck per month. Then the far more rational part of me chimes in and I realize I’m doing this to placate her so she’ll get off my back about it. And even if we still only fuck a few times a month, at least I’ll get to feel what it’s like to have my bare dick in a pussy again. That would excite me more if it wasn’t Alyna’s pussy.
Before I leave my doctor’s office, I ask him if he’s had a vasectomy. He’s a little older than me and is married with kids. It makes sense to me that he might have. He laughs and says, “My wife’s on the pill, thank god,” without even realizing that this doesn’t make me feel any better about the decision.
Once I’m back at work, I make a point of walking past Holly’s desk a little closer than I should so I can smell her. She smells so good. I wonder if her pussy smells like that, if her asshole smells like that. I wonder what her mouth tastes like and assume it’s probably like some kind of candy. I wonder what she looks like after she gets fucked hard. I wonder if she likes to cuddle after sex and what that might feel like if she does. I wonder when my daughter will start eliciting thoughts like these in men, and I wonder who the first man will be to have them about her. I hope that man is not like me but know that he most likely will be.
When I walk by Holly’s desk she’s on her Facebook page posting the lyrics to a song I’ve never heard as her status update. I don’t recognize the lyrics or the band, which is called Rumspringa. I wonder if I’m too old to know the band or if they’re actually just a bunch of guys she knows from college, all of whom I imagine are immense douchebags and at least one of whom I imagine to have fucked her because he’s in the band and she is young and naive.
When I get back to my desk, I Google the band and find out that my first inclination was the right one, which surprises me. I listen to some of their music and find that I enjoy it. I try to remember the last time I heard a new band and can’t. I wonder how that happened—how I became a guy who doesn’t really care about music anymore, not even enough to attempt to hear new music.
I call the urologist my doctor recommended, assuming I’ll be setting up a time to meet and talk with him about setting up a time to get a vasectomy. Instead his office tells me I can just set up a time to get the actual vasectomy. No discussion with the doctor is necessary for what they call “such a minor procedure.” Despite the fact that I know there will be laser beams and possibly knives in my ball bag, this puts me at ease a little. I schedule it for the following month, allowing ample time to talk myself out of it should I need to.
After I hang up, I find some Rumspringa on the Internet and play it loud enough for Holly to hear. With luck, this will come across as a natural and coincidental display of similar interest, not as a transparent attempt to attract her attention.
I roll my chair out from behind my desk and to the left and peer through my open doorway to see if she notices. As I watch, she actually cocks her head up and back like a deer in the forest who’s detected some faint but familiar noise. She scoots her chair a little closer to my office. I slide mine back to my desk before she can turn and look for the source of the music. I pretend to be working on something just in case my bait actually lures her into my office. It does.
She knocks on my door frame. I look up from my fake work—tracing over the logo on a piece of letterhead. She says, “Hey.”
“Hey. What’s up? More filing troubles?”
She laughs. She’s hot. She says, “No. I think I got that down now, thanks to you.”
“Glad to be of service.” I want to be of several other kinds of service to her.
She says, “Are you listening to Rumspringa?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“They’re like one of my favorite bands right now.”
“Yeah, they’re good.”
“What’s your favorite song?”
I glance quickly at the screen to see that a song called “Shake ’em Loose” is playing. I say, “ ‘Shake ’em Loose.’ ”
She says, “ ‘Shake ’em Loose Tonight’?”
I glance back at the screen and realize that the last word in the song title was cut off in the window where I had the song playing. I say, “Yeah.”
She says, “I love that one. I really like ‘Queer Eyed Boy,’ too, though.”
“That’s a great one.”
“Yeah. How’d you hear about them? They’re not that big yet.”
“Uh . . . you know. I’m into music. Always trying to find new bands and stuff.”
“That’s so cool. Have you seen them?”
“Live?”
“Yeah.”
“No. I want to, but I never hear about their shows in time.”
“Oh, I could totally let you know next time they’re playing. They’re local. Well, LA local.”
“Yeah, that would be awesome.”
She smiles. I can’t tell if she’s flirting with me or if she’s had a sudden and unexpected realization that she’s attracted to me or if she thinks it’s funny that she has anything in common with a guy my age or if she’s just young and hot and I’m reading far more into it than I should. Whatever the actuality is, she smiles and says, “Cool. I will.” Then she turns around and goes back to her desk.
A few minutes later I get a Facebook friend request from her.