I have been watching these commercials lately about the little blue pill. You know the one. It has senior women running for their very lives at The Villages in Florida, that swinging senior singles community that has the highest level of sexually transmitted diseases in the nation.
A new era has unfolded as old men, once stripped of their virility, pop a little blue pill and for the next four hours, become the cock of the walk, literally. Hundreds, nay, thousands of horny, sex crazed old men living out the movie Cocoon like it was a documentary.
I’m not really sure when sex became so important that we all decided that modern medicine had to make everyone’s flag fly at full mast for four hours. There’s something to be said for cuddling and intimacy. O.K., so I’m making that up. I am not done sowing my oats. I’m just not so sure that taking a pill every day just to feel attractive or virile really works for me.
Perhaps I am still haunted by my past. At the behest of one former ex, I actually took one of these pills for a test drive. I admit that I was very concerned about the side effects, which included blindness. My mother used to warn me about that when I was young, but I don’t think it had to do with a blue pill or a girlfriend.
Still, I can be a real pleaser at times, so I gave in. I took the pill. Later that night, I awoke with a huge headache. A side effect, I thought. O.K., I can live with it. I opened my eyes and reached for the aspirin bottle on the bedstand. It was then that I noticed a second side effect. I had gone blind! Oh, my god! For a little toss in the sack, I had traded in my eyesight.
I looked around the room. I couldn’t see anything. It was then that I began to rightfully panic. I then moved into a full freakout mode. The insignificant other, startled by my cries of fear and terror, awoke and turned on the light.
I felt like a complete idiot. I hadn’t gone blind. She just kept the room exceedingly dark, to the point where you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. I guess I had never noticed that before.
In the interest of full disclosure, I did try another pill several years earlier when I was in Floriduh. My future-ex guilted me into taking it to increase my ability to please her and let me tell you, it did get a rise out of me, but not in a good way.
The drug was called Inagya, I think. Her family gets it from Belize by the case. I had never heard of it before, but being the please I am, I thought I would give it a shot.
I took the pill. Hmm, it didn’t seem to work. The flag was still at half mast. Maybe there’s a delayed response, I thought.
As I waited for the magic to happen my future-ex asked me if I would take the garbage out. I usually ignored such requests. But this time, I did it without a peep. I packed all the garbage in the house out to the street.
“Wow!” I thought. What the hell happened?
It was then that I realized the Inagya wasn’t for the mainmast. It was designed to make her seem more agreeable. Instead of hearing the usual incessant bitching and whining, I heard what I can only describe as an angel singing soothing suggestions that I gladly complied to without another thought.
Gadzooks! I had been doped. And duped.
By now, the pill had taken its full effect and the Wicked Witch started looking a bit more like a storybook princess. Not quite a Jasmine, but a Fiona at twilight. That’s pretty powerful stuff, I thought, unable to do anything about this trance I was in.
Eventually, the Inagya wore off. It turned out it was only good for about four hours and every time the effects wore off, I would go through withdrawals that became more and more horrific. I would end up with horrible hallucinations where I thought I was living in a manufactured home on a horse pasture and every once in a while, this Hispanic man would wander through the yard, whacking down bushes with his ever-present machete. Worse, they were all Republicans and under the influence of this powerful drug, I was beginning to believe what they said on FOX News.
Scary stuff. It was then that I decided I would only pretend to take the Inagya.
She wised up to this ploy, for I returned unexpectedly to my euphoric state the next day. Her voice was had become music to my ears rather than the usual fingernails on a chalkboard.
Dammit. She had drugged me somehow. It must have been in that glass of Florida orange juice she brought to me in bed this morning. I had been roofied without knowing it.
The rest of that day is something of a blur still. I do vaguely remember doing the dishes, then cleaning the bathroom, shampooing the carpet, repainting the house, detailing her car and cleaning out the garage, all without a singular remark or protest.
Man, she must have emptied that bottle of Inagya on me in a final attempt to bring me back in line.
Thankfully, she had indeed emptied the bottle. Several days later, everything was back as it should have been. She was back to being a bitchy wife and I was back to being a husband in hell. Yes, we were typical Americans once again.
She pleaded with me to renew my prescription, but alas, it all fell on deaf ears.
As the drug left my system I came to realize that this was hardly a way for any man to live, having to be drugged every four hours so he could tolerate being with his significant other. My days of Inagya were a thing of the past.
Eventually, I moved on to greener pastures, one that didn’t have a resident nag.
Perhaps that’s why I’m so wary of taking pills these days. You never know what the side effects are. One moment you’re all happy and the next moment you wake up doing a Helen Keller. I am just thankful that I could see the light… once someone turned it on.
In the Emerald City, enjoying being in a Katatonic state, in more ways than one,