|
|
| |
|
|
BY CAITLIN SHETTERLY
|
|
|
|
|
I worked for a time with a girl with flippy hair who told me with great gusto about tickling her new boyfriend's prostate. With amusement that I was unfamiliar with the prostate tickle, the flippy hair girl described inserting her index finger right at the moment of heightened sensation (i.e. anxiety?) and made the come hither gesture to me to show me what she does once inside. The butt is a Spenserian nether region to my mind, amusing in scatological discussions, but not really a place of any kind of eroticism. I believe it was the same flippy hair girl who told me that I surely had hair inside my own butt to which I, totally shocked, replied that I most definitely did not. I tried to imagine sticking my finger up any ass of any boyfriend I've ever been with. When I lived in Paris, I got close to the moment of coitus with my Italian boyfriend and felt something weird as my hand grazed his butt cheek, only to discover that it was a dingle berry hanging from his behind. Another boyfriend had a hemorrhoid problem. I don't know. I think the whole butt thing is better left in the realm of jokes. Or irritating cattle prods. Like, for instance, I've become obsessed with the idea of my father getting his prostate checked. Mostly because I've heard prostate cancer is the silent killer of men too proud to get their rears ended. I know my father is no fan of going to the doctor, and he surely does not subscribe to the "my body is my temple" vibe. So I've taken it upon myself to call him up every so often and ask if he's had his prostate checked lately, which I imagine makes the little pea-size gland shrink with annoyance along with the rest of him. I recently bumped into a friend of my father's at Hannaford who was buying tofu and broccoli, both of which I pointed out are great for the prostate. He told me the kind of scary story that worries me about his cousin who never got his prostate checked and then died a terrible and ugly death. On my way out of the store I called my dad.Me: Dad. When was your last prostate exam?Dad: What? His voice is suddenly high pitched. Me: When did the doctor last stick his finger up your butt?Dad: What is wrong with you?Me: I'm worried you'll die a terrible ugly death.Dad: You're obsessed with my prostate.Me: Well, when you visited last week you peed a lot.Dad: It's been checked. Me: Are you sure?Dad: What do you mean am I sure? Of course I'm sure. This is not the kind of thing you forget happening to you.Me: Are you on the yearly plan?Dad: I want to watch football. And eat popcorn. Go do something useful.Me: You're sure you've had it checked?Dad: Yes. Uncomfortable silence. Me: Okay, then. Have a great Sunday, Daddy!!!Dad: You too, honey. And off I went feeling much better about the future of my Dad's butt-region. Bramhall Square runs every other week, and Caitlin Shetterly can be reached at bramhallsquare@yahoo.com
|
