Love in His Humility. Part 1

Vasectomy of the Quick-Shooter.

Anna was my girlfriend, and then quickly and imperceptibly became my wife. Her hair was so black, falling in soft waves below her shoulder blades, radiating the same mysterious allure as her eyes, which beckoned and simultaneously concealed secrets. With every movement, her locks caressed her neck, filling the space around her with a soft sheen.

Her ample breasts, neatly outlined beneath the fabric of her dress, were a sight to behold. Every motion emphasized the smooth curves of her firm breasts, stomach, and hips, as if nature itself had imbued her with perfection. She moved with a grace that was both gentle and confident,

almost imperceptible, yet impossible to ignore. Fair white skin, full lips. Perfection.

When she walked down the street or entered a room, people couldn't help but notice her. Men, involuntarily lingering their gaze, seemed unable to tear themselves away from her confident stride and warm, radiant appearance. Everything about her drew attention.

Before me, she had many relationships, but each left its mark. Malicious tongues said that in her early university years, she loved to go out with guys from Kenya, Mozambique, South Africa. She wasn't looking for love, as many did. She was looking for adventure. When she talked about her exes, a dreamy smile would appear on her face, like pleasant memories. She didn't talk about all of them, nor about how many there were. It ate away at me, because she was my first girlfriend. She really did have black boyfriends; she said she needed big sizes because of that body type.

Why did she choose me? I couldn't answer that question. My enthusiasm ended during our very first sex, when I came quickly. She was disappointed with the duration of sex and my size. I couldn't manage anything; I would just enter her, feel the warmth, shudder with my whole body, and come. I saw the disappointment in her eyes. And I always wondered, why was she with me? A penis half the size of those in her past relationships, sex lasting thirty times less. One night with a student from Congo probably equaled the first six months of sexual relations with me in terms of duration. I could never catch up to all that. And yet, she chose me.

She always loved having sex without condoms, and my quick finishes put her in an awkward position. I couldn't learn; time passed, I still didn't satisfy her as before, she became irritable. But we continued to go out, hug each other, and look at each other lovingly. And at night, I would disappoint her again.

One day, Anna sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed. Her gaze was soft, but there was a determination in it that had been growing in her soul over the past weeks. I saw it but couldn't decipher the reason.

"I need to have a serious talk with you," she began, slightly changing her tone to get my attention. I froze and turned around.

"Did something happen?" I asked, feeling anxiety and expecting her to say we were breaking up.

"I've been thinking a lot about us, about the future, about what's important to us. And I want to discuss a very personal topic with you." She adjusted her bra strap and stretched her legs. "We both understand that life isn't always predictable. Especially with your quick-shooting..."

I felt a sting of hurt, but had nothing to retort. Anna, seeing my agreement, continued:

"You and I, we probably don't want children now or in the near future," she paused, as if letting that statement sink in. "But you know, I'm thinking more and more that we could do something more radical than just avoiding the issue. And wondering if you managed to pull out in time or not."

I frowned, not quite understanding where she was going.

"I want you to get a vasectomy," she said, looking me in the eyes.

I was shocked and delighted at the same time. She wasn't planning to leave me. But a vasectomy?

"What?" I asked, repeating the words as if they were something incomprehensible, hard to grasp.

"I understand it's a serious step. But let's look at it from another angle. A vasectomy isn't just contraception; it's a final and responsible decision that will let us not worry about whether I'll get pregnant or not. It frees us from the anxiety of accidental pregnancies. I won't be tormented by doubts, I won't have to check every time if we need to use extra protection. Pills are harmful, you come quickly. What will we do?"

I was silent, trying to digest her words.

"But that's... that's radical. Are you sure?" My voice was concerned, surprised, but not judgmental.

"Yes, I'm sure. I want to be with you fully, without hidden fears. This isn't about you or me; it's about us. About our future. We can just keep living, enjoying every moment without the thought that we might become parents against our will."

She paused, then added:

"You know we practice safe sex, always watch out for contraception, but that still doesn't give complete certainty. A vasectomy is safe, effective, and for both of us, much less traumatic than abortions, in case something unexpected happens."

I sighed and started looking thoughtfully at the floor. I understood her words were logical, but I was dismayed. I had planned on children in the future; I wanted them. Anna noticed my confusion but didn't rush to continue, giving me time. She understood such decisions couldn't be made immediately.

"You can think about it," she said softly. "I'm not insisting on it right now, but it's important to me that you know this matters to me. I want our future to be in our hands, without unnecessary fears and worries."

"Okay, I'll think about it. It's serious, I understand."

Anna smiled, her face lit up, and despite the heavy subtext of our conversation, she felt relieved and reached out her hands to hug me. I approached and hugged her, feeling myself getting aroused from touching such a gorgeous body.

A few days later, I sat before her, and my hands felt as if they had become heavy, powerless. Every look, every word from her penetrated me, and I didn't know how to escape it. After our talk, she looked at me with such seriousness, such cold expectation, that I felt as if I were standing on the edge of an abyss, and the only way not to fall was to agree to her proposal.

I loved her, and perhaps that was my weakness, but I couldn't imagine my life without her. She said it calmly, as if it were something ordinary, but I knew for me it would be more than just a medical procedure. A vasectomy. I would have to lose a part of myself, a part of what I thought defined me as a man. I felt humiliated, as if I were being denied the right to be who I was, who I always considered myself to be. I was a man who could start a family, raise and nurture children, continue my lineage, and now, for her sake, I was ready to give all that up. And that feeling burned me from the inside.

But what could I do? What could stop me when she looked at me with such certainty? I knew she didn't want this for no reason; it was important to her. I was ready to lose myself, my male pride, my confidence—just so she would stay by my side. Everything else was secondary. I tried to imagine how it would be, how I would look at myself in the mirror after it was done, but my thoughts blurred, and there was no clarity left. All that remained were her eyes, full of determination, and her hands, which at that moment were hugging me as if she knew this was hard for me. I agreed anyway. Because, despite everything, I couldn't let her go. I loved her and was ready to give up my male essence, my continuation of the lineage, just to make her happy. My hands trembled when I uttered these words:

"Okay, my love, I'll get a vasectomy for you."

I didn't know who I would be afterward, but at that moment, I knew only one thing: I would be with her, no matter what.

At the clinic, they performed an enhanced vasectomy on me, at her request, so I definitely couldn't become a father anymore. She was happy that she no longer needed to take pills. Our life regained its colors. Sex was still about a minute long, but I was happy. A few months later, we got married.

She wants to become a mother.

Over time, the passion subsided; a year passed, sex left our lives. Lovers—it's hard to call us that—became neighbors, brother and sister. I saw that my 14 centimeters would never satisfy her, especially in one minute. And I always tried to work better with my tongue. I became a master at it. But that wasn't enough for her.

I often sat alone, thinking about what went wrong, where I made a mistake. But, you know, I myself wasn't sure what I felt anymore. I just tried to pretend everything was as before. I didn't even know when she last called me by my name, as if it had become something superfluous for us. I felt how we had become passing figures in each other's lives. We no longer hugged, no longer kissed. If our hands accidentally met, it wasn't like before. I felt her body becoming cold, as if I were an acquaintance with whom she simply had to share space, but not feelings.

But over time, our passion faded. She started coming home late more often. She brushed off my questions more frequently. I began to suspect she might be cheating on me. We hadn't had sex in over six months. Sometimes, after jerking off in the bathroom, I would carefully touch my scrotum, trying to understand how the surgery went, maybe I had a chance to recover over time? Despite everyone wanting to do it neatly, she insisted on the enhanced version, and now I felt a slight tension in that area. In some places, the skin pulled a bit, but there was no pain, only a slight sensitivity, as if the scars were still fresh. I could feel them with my fingers. In the mirror, I saw small marks. If they had done a regular vasectomy, they would have been unnoticeable. But after my surgery, they looked like the brand of a degenerate. The surgery went without complications, and honestly, I already felt it wasn't as scary as I had imagined. All in the past. You don't have to look at scars in such a place. Overall, besides muted regret, I felt relief. I did it. Sperm flowed down the drain, and I knew it was now just a fluid, like shampoo. Useless and safe.

One day, we returned home from a walk, and in the bedroom, Anna turned to me, and I noticed how tense her shoulders were. In her eyes was that familiar look, full of determination and anxiety at the same time. I knew that if she started talking like this, it would be about something important, something unlikely to be easy for either of us.

"I need to have a serious talk with you," she said. Her voice was calm, but I felt turmoil inside her. I put my phone on the table, waiting a second for her to begin. She came over to me, sat down next to me, and looked me confidently in the eyes. I felt her gaze was full of something heavy and resolute. My hand instinctively reached for hers, and I squeezed her fingers, letting her know I was there.

"Do you remember how we talked about not wanting children?" she asked. I nodded, not knowing what to say.

"I've changed my mind," she said, and I felt the air in the room become even denser. I knew she wasn't the type to change decisions on a whim. I felt the weight of her words beginning to wash over me.

"I want children. I want to be a mother. These feelings overwhelm me." She looked me in the eyes again, and I saw in them that very dream she carried within, like a small flame lighting up her face. "I can't ignore this. It's not just a desire—it's a need. And I'm ready to do anything to make it a reality."

I felt my heart clench. We both knew I couldn't have children. We both knew I had undergone a vasectomy, leaving its mark on me, and that nothing could be done about it. She knew that, but she changed her mind!?

I was silent, trying to find words. I knew she wanted support from me. She always wanted me by her side, and at that moment, I felt how important it was for her to hear that I wouldn't turn away from her. We loved each other.

"I understand it's difficult," she continued. "And I'm not asking you to be the biological father. I'm asking you to raise this child. You won't be his father; you'll be the person who is there for him, raises him, loves him. And how he comes into the world—that's not so important anymore."

I felt my breath catch. Time seemed to stop. I tried to understand what she had just said. My lineage was cut off. Everything I had built, all my efforts, everything connected to me, vanished. I could no longer leave anything behind. All that remained was emptiness. She would lie under another man to get pregnant by him, and I would watch. And all I could do was stay silent because nothing could be changed anymore. She doesn't want me; she wants a child from someone else. Her body will carry his child, and I will... I will work. Raise someone else's, giving all my strength for him. Or for her? Feeling every day how I lose everything I once had. I can't have children. I can't be the one to continue my lineage, and she chose another. I agreed to her terms before, and here is the result. She will get pregnant from someone who can give her what I couldn't. And all that's left for me is to accept it. I will spend my life on someone else's, which will never be mine! But I will raise him as if he were mine. But he won't be my child! And she will love him, and I will just be the one silently standing aside, spending my time as if I were no longer a person and no longer important.

"You want me... to raise someone else's child?" I asked, despite all the anxiety that had taken hold of me. I didn't know what to think. And her proposal sounded somehow... alien. As if it made no sense, like something I couldn't accept, couldn't believe.

She nodded, her face serious, but I saw in her eyes that same determination I once loved in her.

"I want you to be there. I want you to be a part of this. I'm not asking you to be a father to everyone; I'm asking you to be there when the child is born. You will be a father to him. And how he comes into the world—that doesn't matter anymore. He will be ours, and all that matters is how we raise him."

I didn't know how to react. It was too much. The question that I couldn't forget kept spinning in my head. How would I look this child in the eyes when he grows up, and how would I explain to him that his father isn't the one raising him? Isn't the one loving him? And how would I deal with the fact that, despite all this, I would only be his father in name?

"Are you serious?" My voice trembled, and I couldn't believe I was asking her this. "You want me to be a father to a child that isn't mine? Maybe we can try another way. Reproduction."

"You don't have the money for that," she replied with a soft smile. It was like a mockery. I could still fertilize her through medical centers, but it cost a huge amount of money I didn't have. It drove me crazy.

"I'm asking you to be there. I'm asking you to support me." She ran her palm over my leg. "I'm asking you to be the support I can rely on. I do love you."

I sighed. Didn't know what to say. Felt my thoughts tangling, trying to find answers to questions I had no answers for. If I left her, what would that change? Any girl wants children.

"We could adopt," I replied dully.

"But I want my own," she frowned, "you don't understand motherhood; it's easier for fathers."

"I need time." I stood up; that was all I could say. "I can't decide this right now, just like that. I'm not sure I can accept your proposal, but I'll think about it. I need time."

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