That night, alone in the bathroom, I carefully bathed and dried the two places I'd be applying the patches, treating the process as a sacred ritual. The outer envelopes ripped open easily, but getting the patches themselves open reminded me how far down life's road I'd already traveled when it came to vision and digital dexterity. Putting on my bifocals and fiddling as I might, I couldn't separate the plastic cover from the actual patches, each the size of a communion wafer. It was as frustrating as trying to open those plastic bags dispensed in supermarket produce sections. A pair of scissors finally did the trick, though they marred both the patch and the ritual. Still, I fell into bed confident that five milligrams of testosterone would seep through my skin over the next 24 hours and get the hell busy.
I awoke the next morning with the distinct impression I'd experienced a nocturnal erection, though I may have dreamed it. Something more odd, however, took place that afternoon. With scarcely any forethought, I found myself making long-avoided phone calls to male friends who'd fallen away through inattention, geography, or erosion of common interests. But why call now, with a reputedly aggression-enhancing substance now supplementing whatever piddling amounts of the hormone my own body was still producing?
I came up with a speculative answer thanks to a book on primate behavior, Demonic Males, by Harvard anthropologist Richard Wrangham, Ph.D. Put simply, life among most animals is fraught with the challenge of maintaining rank in the social hierarchy and attempting to move up in status. Male chimps are no exception. Sometimes just being the toughest chimp around earns you the top slot, the much-coveted role of alpha-male. But other times subordinate chimps engage in what might anthropomorphically be called power politics. That is, subordinates form strategic liaisons and depose numero uno by ganging up on him. Then each subordinate rises a notch and luxuriates in the promotion, at least until the next shake-up.
Perhaps I'm stretching it, but I believe I placed those calls to reestablish my male network--maybe form some strategic liaisons, get back into the swing of things. As many studies show, status and testosterone levels are not only correlative but reciprocal. Testosterone production plunges in soldiers when they are subjected to domination and humiliation during the first weeks of officer training school, Crenshaw notes in her book The Alchemy of Love and Lust. But upon graduating their hormone levels rise in concert with their new status as officers. The same pattern occurs when trainee parachutists achieve master jumping. And no doubt the same dynamic operates in corporate pecking orders. So if my phone calls were indeed an attempt to reestablish myself in my social hierarchy, they may well have been both a testosterone-driven and testosterone-enhancing activity.
DAY TWO
"I SEE YOU'RE USING THAT LARGE TOOL AGAIN." Halfway through saying it, Laura realized her double entendre. Well, it was a large tool, an industrial-size screwdriver that provides terrific torque and serves as a handy pry-bar as well. After several months of chronic disregard for our house, I found myself newly intent on repair and maintenance: fixing the broken banister, tightening a rickety chair, hanging a flowerpot holder.
"C'mon, Laura," I said. "It's only the second day! Give it a little more time." But even if my libido hadn't come galloping back yet, and my strategic liaisons were still at an early stage, I nevertheless felt a new sense of command.
DAY THREE
AS I PUTTERED, READ SOME MORE ABOUT TESTOSTERONE, AND WORK ON A NOVEL THAT WAS REACHING ITS CONCLUSION, I found small bubbles of endearment toward Laura rising in my system. Something was definitely stirring. I tried calling her office several times to convey these feelings, but she was caught up in some major-league business meeting. I let it be, not wishing to leave sweet nothings on her voice mail. Instead, I'd wait, whip up a romantic candlelight supper. Do it right.
Except that she didn't show, calling late and arriving home long after I'd gone to bed miffed, my bubbles not burst, but evaporated. Considering my testosterone level was rising, I'm surprised I didn't wait up and display my best aggressive, insulted roar. But all I could muster was miffed. Sound asleep, I didn't hear her come in.
DAY FOUR
I discovered two related facts. First, I read about a recent study in which UCLA's Christina Wang, M.D., looked at a group of men who for a variety of reasons--including such testosterone-draining conditions as arteriosclerosis and excessive smoking--showed low levels of the hormone. But these men, she found, resembled irritable lions rather than timid lambs. After testosterone replacement therapy, however, the men became much kinder and gentler. So testosterone's aggressive and antisocial rap may be a bum one after all.
Alas, it was a misconception Laura subscribed to, the morning's second fact. We sat at breakfast, each reluctant to bring up her late arrival the night before. "To tell you the truth," she said at last, "I stayed out late on purpose."
"But why?"
"I guess I'm afraid of the testosterone. Jerry was pretty graphic about all that wild-animal energy stuff. It scared me a little."
I sat there speechless, frozen in an irony: I was damned if I did, damned if I didn't.
Tags:
aging,
bloodstream,
body sheen,
euphoria,
going with the flow,
grunts,
inertia,
libido,
male,
muscle mass,
old black magic,
patch,
platonic relationships,
potion,
prowess,
reflexes,
second wife,
sheer desire,
speed endurance,
testosterone,
testosterone patch
