It’s no secret. I’ve had some difficulties when it comes to the fairer sex (that means girls). But last week, rather than run away from my problems, I decided to face them head on like a man—a man with enormous testicles.
Of course, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. I mean, I’ve always been pretty shy. And more importantly, my testicles are only average in size. Nevertheless, I was determined to do whatever needed to be done. Even if it meant going under the knife for testicular augmentation surgery.
So there I was, flipping through the back pages of the L.A. Weekly, when I ran across an ad for one of those alternative doctors. Here name was Dr. Double D, and according to her ad, she had all the right equipment to make me feel “all better.” From the moment I saw her picture, I knew that she was special. Underneath her very short lab coat, she wore a black string bikini and a pair of red stiletto pumps. Yeah, this was my kind of doctor: the kind who likes to swim. So I gave Dr. DD a call, and moments later, a soft sultry voice answered the phone:
“You a cop?” she purred.
“Uh, no,” I replied. “Should I be? Would that help?”
“Huh?”
“I’m calling about your ad in the L.A. Weekly.”
“Which one?”
“Uh, I don’t know. It says you can solve my, uh, issues.”
“Ohhhhh right. Yeah, I can do that. You sure you ain’t a cop?”
“Ain’t? Ha. How quaint. Yes, I’m quite sure.”
“OK, pick me up on the corner of Highland and Santa Monica at eight.”
“Pick you up? Ohhhhhh I get it. This is going to be like a real date.”
“Yeah, whatever. Just pick me up.”
“OK, I will be there, my dear, at eight o’clock sharp.”
She hung up. A moment later, a man called me to ask for my name and credit-card number. I guess he was her assistant or something. He said there would be a $100 deposit for the doctor’s time, but that I could do anything I wanted with her as long as she would be back in one hour and I didn’t scar her face (a joke that was in poor taste, if you ask me). I agreed to the terms of the contract and thanked him for providing such a wonderful service.
That night, I drove to pick up my therapist at her office. Oddly enough, I didn’t see any office buildings in the area, just a rundown mini mall and one of those we-serve-everything fast-food stands. Obviously, I made a wrong turn somewhere. I locked the doors and feverishly began flipping through my Thomas Guide. Suddenly, there was a knock on my passenger window. It was one of the freaks from the fast-food stand, probably needing milkshake money. I tried to ignore her, but she continued to knock on the glass.
“Smivey?” she said with a question mark at the end.
I turned and looked. Well, damn if it wasn’t Dr. DD. I didn’t recognize her at first. She was no longer dressed for the beach. She was dressed for the disco. She had on a glittery tube top and a thick leather belt that sort of looked like a skirt. I lowered the window.
“Hey, baby,” she said. “You gonna let momma in?”
“Momma?”
“You gonna unlock the door or what?”
“Oh, sure.”
I unlocked the door and her perfume jumped into my passenger seat, followed shortly by the doctor herself.
“OK, where do you wanna do this?” she asked.
I lowered my window to let some air in and some perfume out.
“Uh, I don’t know. I’m just here to learn.”
“Yeah, that’s what momma was afraid of.”
“You spoke to your mother about me?”
“Shit, you’re not one of those freaks, are you? You better not be planning on cutting me up, ’cause if you try anything, I will slice you first and ask questions later, you understand me?”
“Uh, yes, ma’am.”
“OK, now. Where you wanna do this?”
I suggested that we begin our date at the Hollywood Canteen, an L.A. landmark. They provide a nice, romantic atmosphere in the back where couples can enjoy a quiet meal under the stars. Unfortunately, she had a more casual dining experience in mind.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting on a plastic seat at the Del Taco across the street, staring at a woman who didn’t look anything like a doctor. She was scarfing down her hamburger and inhaling her fries as if she hadn’t eaten all day.
“So. . .” I attempted to draw her attention from her meal.
She glanced up at me. “Hm?”
“I’m sorry, I was just expecting a bit more for my money.”
“Be patient, baby. Let momma eat first, then I’ll see to it that you learn everything you need to know.”
“OK.”
I looked down at my half eaten seven-layer burrito. I had three and a half layers to go and I just wasn’t feeling it anymore.
“So what do you do?” she spoke between mouthfuls of fries.
“I’m a copywriter.”
“Oh, so that’s got to do with lawyering or something, right?”
“Uh, no, I work in Advertising. You’re thinking of copyrighting.”
“Yeah, that’s what you just said.”
“No, but I spelled it differently the last time I said it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Never mind. You’ll see when you read the transcript.”
“What transcript?”
“Forget it.”
“Fuck, you are one of those freaks, aren’t you?”
“That all depends on who you ask.”
She leaned forward, her eyes locked on mine.
“Now, listen to me,” she said. “I got my own car and my own apartment. I work hard for my money, mister. So don’t think I won’t disenvowel you if I have to.”
She leaned back and disengaged her jaw to shovel in more fries. I just sat there and watched her in silence. Finally, I had to say something:
“Disembowel.”
“What?”
“I believe you meant to say ‘disembowel,’ to remove one’s internal organs, usually in a violent manner.”
“What did I say?”
“Disenvowel, I think. No such word.”
“Huh. I really have a problem remembering words like that.”
“That’s OK. We all do. Sometimes I forget words, too.”
“Nah, you’re just saying that.”
“No, really. It’s true. It happens all the time.”
She smiled at me, then slurped the last remaining liquid out of the bottom of her cup. It was just the ice-breaker that we needed. For the rest of the evening, we just sat and talked about various aspects of grammar and how fucked up the English language is. It was a good time and I think I carried myself off pretty well.
So was the therapy a success? I’m not exactly sure. The doctor did offer to give me a “freebie” at the end of the night, but I declined, since I believe people should pay for services rendered. What’s strange is, she pushed me away when I attempted to give her a smooch. It seems my new lady friend has a rule against kissing on the mouth. Bleh. Whatever. Where the hell else am I supposed to kiss her, hm? Women can be so strange.
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