This morning I awoke to find a common situation that is, at the same time, rare in the universe. This universe, anyway. Linda and Annie were sleeping peacefully next to me, and had me pressed against the wall. The window, now unencumbered by an air conditioner, was open wide and a cool September breeze blew across my naked body. Annie and Linda shifted slightly as I pushed away from the wall and pointed my toes at the ceiling. Sunlight poured in and found my toes, first.
My toes have seen a lot in 37 years. In my early teens, I had nine ingrown toenails. Five on my left, four on my right. Eventually, they killed the nerves so that it wouldn't happen again. It worked. The sole of my left foot has an odd scar, caused by muriatic acid and an early attempt at distraction through self-injury.
I've promised Linda that I wouldn't engage in that sort of thing anymore.
My legs reflected the sun like an alabaster statue, making them glow a bit. I feel a modicum of disgust at the loose skin of my thighs, having lost 240 over the last 8 years. My eye then travels to the long scar on my abdomen, which I'm emotionally indifferent towards. It's simply there because it has to be.
My penis is flaccid and lying on a bed of pubic hair, and my scrotum is tight between my legs. It's pleasant to feel the warm sun shining there, in a place that is supposed to be tucked into underwear and covered with clothes. Usually jeans, in my case.
Women have told me all my life that my deformity is of no aesthetic or sexually practical consequence. My penis works, compelled by a very healthy libido. While I understand that, and do not wish to have children, I still find myself in awe of sex for procreation. I'm rather fond of sex, anyway. In a moment of (hopefully mutual) rapture, a new life is created. Just amazing.
I'm very aware of my inability to pull off that magic trick.
Some mornings I live in my mind, where I think about every stupid comment, every mistake, every bad one night stand and every mean thing I've ever said. And every choice.
On this morning, nerve damage from my orchiectomy is radiating up my back. Before I take a sip of coffee, which I can smell brewing downstairs, there are pills to take. Two tramadol for the aforementioned pain, one lithium carbonate, and one levoxythyroxine for hypothyroidism.
The sun and the moon and the Earth all keep my in my place. In that place, I function as best as possible and can't help but be amused at people who talk about "controlling" destiny, or the power of positive thinking, or how organic vegetables will make my life better and longer. It seems absurd to me.