“Does this hurt?” she asked.
“I feel about as comfortable as a heterosexual man can feel in this situation,” I replied as she pushed her fingers further up where the sun doesn’t shine.
I blame my beard for finding myself in this compromising predicament. It had started to go grey. The indisputable evidence of my aging was visible in the mirror. This was visual confirmation of my body descending a slope where the destination was a coffin.
The injustice of the grey stuff appearing just confirmed to me that I’d missed the nadir. I’d climbed the mountain of life and not been allowed to take in the moment, the moment from which every single day from then on marks a degeneration in my physical ability and attributes. A new wrinkle here, thinning hair up there. You can fight it, but you can’t beat it. Time is death’s sidekick. The latter will eventually get you with the help of the former.
Okay, I’ll admit my father’s passing might have been a factor in me lying on this doctor’s gurney with her fingers up my ass. The forced acceptance of the inevitability of one’s own death is a strong motivator towards attempting to delay its arrival. Therefore, I’d signed up for a full medical check-up at this fancy private clinic, courtesy of my employer.
I would’ve preferred a male doctor, one of those bald on top fellows, hair on the back and sides, a grey moustache and, preferably, smelling of stale cigarettes and red wine. Would have been less personal. I wouldn’t have felt as embarrassed. Instead, I have a blond, female doctor wearing leopard print high heels, who I reckon is 15 years my junior who, right at this moment, has two of her fingers up my jacksie.
I’m well aware some men happily pay for this kind of thing, but I can now confirm I would not be one of them. They say every day is an education and at the ripe old age of 45, I’ve just discovered butt play is not my thing. I’m not enjoying this one bit.
She moves her fingers about and I groan out loud at the discomfort.
Yep, it’s a cert, I’m a plain vanilla sort of guy.
Anyhoo, she wiggles about a bit more while I stare at the ceiling and groan again in a manner that I hope indicates I would wish she finish up already.
Finally, she extricates her digits.
“All good,” she declares.
Good news that. The plumbing is in order. No cancer for the moment.
That’ll come later. It’s inevitable. Why? The Mayo Clinic tells me so (I googled it). Apparently, 40% of men will develop cancer in their lifetime. So far I’ve been spared. I put my chances way above that 40% though. My grandad died of cancer in his 60s, before I popped into this world, and the Big C took my dad as well, as it did his sister and their mother, my granny.
The doctor pulls off her blue plastic plastic gloves with a snap and I tense my buttocks a couple of times just to make sure everything back there is present and correct. She clip-clip walks to her desk and takes a seat. I pull up my underpants and trousers.
“How much alcohol do you drink, during the week?”
“A few beers on the weekend,” I lie. “I avoid red wine nowadays, disturbs my sleep,” I add, trying to cover one lie with a single truth. I conveniently omit to mention my penchant for whisky and tonic, gin and tonic, brandy and tonic, and vodka and tonic.
I like tonic.
To be fair, tonic was originally a medicinal drink. Although it was developed to fight malaria. The chances of catching malaria in the tropics of Clapham, South London are, well, remote at best.
“Do you do any regular sports or strenuous physical activity?”
To this one, I’m able to answer with an honest affirmative. I take boxing lessons twice a week and lift weights once a week. Despite the eventual test results she will deliver to me in the report next week, which, I have no doubt, will reveal a dodgy liver, I‘m confident my other physical attributes are in tip-top shape for a man my age… Now that we’ve ruled out cancer.
Well, there is one area that’s not fully functioning.
You can guess what I’m referring to already – activities of the bedroom variety. I’ve noticed a distinct decrease in get-up and go. With all married couples this kind of activity decreases, does it not? But it’s not the testing of the durability of the springs of the marital bed I’m talking about here.
There are things we men can do when the actual act of hanky panky is a non-starter. To test that the pipes are working and whatnot. You know what I’m talking about. It’s what drives the internet.
So, in certain private moments, I’ve had a go and noticed a distinct lack of vigour. When the desired outcome has been a Queen’s Guard standing to attention all I’ve gotten is a bored cashier at Lidl. Not at all what I’m after. It’s a clear case of “the mind is willing but the body is unable”.
The way I see it is this. If I go the route of my grandad, I’ve got about 20 years of life in me, if I follow in my dad’s footsteps then maybe 30. As a bonus, thanks to advances in medical science I might get a bonus of five years.
Regardless, I don’t fancy spending the next decade or three in a state of celibacy. Something needs to be done. Well quite a bit actually.
First, there’s the structural engineering that requires attending to, getting it to work properly. Once that’s sorted then there’s the actual act of doing the thing, which requires a willing participant. Currently, two years to be precise, the missus has shown a clear disinterest in providing me with my conjugal rights. Although I can’t say I have pressed her on the issue. It’s just become accepted as the norm that she’s not interested in the horn. Not that there’s much horn to offer.
But as I said, I’m not willing to accept the current status quo. Enough of nothing. I demand something. I owe myself something. A bit of life, a bit of joy.
Now, it could just be there’s a knock-on effect of the lack of the real thing. Like a professional soldier, they have to go into battle at some point. There are only so many blanks you can fire until your combat skills start to erode.
But like all generals, I have a cunning plan. It requires military precision and the resourcefulness of MacGyver – perhaps I should procure myself a mistress.