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Testosterone gels are a fairly new form of hormone treatment used to raise testosterone levels in men suffering from testosterone deficiency. Testosterone is a natural male hormone produced by the body. It is an essential constituent for the development and functioning of the male sexual organs and for the growth of typical male characteristics including muscular build and deep voice. Signs of low testosterone include mood swings, hair loss, impotence, weakening of the bones, and a low sex drive.
Testosterone gels provide a balanced testosterone level to the body via the skin. They are colorless, and are normally applied to a clean, dry skin area on the shoulders, upper arms, stomach, or thighs. Major ingredients of testosterone gels are water, alcohol, and the testosterone hormone. Testosterone gel dries very fast. The hormone is absorbed into the body over a time period of 24 hours. Therefore, gels are normally applied once a day.
Before using a testosterone gel, you must consult with a healthcare professional. Doctors often need to know some of your medical conditions such as diabetes, blood vessel disease, previous heart attack, prostate trouble, and an unusual or allergic reaction to the hormone.
Testosterone gels have some drawbacks too. It is possible that the gel can come into contact with a partner or children. So, it is important to choose a body part that does not come into direct contact with others. Also, testosterone gels are more expensive than other types of testosterone treatments.
Common side effects associated with the gels are anxiety, depression, breast enlargement, acne, hot flushes, nervousness, headache, teary eyes, swelling of the body parts, breathing problems, difficulty urinating, upset stomach, vomiting, and yellow or darkened skin. Overdose may cause slow or difficult speech, faintness, and weakness or numbness of an arm or leg.
Due to its ease of use and minimal skin irritation, testosterone gel is now the main option for men undergoing testosterone replacement therapy. The gels should be kept out of the reach of children and stored at room temperature between 150 C and 300 C. Since they are flammable, avoid exposure to fire and smoke.
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The other day, my mother, who compulsively shops for anything you can think of, bought me a bag of sunflower seeds, as I went through a phase of eating them about a decade ago.
First of all, this was a completely redundant gesture, as they were just the seeds, and everyone knows that sunflowers seeds taste of absolutely nothing at all, and the only pleasure to be derived from them is cracking the zebra-coloured shell to extract them.
No good deed is without merit, however, and in eating them I did manage an idea, which, as those who know me will tell you, is a laborious and taxing process at best.
According to the packaging (which, perhaps naively, I find no reason to doubt) these sunflower seeds were bought in a branch of Boots and are part of a "meal deal."
Now who, exactly, aside from perhaps squirrels and other small fluffy mammals, would ever consider sunflower seeds a "meal" ? Granted, perhaps Boots receive a lot of custom from numerous pigeons and small tits, but this still doesn't explain how I ended up with them as my mother doesn't even HAVE small tits.
Sorry, I seem to have digressed and in doing so swerved perilously close to the territory of the "fat momma" joke, which I'll avoid.
Meanwhile, back on the subject at hand, why is Boots (are Boots? is Boots? I hate shops with no apostrophes) selling food in the first place?! If a butcher had a deal on moisturiser and sun-tan lotion, I think I personally would give it a miss, but somehow a shop that's know for medicines and cosmetics has started offering meals and none of us has batted an eyelid.
Food in general, now that I mention it, has been getting stranger, lately. McDonalds, in a frankly ludicrous attempt to improve it's image, has started offering salads as a direct result of Morgan Spurlock's "Super Size Me."
Something about this bothers me, and I can't quite put my finger on it. Kudos to Mr. Spurlock for shaking an empire to it's core, it's impressive by any standards and far more than the more high-profile Michael Moore has managed to do. (Although one does suspect Moore eats all his meals at McDonalds and just forgot to film it...)
McDonalds, though, is about grease. It's about grease, and junk, and things that will, probably, give you a McCoronary sometime before you make it back to your car A coronary which, by all accounts, you can make bigger and more life threatening for a bargain 30p.
McDonalds isn't SUPPOSED to offer good food. Everyone knows that McDonalds is bland and bad for you, in the same way we know that alcohol is bad for us and we'll all regret it in the morning. Several months ago I thought I'd have a go at a McDonalds chocolate donut, and it was f*cking horrible. I remember remarking to those around me in my witty, Wilde-esque style, "This is f*cking 'orrible."
Doesn't matter. I still have one whenever I go in, now, and they're still terrible.
My point is this: NOBODY goes to McDonalds for a salad. In fact, I wouldn't trust anyone who did. I think I'll add that to my list of character indicators. Never listen to anyone who doesn't like "Columbo", and never trust anyone who goes to McDonalds for a salad.
Salads go against the whole POINT of McDonalds, and I personally think that they should have more balls than to run for cover when their "secret" gets out. Tobacco companies have known for years that cigarettes kill you, as have the public, but they don't suddenly branch out and start a new line of Malboro Lollipops as a healthy alternative.
Another thing that's worried my lately, food-wise, is the reappearance of Pepperami. For those too young to remember, or those living in another country, Pepperami is best described as a stick of peppered meat in a wrapper.
I've always been bothered by them, principally because nobody has yet proved to my satisfaction that it isn't just the spiced penis of some unknown animal that the snack-hungry public has sent rocketing towards extinction, but over the years I sort of forgot about them. Now, all signs (TV adverts, posters, the Beast running loose in the streets of Bethlehem) point to it coming back. We should be on our guard.
Now, some people may level the fair and accurate criticism at me that everything I write has no real structure; that I'm prone to going off on tangents and that I always end abruptly and inconclusively. This is true.
To these people, however, I say that if you can find another article on the web that goes from Sunflower seeds to animal penis by way of a chocolate donut, then good luck to you!
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A marvelous blue sky clashed poetically with my off-white linen attire. The sand never felt softer as it comfortably formed itself under the soles of my feet. Walking along the shore, I observed that the water was much calmer than it was the previous day. Cool and assertive, it therapeutically surrounded my ankles. Wind and air were the next elements. This time, it was the contours of my face that benefited. My feet, ankles and face were all being seduced by earth's finest elements. What could make this dream fresco perfect? Caravaggio painting the scene? I settled for the next best thing. A scantily dressed sensual lady showed herself as she jumped into my arms. I was set.
With one eye open I could see a thick blanket of frost had designed itself on the window of my bedroom. "Dreams can be so cruel," I thought aloud, as I clamored out of bed.
The second my foot hit the wood floor, my knee reminded me that it was indifferent to sultry dreams about a sexy girl, sand, water and air. It was damaged and no amount of natural voodoo hocus-pocus was about to fix them.
After many weeks of ignoring the truth, it had become glaringly apparent to me that it was time to go under the knife. Conventional medicine beckoned!
I sat like a bump on a log in the examining room. My mind occupied by the fact that I was being yanked out of regular school and sent to prep school. I wasn't a very reliable student. Just as I was about to pull out an apple from my pocket, the doctor walked in.
He asked two questions and said, "That's an ACL tear."
"What's an ACL?" I meekly asked.
"You're anterior cruciate ligament. You see, the ligaments that run…" I tuned out as he began to rub his knuckles together to explain how the ACL functions. "Oh."
"Let's check you out."
Medically speaking.
He took my leg and placed it between his arm and chest and began to push and bend the leg towards me.
"Feel that?"
"Yes."
"That's your ACL giving way,"
I tried every way to weasel my way out of it. I asked the specialist if it could be rehabilitated through physiotherapy.
That sound you hear is the exaggerated laugh of my doctor.
Once he regained his composure he said curtly, "No. Judging by my examination it's completely torn."
I tore it nine times.
That was that. More impressively, he accurately deduced all this without the benefit of a MRI.
I was 18 years old and already washed up. A soccer player has-been before it ever began. Nonetheless, if I wanted any shot at an active life the knee had to be sliced open, stapled and stitched. My decision was made. While wearing those girly gowns I had a choice of a full anaesthetic or an epidural. Italian or Ranch?
"What's the difference? I asked.
"Under a full anaesthetic you are asleep throughout the surgery. With an epidural we freeze from the waist down. You can witness the whole thing," the doctor explained. I decided to go for the epidural. Ring side seats to my own repair. All I was missing were some peanut M&M's.
"Ok, Alessandro. Here we go. It's the right knee," the doctor tells the nurse.
What? It was the left knee! Is he mad?
"Kidding," he said. I was not amused by his childish wink.
The anesthesiologist was young and talkative. Reading my chart he asked, "Nicolo? Do you have a sister?"
"I have two."
"What are their names?"
"Maria and Giovanna."
"Maria! She went to Laval Catholic High School right?"
"Yes. So did I."
"Wow. I knew her. She was going out with Joe, right?"
"Yeah. She married him. Not to sound like a smart ass but I'm about to lose a knee here and my ass is exposed."
"Ha, ha. You're sister was pretty funny, too. Ok, here's how this is going to work. I need you to curl up and place your head between your knees. Whatever you do, don't move. It can cause spinal damage. Ok?"
"Got it."
I cracked. I looked back. I saw the needle. It was as big as a lobster. I fainted.
"I told you not to look back."
"I know. Sorry."
A nurse came over and held my head down. I was now injected.
"Pretty soon you won't feel a thing."
"How will I know?"
"You won't feel your penis," Dr.Seinfeld interjected.
"Yeah right"
Within minutes he asks, "So, can you contract your penis?"
I tried. Boy did I try. I even burst some capillaries. My eyes turned purple I strained so hard. For some reason my fear entertained the nursing staff.
I began to wonder what life would be like without the use of my penis. I secretly began to panic. Alternatively, I always dreamed of making love to a nurse on an operating table. Not today.
"Ok, Alessandro. You can watch the whole thing on the screen up above and to your right. Sit back and relax."
Just then he raised my leg. It didn't look like mine. It was orange and listless as he manipulated it however he saw fit. The iodine made it looked like road kill. I fainted.
"Are you going to be ok?"
"Yeah, no sweat."
"Ok," the doctor said unconvincingly.
Lying back on my elbows I was sure the worse was over. So I fainted twice. Big deal. Until….
I swear there was blood everywhere. Like that scene in The Shining where Danny sees the twin girls. A flood of blood buckets. The nurse handed the doctor a tiny square shaped cloth to apply on the incision. I fainted.
I could overhear the doctor say, "Give him a sedative."
It was just what the doctor ordered. I never felt so composed in my life. I don't remember much about the surgery but I do remember him pointing to the torn ligament. It looked like a torn Kleenex.
Soon the doctor proclaimed, "That's it. We're done."
A couple of weeks later I visited the doctor to check up on my wound for the first time. The knee felt extremely tight and my leg had been reduced to a mere twig-like limb. He began to remove the bandages. I felt woozy. Finally, he reached the knee. One look was all it took. I fainted.
My mother looked at me as she handed me a glass of water. "You're such a wuss."
It took months of rehab, but fixing the knee gave back my athletic life. I was active once again. Psychologically, I'll never be the same but there is no doubt that if one plans to lead an active life surgery is a necessity when it comes to the ACL.
When I tore my right knee16 years later it took me seconds to make my decision. On the operating table the anesthesiologist suggested an epidural. I chuckled and said no. I wanted to get out of there with some dignity.
I may have even dreamt of that sweet girl as I frolicked with her on the beach.
Needless to say, I didn't faint.
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22 March, l968
As it turned out, Johnny would visit Jill’s room off and on during the following weeks. And that strange woman that left the Belmont’s room brought along another woman, and on occasion, he’d catch her on her way down the steps and invite her into his room, although she’d had preferred ‘Jill,’ so she said.
Tasma was not aware of most of this, but a little. Also, she had received at this time several letters from home by her parents, in particular her father, but she did not respond back. She was not certain what to say, she loved them, and Jill assured them she was fine, but it was too stressful for her to talk or write them. She did have a profound desire to please her father, and wishful thinking to please her mother, but it seemed she needed to learn how to please herself first, and to Jill, she did not blame them for anything, not anymore anyway. And had she started a communicational dialogue, they may have persuaded her to return, the one thing she did not want at this time.
—Jill was in the kitchen—the ironing board was pulled out from an inner-cabinet built into the wall, a wall-unite if you will, it was kept snugly in, in which there was a door attached to it; Jill was ironing Tommy and Johnny’s cloths, another lover circle had stared. Both were arranged in separate piles. Mrs. Belmont was sitting at the table talking seriously to her; it was most unusual thought Tasma, for seldom did she see Mrs. Belmont other than at the bar talking to Jill. As Tasma neared them to join them, the subject—whatever it was—changed, and what appeared on Mrs. Belmont’s face was an un-cheerful smile, not unusual, but quite sudden, and it was apparent. Consequently, feeling a little awkward she left the kitchen to work on her diary-novel (some poems), in the living room in her usual spot; in effect, she could overhear bits and pieces now of their conversation. It didn’t occur to her to get up and leave, rather the opposite; she actually pretended to be busy writing and was simply drawing a picture undiscernibly.
“It’s been going on for a while mom, I didn’t think it was, I mean it would end up like this.”
“Get rid of him, or all of them.”
“No, no, I don’t think Johnny will go so easy. He likes me, and thinks he can have me, and he has me of course.”
“What about Tommy?”
“I like him, I like him a lot, but that’s the problem, I don’t love him, I just like him.”
“He’s what you need though. He’s more anchored.”
[With scorn] “What the hell does anchored mean!” said Jill.
“Ok, ok, I could have used a better term, Tommy likes to work and go to school, he’ll be somebody someday.”
“Tommy doesn’t pay you a dime; Johnny does and Johnny works hard.”
“Yes, he works hard all right, hard at drinking, screwing you and god knows who else—smoking that weed.”
“So Tommy was screwing me and working.”
“You’re going to lose him to that cousin of yours if you don’t hang on to him.”
“Tasma,” she looked at Tasma reading, “you got to be kidding, she’s as naïve as a sparrow.”
“So you say: does a pineapple come from a pine tree?”
“No,” said Jill apprehensive, “now what does that mean?”
“She’s not the little girl she was three, four months ago, or is it five or more? She has a good shape, and pretty face, and if Tommy can’t see it, I can. And so can a lot of men at the bar. Anyhow, Tasma is not the issue, Johnny and Tommy are.”
(A long pause came, then with a cracking voice, and an almost whisper, she leaned over to her mother, and Tasma leaned over the arm of her chair): “I think I’m pregnant…”
“Ay caramba,” she said in a sigh that slurred all the way to Tasma’s ears, “…now what?”
“It’s Johnny’s, not Tommy’s, Tommy uses a rubber, and Johnny thinks it is not manly to do so.” It was momentarily hard for Jill to look her mother in the face; she was at this time, pacing the floor in a small circle as her mother followed her with her eyes.
“Listen Jill, Johnny’s drinking with all the gang members at the bar, and he’s gambling, it’s just a matter of time before he gets in trouble with them.” (Some of the gang members had motorcycles, others cars, it was somewhat an unofficial bunch of criminals, in that they were but twenty of them that hung out at a number of bars).
23 Shan’t be a Minute
Tasma found herself walking upstairs to her room, it was quieter in the kitchen, and figured, she had heard enough, a voice said, “Where are you going?” it was Jill, polite but to the point.
“Shan’t be a moment,” was her answer. She wanted to tuck away her diary-novel, she had written some exposing things in it. And so she tucked away, under her pillow, as if it was safe, and her place was off limits to others, which in presumption it seemed to be. For the most part, she did not want to leave it laying about for someone to pick up accidentally.
Life had seemed uncomplicated she thought, and now with Jill’s mother it seemed somewhat speculative, if not downright disjointed. It had now crossed her mind Tommy would find out the secret, the secret being Johnny’s behavior and her being pregnant, or so she said she was, and ‘I know about it,’ she felt as if she was a betrayer, be it to Jill or Tommy, or even Johnny. Down the stairway, into the living room she went. She looked outside through the bay-window and there was Mrs. Alice Whitehead getting into the car, she looked at Tasma, Tasma waved at her, she was a nice old lady, and it always seemed to her she had concern on her face for her.
As she turned around looking towards the kitchen she noticed Mrs. Belmont sorting out bills: ‘I suppose she’s done talking to Jill now,’ was her thinking.
“I talked to your mother a few days ago Tasma, she’s doing well and I told her likewise, you were doing well.” Tasma simply made a polite gesture, no verbal adjectives.
“I want to do something today, a surprise, come with me,” asked Tasma, for some odd reason something had popped into her head.
“What, may I ask, is on that devious mind of yours?” laughed Jill.
—Tasma and Jill were gone for several hours, and arrived back home at about 6:00 PM. Johnny and Tommy were sitting in the living room watching TV. As they both walked into the house, both the boys were somewhat taken back a bit at Tasma’s appearance—if not down right, star-struck. Her long reddish hair was cut to where it reached only the nape of her neck. And she was wearing more makeup than she had before, the result: she looked a little fresher and less school-girlish, than before. Thought Tommy, ‘…before she seemed more delicate and fragile..,’ as he glanced at the poise she displayed as she smiled and stood in the middle of the room awaiting the verdict of the two young throbbing hearts, the heart breakers themselves. Johnny noticed her slender bones, and her nicely shaped neck was more defined (front and back). Tommy for some reason noticed her neatly-set breasts, small as they were—just above her small waist they were a hand full no more. Yet her slyness somewhat removed, still left her with a harmless effect. Her nervousness was repressed for the most part.
Along with all that, with all the money she had saved up, she also purchased some bath salts, talcum powder and a small mirror, which she duplicated for Jill as a gift for allowing her to stay. She had spent her $100-dollars she had saved.
For some odd reason, Tasma had glanced back into the kitchen, expecting to see Mrs. Belmont, but of course was not surprised when she was not there, she usually would go to the bar around this time, either she had missed her, or she was in her room preparing to go. The boys looked at one another in jest, and laughed.
Said Johnny with his normal side joking way, “So now you’ve grown up, welcome to the real world kid, looks like you’re willing to join us.”
Tasma knew Johnny’s ways and knew that was better left alone.
“It makes you feel good,” commented Jill; meaning spending money on oneself for preservation purposes, or simply for a change in one’s life. But there was concern in Jill’s unseen eyes, in her cerebellum. She was no psychologist, like Skinner or Pavlov with his salivating dogs (who worked on association), but the boys were kind of salivating, restlessly slobbering might be a better way of putting it, if not downright uneasy, with this new Tasma look.
Everyone had gone to bed now, it was Jill’s turn to sit downstairs in the sofa-chair for once, wondering, thinking, not sure of her next move. ‘I just don’t get it,’ she asked herself, ‘why am I so attracted to Johnny, and going with Tommy? Tasma wouldn’t have the answer even if I asked her, nor mom, facts are facts, feelings are feelings, I don’t sense they are neither right or wrong, they just are. Johnny makes love as if he was a mad man and seems almost barbaric, and I think of him when I make love to Tommy—it’s just unthinkable. I wonder how Tommy’s new book will turn out. Can you love two people at once, at one time? A good question; I think I do, or maybe it is lust, how do I know, I’m just…(pause) will be nineteen in a month. Mom said: love is a choice. I say love is a feeling. I wonder what Tasma would say. I know Tommy feels love through his penis, like Johnny, all men do, kind of, sort of—most of the time; but Tommy is more willing to be dedicated, I think. I have learned men are attracted by looking, but I like touch.’
On her way to her bedroom, she stopped at Tasma’s room, knocked lightly, “Can I come in just for a moment?” she asked.
“Why sure you can,” answered Tasma with a thoughtful voice.
“I had a great day with you today, and thanks again for the things you bought me (this was a good lead-in she thought to bait her for a question to be soon asked), but I have a question, somehow I think you’re going to oversimplify the answer but I’ll ask it anyhow. How do you know if you’re in love with a person?”
Surprisingly, Tasma answered Jill with foreknowledge, “You mean you are having a hard time trying to figure who you want, Tommy or Johnny?”
(A tight look went over Jill’s face.) “Yes, yes, that is where I’m coming from; I didn’t know it was so obvious.”
“It’s becoming obvious Jill, it was the first day Johnny came through the door, and it has progressively taken a greater shape to it. But in regards to your answer, I’ve never been in love so I might be the wrong person to ask, but I do know this, as simple as it may be: if I wanted to go out with Johnny, I couldn’t be in love with Tommy—that much. I mean, I’d think whoever you were in love with—you’d not want to go out with anyone else; you’d kind of want to stop shopping around for another person, or so I believe. If I was to get married, I’d not want to go out with anyone else: and if I did, I’d know that I was not ready for marriage, to him or anyone, if that makes any sense.”
But to Jill it made all the sense in the world. She was sleeping with Tommy at night, and wanted to be with Johnny.
“What do you think I should do?” asked Jill.
“I think you already know; I don’t think I need to say anymore. My heart is with you, no matter what the outcome is.” Then Tasma hugged her tightly.
24 Reset
As the next two weeks passed a kind of silence took over the house, people talked less to one another, I suppose you could say, Jill was the life of the house, and now she was deep in thought. Everyone tried to keep busy and pretend things were normal, but they of course knew they were not. The Belmont’s kept their normal schedule, and the pretense lingered.
Tasma had finished up with Tommy’s book on San Francisco, and had explained to him how she liked the ending of ‘Bustling,’ by his fake name Colleen Grant; she commented to Tommy: “The younger woman fell in love with the older man, but she had psychological issues, and she was too fragile for him to care for her emotional illness, and he was too sick biologically for her to care for him. It was a sad ending I thought, but had they married: love would not have been enough, as they wished, they’d both had ruined the life of the other. Yet they remained friends as they parted, matter of fact they remained friends until he died at the age of eighty-years old, and her, at eighty-two.” She then read a poem she was working on for him: “I haven’t put it in my book or diary yet, but here it is I’ll read it to you from the paper (Tommy sat inquisitively on the edge of her bed):
The Maiden from Seattle
When she walked into the light The door to life, grew black as
Night, And her earth began to swell
(This youthful beauty of Seattle);
At first glance— Fell this youth from high Aching to touch the morning sky.
Who dare take this maiden’s hand? To help her though this silent land! Ah! From hair, to heart, to breast:
Like faded flowers in the ground Fleshless alms, could not be found, And so she remains—bound!
Said Tommy in surprise, “I like it, I think a little or maybe a lot of you is in the poem; I think you’re going to be a Mrs. Plath, or Dickinson some day.”
—The following day Tommy had come into Tasma’s room unexpectantly, “Are you still writing your story?” he asked.
She looked at Tommy, “Just some poems, and dairy notes, really haven’t gotten into the plot or theme of anything in particular yet; not sure how to get it going.”
“Let me see, maybe I can help you” he said. Yet Tasma was still bewildered of his rudeness to just kind of enter at will; she liked him and didn’t want to scare him away, on the other hand, she was not going to join any love-circle.
She leaped quickly to her pillow, then it dawned on her, she had much information in it about Johnny, Jill, Tommy and, none other but the: The Lady in Black, as she referred to her in the diary. But had she not jumped, she thought afterwards, had she not jumped she’d had not given away her hiding place, although it was no vault for sure—I mean, a mouse could have found it had it looked for it.
“I, I have too many personal things in it, private things, I’d rather you not see,” said Tasma as she currently held the book in the middle of her chest; as she got off the bed with her one knee, fully turning about now, she tripped on her shoe and the book fell, Tommy quickly grabbed it and opened it. Tasma saw him reading it, and needed to do something quick, she grabbed it out of his hands and jumped on the bed, her dress flying above her waist showing her underwear and all.
Somehow Tommy found the child in him, and jumped on her bed trying to grab the diary from her as they rolled around in the bed; now Tommy hovering over her, his legs between hers.
“What are you two up to?” questioned a voice in the background, it was Jill: she had heard the ruckus.
“My fault, I was trying to get her diary from her, I started to read something quite interesting,” he looked at Jill halfheartedly. Had he gone back any farther, thought Tasma: The Lady in Black was there.
Jill looked at Tasma in an indefatigably way, “I see I wasn’t invited to the party—”and slipped off to her bedroom where she just looked out the window aimlessly. In a way it didn’t bother her about what she’d seen, but on the other hand, she was jealous. When Tommy left the bedroom to join Jill he didn’t know whose child it was; he had only read up to ‘I overheard her say to her mother she was pregnant today by….” He could not ask Tasma to betray Jill, it would be too much to ask, if anything, Jill might be betraying him, it was indicative of her.
—In the following days, Tasma noticed Tommy and Jill fought quite a lot; and Tommy was not a person to be irritated easily, it must be that she was leading Tommy to believe it could be his child, Tasma thought. Then one evening she noticed Tommy sleeping on the coach, and Johnny still remaining in his bedroom.
During this interval, Johnny entertained himself in his bedroom, hoping Tommy and Jill would sort things out—thus he remained in kind of a queue, waiting for Jill’s signal to return, somehow he had come to that conclusion she would. He found himself pacing the floor at night, saying, ‘I wish, whatsitsname, would…’ and never ended the sentence.
—I must make this awkward at this point, his mind broke off the subject of Jill and Tommy after the first week, his insides became external. He looked at himself, pretending he was not feeling this serge; he had not guessed at this until it engulfed him, there was stern on his face—and, toil in his hand. A cold shower might work he thought, but it was too far away. He felt he was on a fast run; he hardened his body like a weightlifter, a boxer ready to take a punch.
This lasted two weeks, finally an agreement came about, Jill would sleep with Johnny, and Tommy would sleep in Johnny’s room, and in due time Tommy would have to leave, approximately in a few months, considering once she started to show it would only provoke issues within the household, or so she felt. The real problem was that Johnny did not have the heart to tell Jill he liked the way things were, and he really liked Lorie to a higher degree. He wanted his sex, but could find it elsewhere if need be, now he’d have to resort to living in her bedroom, and his alone time would be altered. In addition, Lorie was somewhat out of the picture for he had not seen her in weeks as he waited for this all to settle, but he’d see her again is what he was planning. Again, everything seemed in the air now. But to resist the plan would be too premature at the moment he deliberated out.
In spite of the tension, things appeared to move about on a regular base for a few more weeks. However, Johnny was starting to hang out with the gang more often now, with their motorcycles, and customized old cars. He was doing a lot more drinking and gambling with the gang members. They had even stopped on a few occasions at Jill’s house looking for Johnny, taking pains to find him, going out of their way it would seem. It came to her attention; Johnny owed them money, how much it wasn’t said (but it was close to $6,000-dollars). They’d not go to his work; it was one thing the groups forbid: that being, to endanger a man’s livelihood was not being a man at all. They could do almost anything else, even kill you, but not jeopardize your job: that was considered a low blow.
Out of nervousness, Tasma started to keep her distance from the group at the bar, if she could, she would have vanished into thin air.
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A Radical Prostatectomy is a major operation which entails the removal of the prostate gland, a section of urethra which runs through the prostate, the seminal vesicles, and tying-off the vas deferens, along, generally with a margin of other tissue surrounding the gland. The bladder has to be 'purse-stringed' back down in order to reattach the urethra, and an 'anastomosis' is created at that point. The surgery generally destroys one of the sphincter muscles which control urinary retention, and incontinence is a common side effect, along with the impotence created by the removal of the erectile nerves, and possible injury to any remaining nerves, as well as penile arteries and other musculature. It takes a fairly long recovery period before any normalcies return.
Because the prostate is what produces the semen, losing ejaculatory capabilities is a given for this surgery, and possibly the TransUrethral Resection of the Prostate (TURP), or TransUrethral Needle Ablation of the Prostate (TUNA) procedures as well. Those are done by going in throught the end of the penis, and are far less impacting, and much more minor procedures than the radical operation.
The general understanding is that the term "radical" is employed when cancer is present. In rare cases, open prostatectomy is conducted for BPH, the benign enlargement of the prostate that interferes with urnination. It is my understanding that open proastatectomy for BPH is only done when the prostate has grown to an abnormally large size and TURP would be dangerous.
