Many men struggling in the attempt to have children are accused of not caring enough or not being involved enough. Husbands take note: agreeing to go under the knife for the cause buys a lot of good will.
The surgery was easy and the recovery made more fun by being introduced to a new friend, Darvocet, whom I was not allowed to play with after six days, but whom I enjoyed getting to know.
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After the appropriate recovery time, Amy and I were encouraged to resume baby-making at every-other-day intervals. What can I say? Doctor's orders! We were positive, optimistic, bonded in our mission. Every day our relationship was getting better.
At the same time, I was to be tested monthly to see if my sperm improved. Pappy's office also had a "room." I was ordered to use it—so that the good doctor's office could control as much of circumstances surrounding preserving the sperm as possible.
The room came with its own "reading" material. The selection was surprisingly degenerate, but to me, all the previously handled pages were, in the terminology of a Playmate profile, a "turn off." I was encouraged to bring my own.
Which is how I found myself one afternoon wandering to the back of the news store—you know, the far reaches of the aisles where the men stand apart and never make eye contact with anyone in the store.
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I had not been involved with either onanism or the literature created for it since high school. At that time, the world belonged to Playboy, with Penthouse its edgier cousin, and Hustler being the lunatic fringe. My, how the world has changed!