Dr Snip's Slow Hand!
Even though I talked directly with Dr Snip himself over a week ago now, and secured him as the official sponsor of my Vasectomy, I still have not called back to make the initial appointment and get the balls rolling*.
When I sit quietly and ask The Universal Energy why I continue to resist the procedure so stubbornly, the same answer always comes back – because I’m a snivelling little testicle-hoarding freckle boy with all the courage of a neutered guinea pig. I’ve been getting similar responses and comments from the Reservoir Dad Facebook fans. And that stings a bit.
Reservoir Mum enters the kitchen, ready for work, looking professional and smelling all corporate-ready thanks to the brand new Rexona Sports roll-on I bought her from Coles last week. (On special for $1.49. I bought two.)
‘I’m getting a lot of Facebook messages from people telling me to just stop sooking and man up,’ I tell her.
‘Well, can’t you do both?’
Her comment enters me like a current of electricity. As I take a moment to watch her make breakfast I ask The Universal Energy why RM’s so smart but all I get back is the sound of someone chewing popcorn. I think The Universal Energy just wants to sit back, watch and have a chuckle.
‘Yes!’ I respond, finally. ‘I can do both! Wow. How did you just come up with that… so quick? Stuff it! Yes! I can man up and be a sook. God, I feel like dancing.’
I get an image of myself being led by two prison guards to Dr Snips operating table. I’m screaming and shaking my head from side to side. A priest appears behind me holding up a bible and singing Slow Hand by 'The Pointer Sisters'. The chorus, in particular, soothes me – I want a man with a slow hand, I want a lover with an easy touch, I want somebody who’ll spend some time, not come and go in a heated rush…
I want my vasectomy to happen exactly like that.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll fucking do it.’
‘Fucken!’ Tyson yells.
‘That’s an adult word Tys,’ I say, cringing, as RM drinks her breakfast shake, her eyes glowering over the rim of my ‘I Love You Daddy’ mug.
Several moments of shame pass before I am able to extend my neck back to its full length and by then RM’s got her bag packed and is ready to leave.
‘But, really, you should make an appointment,’ she says. ‘Just ring. Two minutes of your time. Today.’
‘Okay,’ I say.
When she snakes her arms around my waist for a cuddle, I’m reminded that we’ll soon be kid-free for a short period of time. ‘So,’ I say. ‘Tonight… just me and you for the first night in fourteen months, eating out, jamming at the Rick Astley concert, and then…’
She reaches around just a little further and gives a double-handed squeeze to my boxer-short-clad buttocks. ‘They’re like stone,’ I whisper, ‘…covered in fat.’
RM’s laughter is always a win. ‘And then… what?’ she says, knowingly.
‘And then… after the Rick Astley concert – which will probably change our lives – we go back to the motel room and get jiggy wit it.’
She releases my ass, grabs the cord free home phone and places it on the bench in front of me. ‘We’ll see,’ she says, with a level of sexy smugness that renders me powerless.
RM heads out the door and as I go about the usual school morning routine with the boys I keep chancing a glance at the phone.
Dr Snip is on the other end of the line. The lights are dimmed. There’s a nice white table cloth over the operating table, some champagne chilling on an antique desk sprinkled with rose petals. I can see Dr Snip pushing play on his CD player to lend just the right rhythm to his slow hand.
He’s waiting for me to call.
*Thanks to Aly Petula for the asterixed gag.