This is a very young city. I am significantly senior here. It is chock a block with women, most of em smashing enough to make you weak in the knees. A dog in Houston would be at least an eight in a place like Detroit, and a 9.5 in Cleveland or Philadelphia. I just got here. My soon to be ex wife and I have already had that final conversation. I remember it well. We are living proof that sex alone does not a relationship make. Everything else was just awful. But the sex was really great. You can only do that so many hours a day. The rest of the time there has to be something else. Now I aint no prize - no one will dispute that. But I aint the worst stupid sumbitch you could marry either. I'm somewhere in the middle - better than many - worse than some. I aint addicted to respectability. I can't stand goin to church. I lack polish. I can be crude and very sarcastic. I drink way too much. But if you're an opposing witness in a lawsuit of mine, I'm gonna tear yo po old ass up on cross examination and your side is gonna lose. If I weren't pretty sure of that, I would have settled the case and not gone to court to make a public fool outa myself. I'm just a trial lawyer, not a magician. I can't manufacture facts that aint there - I can't write the great self serving memorandum that my client didn't write when it would have helped him. And I have already seen almost everything you have written in the last several years. You aint perfect either. And some of the things you said in front of witnesses were really stupid. So if you're on the stand and I'm about to cross examine you, you're stupider than you look. You wouldn't have had to get up there to testify if you had evidence on your side. I would have already written you a check. The lawyers who know how to pick the right fights own the really good won/lost records.
Socially I am having a blast. Seems like everywhere I go there's so much eye candy. And Texas eye candy is real eye candy. More than just being good to look at, Texas women are interesting and fun to be around. The ones I'm running into aren't pretentious, just really lovely gals having a good time, working hard and hoping to meet a nice guy. I know there are stuck up gals with rich daddies who think their shit don't stink, but I don't seem to be running into them at all - I must be hangin out in all the right places. They even have a song about em, "Texas Bitch". So I know they must be here someplace. I think I see some of em every now and then in some of the better restaurants, usually with some momma's boy from the right family or club. Many years later I will see em on television in handcuffs being perp walked into court by a federal marshal to answer for all the money they stole by misrepresenting investments and cookin the books of publicly held companies to fleece investors. One of em will even have the gall to ask a federal judge not to send her to prison for another couple of weeks so that she can celebrate a religious holiday. Aint that a hoot? But since they're real high class folks, she and her husband will get to serve their prison sentences at different times so a parent can be with their kids and they won't have to be farmed out to relatives while mommy and daddy are in prison. They stole millions. If some lesser lights had stolen a car they wouldn't get cut any such slack. The "moral" of the story is to have a graduate degree and steal millions. Stealing small is a bummer. Always steal enough to be able to hire the most famous criminal defense lawyers in town.
The secret to getting and keeping the loveliest women in Texas is always to treat em with the utmost respect and consideration. You can be good looking. You can have a lot of money. You can be generous. But if you are inconsiderate and incapable of putting someone else ahead of your own self, you aint gonna do as well in the women department. If I like a woman I make her feel like she is the only star in the sky. That's just how I am. So, while I aint falling madly in love with every gal I meet, and they surely aint falling madly in love with me either, I am meeting and spending time with some really delightful people.
Some of the absolutely pluperfect most wonderful gals in the world come to Houston from small agricultural communities. One of em told me she came to Houston to get out of a town where everyone raised goats, smelled like goats and acted like goats. She wanted to meet and marry some guy who bathed regular and wore clean clothes and had clean fingernails and who had life experiences outside the farm. One told me she married her husband cause he was her ticket out of her home town. One told me the reason all the pretty women were in Houston was that the ugly ones stayed home and produced babies and married local farm boys. Next time you find yourself out in small rural communities, notice how few really good looking women you see there. When we had our restaurant in Brenham, Belinda wouldn't approve of "Ladies Night" at the bar cause she didn't believe them country gals would attract men there to buy em drinks. Belinda knows what she is talking about. There aint a size eight in the county. All the hot babes went to Houston.
So Houston is full of really lovely women from small towns who have really good values and are really a lot smarter and unspoilt and worthwhile. You have a much better chance of finding a soulmate for life here than just about any other place I've ever been in.
Except that I aint really looking for a soul mate right now. I thought I had found a soul mate, and I was wrong. Right now I just want to have a lot of good times with people I really like a lot. I'm not into one night stands, but I also aint a contender to be a bridegroom again. Which means that I also don't want to find out that I shot myself with my own semen. I want effective birth control. I aint really worried about catching anything, cause I aint hanging around with the kinda woman who is going to give me a loathsome social disease. I have a wonderful daughter and I don't want any more kids. Eventually I come to be insecure always relying on the other person to provide contraception. I want total immunity against paternity. There's only one sure fire way to achieve that. A vasectomy.
Nowadays I tell a story that really aint true, that a biker buddy of mine who is a veterinarian and I were out riding around and drinking one night and that he offered to do my vasectomy for me. According to this yarn, we went out to his office about one in the morning and he put me up on the table and neutered me just like he did with dogs every day. Our good friend and vet now is a very straight guy, not the fictional vet in the story I tell folks, and he gets upset with me cause I told him I tell folks it was he who did my vasectomy. He doesn't ride a motorcycle, doesn't go out and get drunk, and would never ever take someone to his office and perform any surgical procedure on em. I think he's worried that someone will think it's really him that operated on me. He don't know that I never tell anyone it was him. I only say that to him to push his buttons.
The more I thought about doing this, the more I thought about some of my friends who had gotten some gal preggers and, because they were the right sort, they felt they had to marry the gal. Without the pregnancy, they never would have married, and in any event, they wouldn't have married this gal. One of em didn't even know he had hit a home run until the High Sheriff came around with a subpoena. It seems there was this gal who simply couldn't keep her clothes on after the second drink, and she had been with so many guys that the search for the putative father of her baby was a major undertaking, consuming many dollars from the county budget. But she had fallen on hard times and was on the dole. The county attorney, wanting to eliminate her from the welfare roles, had gotten a court order for her to identify the father so they could go after him to support the baby. She gave a list of names aggregating at least a platoon. She had no idea who the father was. Every time one of the nicer guys turned out not to be the father, based on testing, she would get all sad, fantasizing that maybe the father would have a pang of conscience when he heard the "news". My poor old buddy had been with her just once, on the hood of a car in some bar parking lot, and BINGO - he was it. The baby was very cute, and the gal was still rather pretty, so, despite her proclivity for impaling herself upon every man who might be in the mood, he did the right thing and was now a reluctantly married man. Those were the days when people still occasionally had consciences. The thought of that horror story happening to me was a steadily driving force in support of getting "fixed". The last straw was an intimate of mine who announced that she was preggers and that she did not want to have the baby unless I insisted. I did not insist and there was a pregnancy termination. I immediately sought out a urologist to alter my plumbing.
There is a different chemistry in the waiting room of a urologist's office than pervades the offices of just about any other medical specialty. Despite the range of disorders that could cause someone to visit a urologist, the uninitiated sit there waiting to be called, thinking that everyone in the room has some loathsome sexually transmitted disease. The receptionist was a really gorgeous woman, but you just knew she would never go out with a urology patient. "We met in a urologist's office" is not the answer you ever would want to give to the question "Where did you meet?" Here in Texas your best chance to meet the right sort really is in a saloon.
This particular physician had a protocol in which he visited with you after a cursory physical examination of your genitalia to satisfy himself that you were not seeking a vasectomy to enhance your recreational opportunities. Judgmental sort, what - probably Catholic. So you have to think up some lie that will assuage his sense of right and wrong and not wanting to be associated with wrongness. Being quick on my feet, so to speak, when the unexpected question came out, with a palpable judgmental air about it, I promptly produced a rationale that appealed to his sense of sacrificial love and virtue, and he agreed to fulfill the office. I was then directed to his nurse assistant who explained to me the procedure and the protocols immediately following the event. If you think you are a liberated male with no attitudes about what roles women should have assigned to them, a good way to test your egalitarian reactions is to sit down with a young woman of rather fetching appearance and have her explain to you that following the procedure you are to keep an ice bag on your scrotum for eight hours to prevent swelling, and that over the next few days you are to masturbate to ejaculation at least a dozen times, bringing the 13th or so ejaculatory specimen to her office so that she can scope it and assure that it does not contain any olympic swimmers. In some states, if a urologist somehow fails to cut the right flow and there is a resulting pregnancy, the good doctor could be held liable for child support for 18 years. So the process of pumping the system dry of flailing flagellae and examining the fluids to be sure is as much for the good doctor's protection as for yours. Inasmuch as the nurse assistant assumes you are not a complete idiot, she neglects to tell you not to ride your motorcycle to the office on the day of the surgery. Since I am indeed a complete idiot, I do ride my motorcycle to the office on that day. The ride home afterwards is a bummer. What more need I say? I almost decided not to write this story, fearful that potential clients would conclude they really did not wish to be represented by a lawyer stupid enough to ride a motorcycle to his vasectomy. Hey! You gotta be tough!
In the interim before my surgery, I happen to be on the phone with my ex wife with whom I remain on friendly terms - after all, we do have a daughter together, and if I ever wish to visit my former property, it is to her home I would have to travel to see it. When she learns of the pending alterations, she asks what if our daughter should die - as though in such terrible event I would then fly to her side to conceive a replacement. She sounds disappointed when I inform her that under no circumstances are she and I going to have any more children.
On the appointed day and hour I present meself at the office of the good doctor. There is a cavernous waiting room seemingly filled with patients dutifully drinking water as instructed by the sign near the water cooler that instructs all urology patients that they need to fill their bladders prior to being ushered into examinations. Some have been waiting a while, it seems, and they have that strained expression of someone who has to pee immediately, but who know that if they do their examinations will be delayed while they refill their bladders. There is much fidgeting and holding together of knees in a strained manner, as though the parting of knees would suddenly open the floodgates of their urinary tracts. I know that I am not there for such things, and so I brazenly sit without as much as a sip of the local tipple. They hate me. I can see it in their eyes. There are a few very nice looking young ladies there. In any normal environment I might strike up a conversation with any of them. But here, knowing that I will not be intimate with any woman for a matter of weeks pending the purging of me system of mischievous spermatozoa, and wondering just why they might be in such a place anyhow, and imagining that they would never even think of socializing with someone in a urologist's waiting room, I keep my peace.
When it is my turn, I am summoned by a nurse who takes me to a room with an examination table equipped with stirrups. I am instructed to disrobe and put on one of those bloody gowns that open in the back. I do, and by and by the good physician appears, looking very professional. He carefully washes his hands in the little sink and puts on elastic gloves. He instructs me to mount the table in the supine position and to put me feet in the stirrups. I now understand what women must feel like when they have to do this. The nurse assistant had instructed me to shave the area just prior to coming to the office, and the doctor pronounces my effort grossly inadequate. He proceeds to do it in the proper manner, all the while making small talk. He then takes a hot soapy cloth and scours out me genital and anal area, handing me a box of tissues to "dry" me bum. That indignity accomplished, he then asks whether I have any questions or concerns before the procedure is begun.
I inform him that I am a bit upset that there is a fee associated with his work in this instance. He looks at me perplexed and asks me to elaborate. I tell him that my knowledge of the attitude of doctors, especially surgeons, toward trial lawyers caused me to think that any surgeon loyal to his trade would happily cut the balls off a trial lawyer without charge. He smiles slyly and says that he would happily cut off me bollocks gratis, and that the fee is for his having to use restraint and perform only a vasectomy. That tension relieving exchange having been accounted for, he proceeds to inject local anesthetic around where he intends to cut, and then to open an incision and reach in with some tool or other to grab me vas deferens and pull it into a convenient position where he can tie it off twice and sever it between the knots. This he repeats on the vas deferens connected to me other little jewel, sews up the small incision and wishes me luck. I am given a small ice pack to put on me scrotum, to be replaced with ice bags all day long for several hours to prevent swelling. Thanks God I am wearing jockey athletic underwear and not boxer shorts. So I dress and walk out of the office to the parking area and get on me motorcycle to ride home. You really don't need to have a description of that ride or of the consequences of having used that mode of transport. I arrive home, get into something comfortable in the premises and proceed to ensconce meself before the television with a mini bar set up within reach and assorted finger foods and copious quantities of ice.
Icing down one's scrotum for several hours seems like a macabre atonement for some long practiced sin. When the good doctor called at the end of the day to inquire into me well being and condition I told him I was again at issue with him. I complained that he should have been straightforward about the whole affair in the first instance and told me that several hours of icing down one's scrotum area will make you sterile or impotent without need of surgery. He laughs and wishes me luck, reminding me that in a week or so I need to appear again at his office for an examination and that I must bring a semen specimen so they can verify that the system no longer produces sperm at every instance of exquisite delight.
My girl friend thinks this is all very humorous, and she devises all sorts of merry games to hasten the purging of me system so that we begin to learn how our relationship may develop free of any anxiety over conception. Suffice it to say that by the time my appointment rolls around several days later for my examination, having had to keep track of the number of orgasms, I am now at number sixty eight as the one that goes into the little bottle for analysis.
I again present meself at the offices of the urologist, and again the cavernous waiting room is full of sippers filling their little bladders. In a plain brown paper sandwich bag I have old number sixty eight. There is a glass sliding window where one is to apply for admission to the appointment process, and behind it this morning is a large Wagnerian nurse assistant type person with a voice fit for ordering battalions around on parade grounds. Without giving me a chance to identify meself, she bellows out a demand for me name and a brief explanation of why I am there this morning. I whisper that I am here for a follow up appointment after a vasectomy, and she loudly inquires "Is that your semen in that bag?" I can hear snickering ripple through the multitudes behind me. I whisper that it is indeed, and she demands "What number ejaculation is in there?" The snickering gets louder behind me and I refuse to be intimidated any more. It's now my turn to bellow, "This is ejaculation number sixty eight, maam." The room goes wild - there is even some applause. I am their champion. Those with full bladders are straining to avoid peeing in their pants. I raise my hands in a victory gesture and she slams the little window shut.
The doctor pronounces that everything has healed very well and that my creative juices no longer are capable of creation. YEA! I am now free to screw meself to death free of fear of procreative consequences. A great weight has been lifted. My girlfriend can now get off the pill and stop retaining water. She starts to look a bit better in her less turgid circumstances. We spend an absolutely frantically erotic few weeks enjoying our new freedom. My ex wife is chagrined. But our daughter doesn't die, so her concerns over child replacement never come to fruition. These are very happy days when I can drink martinis and make love at the same time. Many years down the road I begin to have to choose between martinis and sex. Since I am not queer, I choose martinis. And just in the nick of time, someone invents a pill that enables both at the same time all over again. Life sure is great here in Texas.
By Seamus Muldoon, Himself
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