My husband, Scott, was whispering on the phone in the living room. The fact that he was whispering was a concern. Whispering to his college buddy, Bob, was even more of a concern. I overheard the following:
"Is it really that big of a difference? How big does it get? How long? Are you serious? Where do you get them?"
When I walked into the room, the conversation ended abruptly. Usually, their discussions are filled with insults, innuendo and laughter. You know, all the typical male bonding stuff, but this was different.
A few days later, our doctor's office called to confirm an appointment for Scott.
"What appointment?" I asked. "I didn't make one for him."
"He made this one himself," said the receptionist. She must have him confused with another Scott because my Scott has always been doctor-phobic. I have to accompany him on every visit. When he sees a blood pressure cuff, he almost passes out.
When I told him about the appointment reminder, he said, "Oh good. I can go alone this time."
In 30 years, this has never happened. I began to worry he had a fatal disease and was keeping me in the dark about it. He was gone for about an hour and, when he got home, seemed kind of sullen, moping around the house like a cranky kid who didn't get his way. He finally fessed up.
"Bob has blood pressure problems and his doc gave him Viagra," he admitted. "He says it's great. He says he can do it for hours."
My immediate reaction was, Ouch, hours? "But why did you go? Your blood pressure is fine."
"I wanted to increase my sexual prowess," he said. He must have read that somewhere because that isn't my husband's language.
"You wanted to do what?" I asked, completely dumbfounded. Seriously, is everything in a man's life related to the size of his penis?
"She yelled at me when I told her why I wanted it," he continued. "I tried to tell her that Bob loves it and she just cut me off, saying I could go blind. She was so mean. I'm never going back to her. I'm calling Bob's doctor."
Poor, poor Scott! No blue pills for him! When I thought about the whole thing, I started to laugh until I was snorting. A week later, Bob called. He was in the ER. It seems he had a reaction to the Viagra—the much-ridiculed "erection that lasts for more than four hours."
"Oh my God! You're in the emergency room?" my husband asked. "At least the nurses think you have a big one. Were they impressed?"
"Not really. They read my chart," said Bob. "They said it was stupid to take two pills. Everyone's a critic here."
I immediately called Bob's wife, Chris, who was in the waiting room.
"The man is an idiot," she said. "He doubled his dose and jumped out of bed afterward, posing like King Kong. When he realized his Kong was still king after an hour, he had a panic attack. After two hours, I drove him and Kong to the ER."
Scott was still on the phone with Bob when I hung up. He was pale and wiping his brow. "It's 12 inches," he said. "Oh my God!"
"Chris said it's even larger," I corrected him. I thought he meant Kong. He waved me off.
"No! No! The needle the doctor's going to use to try to reduce the swelling."
I realized at that moment that size really does matter to men. It's their childish barometer for manhood and apparently, they never grow up. I said a prayer for Bob and his wife. After all, she has to live with him. Then I thanked God for not making me a man.