I stared at the computer screen in horror, my first swallow of coffee frozen midstream down my esophagus.
From somewhere deep inside my brain, a little voice rasped weakly, "Coffee. I need coffee."
Ignoring it, my heart pounding, I punched a key to see if the little message was still there.
Yep, and now it had company. Lots of company.
Guys worry about different things than women do. We worry about the stock market, the Colt's win-loss record, how many beers we can slug before our lips lose communication with our brains.
In other words, we worry about numbers.
And what better number to worry about other than, well, uh, you know ... how long our... um ...
C'mon, do I have to say it??!! Are you getting the point??!!
I never thought I had a problem. Sandy never complained, uh, back when we ... but no, that's a different story.
Then it happened. The email.
Not only that, but it was quickly followed by a dozen more!!
Does everybody know??!!
And they're sharing the information! Gathering the troops! What, are they in a chat room group or something?! All talking about me??!!
So now, having researched my problem and outing me in public, all these people are swooping down on me offering pumps, pills and patches to cure my problem. All these concerned people, acting in concert, reaching out to me with personal email, out of all of the millions of people out there.
Brings a tear to my eye.
But I still wonder, how'd they find out? Did they learn of me the same way Rogaine found me out? Heck, I'm still on Rogaine's Ten Most Wanted. Or is it more sinister? Orwell stuff? Shades of 1984?
Or maybe it was my doctor. My last physical was almost four years ago. Maybe doctors forecast shrinkage based on aging, and post the results on the internet for some kind of study or something. Or maybe he's still upset I don't come back to visit him anymore after he stuck a finger in my ... well, that's another story, too.
Nah, this is all wrong. I don’t have this problem.
I mean, sure, I always cover up in the locker room. Don’t want anyone getting jealous…ha, ha. I cover up with a washclo… no, a towe.., no, a beach towel. It takes a beach towel to cover everything.
Yeah, that’s it. I’m such a macho man-stud, ya’ know.
This is a mistake. I know it. They confused me with some other Norm Cowie. Yeah, there are plenty of Norm Cowie’s out there, right? I, myself, know at least five others. Yeah, that’s it.
Heh, heh. (whew)
Just a mistake.
Not my problem.
Now that that was settled, I got back to my email, and deleted the offers with relief.
And then I saw it.
Another email, telling me I need … (gasp)….Viagra!!!!
How’d they know????
The Adventures of Guy ... written by a guy (probably)
The Next Adventures of Guy ... more wackiness
The Heat of the Moment