Rearing to Ride

I’m back in the fish bowl suffering after a late night at Jade lounge with the girls celebrating my early triumph on internet dating. It might be a bit premature, but it feels good being wanted, even though my eyes are burning, my head feels as though it will explode and my mouth tastes like an ashtray. I have to stop smoking when I drink. It is so disgusting, but bloody fantastic after the second glass of wine. Petri couldn’t stop going on and on about AI so we dared her to get an appointment at the clinic. 

As usual, not a decent guy in sight in the bar, unless there was a woman attached to his left calf. They say there is 1 man to every 7 woman in Cape Town. Not sure who ‘they’ are or if this is an urban legend, but it certainly feels true. C, whose favourite pastime is to debunk this kind of thing, said that according to the last available census, the actual figures in the Western Cape are 107 adult females to every 100 guys. The originator of this particular contribution to the collective ignorance can at least be credited with the fact that there was a 7 somewhere in his source material – just not the 7 we are all quoting. 

But it really feels like there are no places left for single freaks over thirty.  Abraham Maslow, the great humanist Psychologist, said that, “when all you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail.” I might be clouding my perspective because I’m single or it may be a sociological fact that damn fine alpha males in peak career phase are in Jo’burg or London because Cape Town is only attractive to ambitious males if you are gay or want to stand on Camps Bay beach in your Speedo and get a free blow dry, which, come to think of it, amounts to the same thing. 

C says we are fishing in the wrong ponds. I told C to dispense with hackneyed metaphors and give us clubs, street addresses, numbers and flirting tips. I also told him to show me a pond where I don’t bring up the bar’s average age and I’m there. C paused ominously and said he would get back to me. I told him the WWII veterans’ pub doesn’t count.

Shit I’m feeling tired. Maybe if I angled myself correctly under my desk passersby might not notice me taking a little nap.

The phone has just rung and woken me up. I hit my head crawling out. It’s June. She seems very excited and asked when I could drop off her R5. She said my blood test results have come back and I officially have no testosterone. Not a low reading, just none. I am her first patient with this condition, hence her excitement, and she is hoping I will agree to be her test bunny. 

She wants me to consider having a testosterone injection. Testosterone is your vavavoom / get up and go hormone, which could explain why I have been so tired. Testosterone is also linked to chest hair, penises, gonads, bass vocalists, wars, arm wrestling, beards, abnormal clitoral growth, Caster Semenya’s problems and a whole host of male-related anatomical and personality traits. No doubt June knows what she is doing but I better check with her that the shot is just enough to get my groove back but not enough to have me bench pressing with the Stormers down at the Sports Science Institute or telling the bouncer at Jade bar that I’m going to “Fuck him up,” if he doesn’t get out of my way.

If I agree to do it after establishing the downside risks, June is going to design a questionnaire, for before and after the injection. This will allow her to objectively assess the impact of the hormone treatment.  I’ve got nothing to lose except a bunch of kilograms during the physically rigorous task of being ravaged up against a wall by a visiting Matador when my levels of hormones and horniness become unmanageable.

This is amazing! I can blame being single on my zero testosterone level.  This will hopefully restore it to a normal level and, more importantly, have a similar effect on my social life.

My in box flashes. Work is looking up too. I have just been offered a job ‘fixing’ a documentary for a British company. The focus is on crime in South Africa and Cape Town in particular. I will have to do all the research, find the candidates to be interviewed and generally ensure the shoot goes smoothly. It could be quite risky, safety wise, and I’m not sure if I should do it, but shit I need the money. I haven’t had a regular income since my first film was released and I’ve been living off the spare money on my bond. When Ciggy found this out she nearly turned grey and her voluptuous boobs nearly dropped half an inch.