We had decided that our breeding days were over. We had populated enough and perished the thought of yet another rash of nappies, endless bouts of World Championship projectile vomiting and exhausting rounds of toilet training that ignored every one of the Marquis of Queensberry's rules. A vasectomy seemed no big deal. A snip here, a stitch there and millions of stampeding ova achievers would be stopped in their tracks.

I arrived back from our G.P. armed with a referral to the Ultraclinic Vasectomy Centre  and an information brochure that he suggested I read through with my wife as her consent would be needed before all my ties to the reproductive world could be cut.

The brochure made for a change in bedtime reading. "If you are sure that, whatever the circumstances, you never want another child, sterilisation offers a virtually 100%  safe form of birth control. You must, however be absolutely sure about your decision, because sterilisation must be regarded as an irreversible procedure." No problems with that. We nodded and read on.

"Vasectomy is usually performd as an out-patient procedure, using a local anaesthetic, and only takes about 20 minutes. Your doctor will probably ask you to wear a jockstrap to ease any dragging feeling you may have in the testicles for a few days after the operation. There may be some bruising of the scrotum, but this will usually disappear after a few weeks." A FEW WEEKS! USUALLY?!  At this point a slight chink appeared in my ardour. The mention of pain in that area has me recalling feet slipping off pedals and the agonising thump onto a bicycle crossbar. The mere thought of it, even now, has me squirming and gasping for air.

Hoping that this was the worst that would be bowled up at me, my breathing normalised, my composure hesitatingly returned and I girded my loins for the rest of the brochure. "After the operation you will remain fertile until sperm already present in the vas deferens have been ejaculated or die. So for the first 16 weeks or so after the operation you will be advised to use some other means of contraception." Yeah, right! Given the earlier mention of "some bruising", I would become a card-carrying member of the "Radical Celibates" and the remaining diehard sperm could quietly wither on the vine and go peacefully and unassisted to the great womb in the sky.

The end of the brochure was in sight and hopefully there were no ambushes in the remaining paragraphs. "During that time you will have to return to the clinic at least twice with a specimen of semen. When two consecutive specimens are found to be sperm free you are sterile. WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS?!? A clinically sanctioned regression to that frantic furtive adolescent "vice"! When my wife finally controlled her laughter, she archly suggested that after 16 weeks of self imposed abstinence I would be looking for any port in a storm, and that a small storm in a specimen teacup was just what the doctor ordered. That, I could have done without!

Concluding that this was something I would have to sleep on, I turned off the light. Sometime in those unconscious hours it seems that my apprehensions, whilst not completely evaporating, were watered down to the extent that by 11 A.M. my wife and I were seated before Damon Abaddon, Counsellor at the Ultraclinic Vasectomy Centre. This was the last hurdle before entering the real cut and thrust of the exercise.

Damon explained that I should cast aside any apprehensions I might have that my masculinity would be compromised. I would not have to shop around for a 36DD bra, I would not be drawn by some invisible force to loiter around perfume counters at department stores and my libido would not freeze or crash. In some cases there was a noticeable increase in libidinous activity when couples found themselves freed from the constraints and vigilance imposed by artificial contraception. This was definitely sounding more like what I had in mind.

At the end of 20 minutes we had accrued enough elephant stamps on Damon's clipboard for me to gain entry to the inner sanctum. Leaving my wife in the waiting room I went in to met my unmaker.

Dr. Remyn shook my hand and put his other hand on my shoulder. A gesture part reassuring, a part conspiritorial. Pointing to a plastic sheet covered bed he invited, "Shall we get our trousers off?" WE?! Of course he didn't mean "we". In my state of anxiety I had momentarily forgotten that doctors have appropriated the royal "we". ("So we are not feeling too well?" ... "I think we need a course of antibiotics.")

I lay on the bed draped from the waist down with surgical towels that exposed and framed the target area. With what sounded suspiciously like an attempt at a joke, Dr. Remyn said "We're going to administer a local now, we'll just feel a small prick." I forgivingly supposed that my sense of humour might have gone that lame if I spent my working life up to my armpits in scrota.

With a Zorro-like flourish the scalpel was drawn, and parried its way about my senseless nether regions. I awaited the inevitable searing pain, but all I felt was an occasional tugging sensation. Needle and thread closed the deal and I was back on my feet fumbling in my "Sports-R-Us" carry bag. I took out the jockstrap. You could almost smell the testosterone woven into the fabric of this symbol of all that is red-blooded male.

As I started gingerly to manouevre the jockstrap over my new plumbing Dr. Remyn handed me 2 packets saying, "Slip these down either side of the pouch. There may be a little bleeding and these will soak it up." I took them. I opened them. I froze.

That bastard counsellor Damon! He promised that my masculinity would not be compromised, that it was laughable to think that I would start exhibiting female characteristics.

WHY THE HELL THEN DO I HAVE 2 ULTRA THIN MAXI SHIELDS IN MY HANDS?!!

Sanitary napkins and jockstraps shouldn't even appear in the same sentence, and here I was being forced into being party to their actual physical contact!

It was only after the intervention of my wife, who had heard my primaeval howl of protest from the waiting room, that I tempered my protest. Paperwork completed, I made my way down the corridor to safety, stopping only to hurl "YOU LYING BASTARD!" into the office of a startled Damon. Outside I bow-legged it to the car, eased my way into the passenger seat and pleaded to my wife to find the quickest way home that didn't involve speed humps.

One night during the 16 weeks I had to wait for the "all clear" I stole out into the backyard to cremate and inter the ashes of that desecrated jockstrap. I had buried one of my demons. Damon would keep.