If ever there is a situation to make your knees wobble, this is it. Before the operation, my thoughts were split into two camps: rational and irrational. On the rational side, I knew it was my turn to be responsible for the contraception in our relationship. My partner had been dosing herself with artificial hormones for 30 years, so it was my turn. I knew it was the sensible option.

But this doesn't hold much sway at 3am when you're worrying about becoming a neuter. It may be a straightforward procedure, but the notion of a scalpel nearing my groin is not one I ever wanted to contemplate. Your sex drive is a primal urge; it doesn't understand reasonable discussion. What if being spermless makes me feel emasculated?

Googling doesn't help. Medical websites drop in the possibility of "long-term testicle pain" and "hard lumps in the scrotum", while one blogger's revelation is eye-watering: "painful ejaculation" are two words that should never go together.

In the end, I persuade myself it's for the best and I find myself lying half-naked on the table, legs apart. Now I have a glimpse of the indignity of childbirth, of cervical smears. But my main concern is why can I see smoke rising from my crotch?

They're right, though. It's over in a moment. Three days' recovery, slight bruising. Eight weeks on, I'm firing blanks and it feels good. All that worrying for nought. I'm still a man. With a zillion brownie points in the bank.

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