Hey Levenson – is there really such a thing as “male menopause?” – Jared, Steinbach, Manitoba
“Male menopause?” You mean, like, a permanent cessation of testicular function, accompanied by a drastic reduction in reproductive hormones and associated low sex drive? I've never heard of any scientific basis for this. And if there is, then I've never heard of any better news in my life!
You got the numbers on this!? What can I do to speed it along? Cigarettes? Chemotherapy? Exposure to Mindy Kaling? I've spent years trying to give my penis an early retirement, and this is just the kind of golden parachute the conniving piece-of-shit deserves.
Bring on “The Change!” How bad could it be? Hot flashes? Night sweats? This is all stuff that's been experienced by any man who's gone for the second half of the hoagie. And then – KA-POW! A spiritual awakening, straight outta Tolstoy! Oh, I hope it's real! One day I'll wake up schvitzing with my dick inverted – not really that out-of-character, if you knew me in the '90s – and finally find myself free of the greatest anxiety of my “adult” life: Sex!
Get it outta here! Bang the gong, motherfucker! Sex sucks!
And I think about it constantly!
But apathy, boredom, disinterest? Maybe even, like, a numbness or some kind of cold sensation down there? Now we're talking, my friend! Broken cock? I toast to thee! Bring on the divine purpose! I'll sell all my earthly possessions! (See ya, leather jacket! Won't be needing you!) I'll climb a mountain in a potato sack and find something (anything!) meaningful to experience with absolute conviction and integrity!
I.E., no ulterior blowjob motivation.
This would be a first for me! Look, Jared: As it stands right now, I'm halfway to self-immolating over a blonde I saw at Office Depot!
Happened three hours ago! In my head, I'm doin' it to her like a Faces song, but in my hand I'm holding a pack of Page Savers! I'm checking out her ass in the security mirror, pretending to fiddle with the hi-liters... I'm an aisle away, ducking down and popping up like a groundhog, my head straining over the binders to see what she's shopping for... I'm working up, like, a forensic profile on this chick. (Mechanical pencils – an architect?
I'm out of body looking at myself, like, are you kidding me? What's your plan, here? Go home and fix your fuckin' loose leaf.
Everything is a schlep, everywhere is an obstacle, do you understand? I can't relax. I appreciate nothing. You can't take me anywhere. I got this libido I'm dragging around – and the thing doesn't know how to behave.
Look: I obviously don't have any idea what menopause feels like – and yes, maybe it's bad. Maybe it's real bad. Maybe your bones get so brittle you can barely climb the stairs, maybe you never sleep a full night through for the rest of your life, maybe you wind up so fatigued and depressed you can barely get out of bed. And if that's what it's all about, then I'm pretty sure this shit hit me at 26.
Is it possible? Is it real? I doubt it, man. For us, it's far more likely that the body will atrophy like Lou Gehrig's, but the mind will wind up somewhere closer to Ron Jeremy.
Good luck getting trapped in that thing.