It was morning. Sunlight pierced through the curtains, much like the surgeon would through my ballbag later that day.
Yup. VE Day had arrived. Vasectomy followed by Elation that Mrs Polar Bear and I would never again endure the unpredictable pressures of pregnancy. We were free – FREE – to have oodles of unprotected sexy-time during the 13 minutes in a year when we weren’t cataclysmically exhausted.
The night before VE Day was a restless one. Although I hadn’t dreamt of doctors wielding rusty garden shears, I presumed the impending operation lurked subconsciously in my mind.
No time to cogitate though. MasterCub and MiniCub were up, devastating all around them. After a morning of cooking, feeding, cleaning, negotiation and tantrum-taming, I’d barely considered what the day was ball about. No work today, no more new family members tomorrow. Or any other tomorrow, for that matter.
Naturally, on the brink of such a pivotal moment of one’s life, I did what any learned man would do. I perused my pair. Y’know, for nostalgia’s sake.
Like most testicles, they weren’t lookers. Hairy, bulbous and with unremarkable blemishes – basically, Ricky Tomlinson’s face. Actually, that’s not fair. I did have an interesting blemish. One black mark that did catch my attention – like someone had dribbled ink past my dinkle. The thought crossed my mind: ‘later today, some strangers are going to idly gawp at my bollocks and say “hmm. If you’re going to have a birthmark, it’s a good place to have one.”’
![20150604_105915[1]](https://polarnightcap.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/12/20150604_1059151.jpg)
Maybe he was angry because someone tried to cut his ball-sack.
Polar Nightcap 