Current local Las Vegas time is 12:19am, January 17, 2018.

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Feeling Testy? Try Doing What I Did

If you are a member of my family (this means you, Special K) you might want to stop reading right now. This is the follow-up story to Analyze this: a test you can’t study for. If you continue reading, you have been warned.

If you read the story linked above, you know I had some fertility testing done a while back. And as revealed in that story, my output wasn’t the greatest. Not only was the sperm volume very low (duh!) so was the count (duh again!). This double whammy of having not only too few swimmers but a shallow pool necessitated a trip to a specialist to make sure that my plumbing was capable of proper baby-producing output.

Seeing the specialist is no problem at all. I’ve seen enough doctors over the years to not make much of a deal of it any more. Some of the tests, however, are troublesome. I had to go for a testicular ultrasound.

In order to have the test, you need to drop trou, lose the undies, and lie back on a table. Fair enough. I was fine with this until the technician walked in. He was most definitely male. I’m not a homophobe in any way, shape or form (ask my gay friends), but I’m still uncomfortable having any man handle the family jewels.

The male technician instructed to lie back on the table, and I did (steadfastly avoiding eye contact the whole time). A few years previously I found a lump on one of my testes and had a testicular ultrasound, so I knew more or less what to expect. (And since the last technician was female, and cute, I was expecting that again.) Last time I had an ultrasound, the technician started to work on me as soon as I lied back on the table. There were no delays to let the mind wander. Well, this office did things differently. The technician asked me to wait a few minutes, saying that the doctor would be right in.

And then he left me alone in the room with nothing but my thoughts and my pants around my ankles.

After a minute or so, being a healthy male, my mind started to wander, specifically wandering onto naughty thoughts about the really cute receptionist. Normally, there is not much reaction anywhere on my body, nor do I dwell on these thoughts. I might have a pleasant thought, perhaps half a fantasy, and then a quick memory that I’m married. My “don’t want to get divorced and lose half my shit” filter usually kicks in at this point and switches over to another thought, usually cars or the stock market.

Unfortunately, my tools were without the benefit of their normal two layers of clothing, and I was on my back, rather comfortably at that. Somebody in the room (not my big brain) thought, “Hmmm … fresh air … happy naked female thoughts … must be show time!” Somewhere off in the distance I heard the theme to “The Tonight Show” starting up.

Knowing that the male technician could come back at any moment with the male doctor, my big brain decided it was not a good time for my little brain to make an appearance. So I did exactly the opposite of what I did in the hospital bathroom whilst trying to milk myself in the story mentioned above: I thought of every unsexy thing I possibly could. I though hard about Bea Arthur, dead babies, and sand in my shoes.

I was lucky. Mr. Lucky got distracted and retracted.

Erection averted.

After about 10 minutes, the doctor appeared. It was incredibly difficult maintaining a chaste mindset during those ten minutes. I had two more close calls during the wait, but nothing came of it (no pun intended). Thank you, Bea Arthur. Thoughts of you can prevent localized hypertension.

Now remember, I’m lying back on a table with my dick and balls exposed. The doctor came in and said hello. He told me this was the point where he usually asked, “How’s it hanging?”

What? You’ve got to be kidding me! This isn’t 8th grade.

My reply was, “Well, there it is. Look for yourself. You’ve got years of training, so how about you telling me how it’s hanging. I’m paying for this after all.”

I really hope the laughter in the room right after that was at my quick wit and not at my, er, expense.

The test went well enough, with the doctor gelling up the boys (they apparently keep their KY in the fridge), waving the wand (the one attached to the machine, not mine), and asking the technician to take pictures (of the inside, not the outside – nobody wants that).

This was yet another time for potential problems. Direct stimulation in the groinal area is apt to arouse penile curiosity and other inflammatory issues, but with all the practice I had a few minutes prior, I’m convinced could get a hard-off in a strip club.

I’ve spoken with some friends about infertility testing, and one recommended asking about having a “hamster egg penetration test”. So, hoping like hell this wasn’t a cruel joke to see what I would actually ask a doctor, I asked about having one done. He told me they don’t do that any more since the hamsters get a bit jumpy.

Huh? I guess we need more levity.

Not to be outdone, I told him that I knew how to use duct tape, so getting the hamsters calmed is not problem. Plus, if the duct tape wouldn’t subdue them, chloroform and a picture of Richard Gere should do the trick. He nearly had to leave the room for laughing. Score one for Lars Vargas.

Fortunately, by this time, all my toys were safely re-packaged in my BVDs and Dockers, so I know it was my wit this time. At least I hope so. He may have been having a flashback to when he first walked into the room.

As I left, I realized that I was in a room with two other men, all of us presumably heterosexuals (not that there’s anything wrong with being gay), my genitalia on display and eventually getting slathered in gel and rubbed down by another man, and I actually had a fun time. I also realized I could be a stand-up comic if I wanted to, except that if I ever get on stage, I’ll probably keep my pants on.


Published Thu 12/22/05 at 1:42am

Categorized in Flashbacks, Journal, Lars Vargas