So. Here we all are in this happy, new year, and me…
I’m pissed. I’m pissed at everything. I’m pissed at my state and federal governments, I’m pissed at big corporations, I’m pissed at the weather, I’m pissed at my ass cancer and I guess I can say that I’m mostly pissed at my veryownself. I’m pissed, pissed and pissed some more.
Here I sit at a time when I should be grateful for so many things, and all I feel is pissed. I should be grateful for a (mostly) loving family, caring friends, adequate health care thanks to Medicare, enough cash stashed to live-out my days except and unless I live to be more than 94-years-old with today’s economy adjusted in historical terms throughout the next 29 years, my two constant companions love me and are honest with me, and I’m happy enough with my surroundings to not have too strong an impulse to pick up and leave Santa Fe for the Oregon coast.
Having said all of that, please allow me to add that I might should have taken the dogs—the above-mentioned constant companions—with me to Oregon. I likewise should say “near” constant companions, a distinction of (to) which the Squirt has constantly reminded me since my return from the misty Pacific coastline of western America.
“Don’t you think we could have used a vacation, shithead…Think we might have basked breathing humidified air…Think we would have enjoyed the company of those nice people…Think maybe we’d have enjoyed naked rain bathing?”
That was the Squirt the first time after I recounted my pet-less visit over Xmas. She added, “You, you thoughtless dickwad, left us with that nut-bag dog lady for almost two weeks. I ought to tell the goat dog to pee all over your new memory foam mattress and to shit on all the heating vents.”
Yoda had gotten pissed at me when he found out he was staying with the crazy dog lady, and the night before I left, he took a giant, loose bowel movement on one of the floor-mounted heating grills out to the living room. Required me to remove the grill, clean it and the metal pipe below, and all the while gaging at the verge of a puke.
As for the nekid rain bathing, I invented that one evening after returning to my room from a day of crabbing and munching on baked pot goodies made by my niece from up to Seattle. It was actually too cool to lay on the concrete balcony—and I likely too far from reality’s grasp to make good decisions—yet there I lay, pin pricks of stinging rain pelting me from head-to-toe. Nipples pursed like Mrs. Leticia Browningwell’s lips just before she scolded me in her third grade classroom, pecker hiding deep into groin from cold shock, and my eyes shut tight against the petulant rain. Might have drown if I’d fallen asleep and it might have been the most invigorating thing I’ve ever done, save and except for this one time I ran from Mexican police with Streaker Jones. The two of us had taken badly to getting rousted by a cab driver for triple the fare for a ride, and the cabbie called the police. Seems that was a way for Mexican police and cab drivers to earn extra cash.
But I digress. I’m pissed and Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson says it’s all about my prostate and me. “You’re terrified that you’ll become incontinent or lose erectile function from your treatment, Mooner. You love your penis too much to face those distinct possibilities.”
My psycho therapist is right. What if I can never have sex again? What if I actually become one of those limp dicks that we all have joked about? What if I’ve already had the last consensual sex with another person of my entire life? What if my Ivory soap bar becomes nothing more than a sanitary servicing device?
I can’t even imagine a life without sex. Maybe I need to plan for that eventuality, you know, get twenty years of sexing done before treatment ends in case I go all erectile dysfunctional and shit. Twenty years at once-per-week, a realistic estimate for the sexuality of a healthy older gentleman, would be 1,040 total remaining sexings for me. To get that number in over therapy’s next two months, I’ll need to do the deed 8.67 times per day. Not unrealistic.
Except for figurating with whom all that sexing will be partnered, this seems a doable dealio. In the entirety of my life I haven’t met a single woman one who could, would, do it eight times a day for more than a couple days contiguously. Personal experience tells me that new relationships can handle twice daily for a few weeks before losing the required ardor to even do it daily. Using that logic, I’ll need five lovers daily for two weeks, then nine for a month and then thirteen for the remaining two weeks. That’s a ton of willing women to identify when you consider that it’s taken me two years in Santa Fe to not yet locate the first. Ugh.
Fucking ugh! Initial thoughts would be to hire me some talent, but that would be so expensive it would cut my retirement bankroll in half and I’d run out of money before the cancer would kill me if I sought no treatment at all. That’s not realistic as an option. Double fucking ugh!
Seems like Medicare should provide this as a benefit to us as prostate sufferers under the mental health coverages part of the plan. Maybe I can run an ad in the newspaper, maybe find some nice, caring women looking to do community servicing. Or I can try the N.M. Department of Corrections—have them allocate some recently released detainees in need of social rehabilitations and assist them as they assist me. Win-win is my middle name.
Maybe the best way to handle my anxiety over losing erections, and the hopefully resulting sexing, would be to write about it. Dr. Sam tells me that writing about the things that bother you can help you overcome your worries. I likely have a half-million words to say without giving this any further thought. So look for the new best-selling novel by Mooner Johnson at your bookstore soon.
I’ll title it My Prostate and Me- the Love/Hate Diary of an Angry Man.
Fuck Walmart happily in this New Year.