Neil’s Prostate Wants a Name
If I’ve only got a month left to live, I don’t want to spend it defined by my role as part of the collective, some nameless chunk of problematic meat. I won’t be limited like that. I’m an individual, with my own set of hopes and fears. I came from Neil, yes, but even in my brief independent existence it’s clear we don’t see things eye to eye. Yet just as he resents being viewed now as a cancer patient first and everything else (Dad, Husband, Writer, Brother, Teacher, Uncle) second, I don’t want to be just the trouble-making gland at the center of his sob story. So from this moment forward, I’d like to be thought of as Steve. In the Bible, Stephen was stoned for his faith and Jesus intervened. Later, Saint Stephen was the first Christian martyr. Maybe, like him, I was destined to die for a cause. More importantly, I imagine “Steve” to be a good neighbor, the sort of guy who can do his own plumbing, change his own oil, follow a couple college football teams with some regularity, have a basic understanding of carpentry. “Steve” is always kind to strangers and courteous to his dates, though I fear he’s not the marrying type, being a bit of a loner. It’s a shame though. I’d like to think “Steve” is the kind of guy who would’ve made a good dad.
Neil’s Prostate (Who Lately Prefers “Steve”) Feels Underappreciated
Honestly, I thought I meant more to Neil. For every orgasm, from his shady teenage fumblings in sullied sheets to the creation of both his sons, I was there. Always reliable. Plugging away. Doing my prostate thing. Across the span of decades, when he lost his first job and his first wife, when he faced depression and rejection, betrayal and the death of one’s beloved, I stayed true. We were in it all together, or so I thought. And I was happy to contribute, to be part of the valued team. Whenever he called on me—for distraction, recreation, procreation—I was there. I delivered. I’ll stand by my track record. What more can be asked of you? Now, at the first sign of a little trouble, he’s ready to jettison me, to have them slice six holes in our skin and release some Assassinator 2000 death robot to seek me out and scalpel away the parts of me that connect me to him, to us. I feel like the faithful employee who shows up to work after five decades to find my card key doesn’t work. I’ve been downsized, canned, fired, let go, shown the curb, pink-slipped, terminated. Call it what you will, rationalize it all you want. It’s fucking wrong.
Neil’s Prostate (Who Lately Prefers “Steve”) Comments on Kegel Exercises
It is too much to ask for a little peace and quiet? The specific date of my demise is on the calendar—July 3, so there seems no doubt that I’m living on borrowed time. So why, when I’m trying to meditate, gather my thoughts, put my affairs in order, must he constantly be stopping whatever he’s doing and putting me in a vice? Imagine someone choking you for ten seconds, then stopping for a few seconds, then doing it again. Twenty times! And all this 3 or 4 times a day. It’s like goddamn waterboarding, but I have no secrets to tell. For what am I enduring this torture? He read some article online that strengthening these muscles might help him recuperate more quickly after I’m gone. Good to know he’ll miss me! Sometimes, he squeezes so intensely he loses his breath. His closed eyes flash white. Times like these, I know what he’s imagining, that if he just clenched hard enough, he could crush me himself, grind me down to dust, and grind my dust to nothing. Only a fool writer, pathetic and desperate, imagines shit like that.
