IMAGINED IT AS A SWEET, TRANSPORTING OSMOSIS, A VITALIZING GEL THAT WOULDSEEP THROUGH MY SKIN AND INTO MY AND INTO MY BLOODSTREAM, AWAKENING THAT OLD BLACK MAGIC I NO LONGER KNEW VERY WELL BUT MISSED SO MUCH. A HORMONAL POTION TO MAKE EVERYTHING THE WAY IT USED TO BE--THE SPELLS OF ROMANTIC EUPHORIA, THE ZORBAESQUE DANCES ON THE BEACH AT SUNSET, A STUNNING ANKLE AT A PARTY ELICITING SHEER DESIRE, THE RETURN LOOK SUGGESTING MAYBE, HER SOFT WORDS TURNING FROM CURIOSITY TO INVITATION.
BUT OF COURSE NOTHING LIKE THAT HAPPENED UNTIL AFTERWARD.
Beforehand, I had been taking regular inventory, as most of us do, but adding plenty of denial, as I suspect most of us also do. What had I lost as I grew older? Among other things, running speed, endurance, strength, reflexes, muscle mass, and a little hair. Actually, I didn't lose that much hair, but its color, body, sheen, and curl withered. Most poignant of all, I lost the satisfaction brought about by a nicely functioning libido. I accepted these losses as natural and irreversible, going with the flow, looking square in the eye of nothing but spiritual and platonic relationships. Then Jerry, my sister's husband, blasted me out of my ignorance and inertia with all the exuberance of a moose in heat.
"The testosterone patch, I'm wearing one! You won't believe what it does." His voice on the phone sounded firm and huskier than usual. After years of lackluster sexual performance, he almost bellowed, he'd finally turned into a reliable, often sexually rambunctious animal. He emphasized the word, throwing in a few deep grunts for effect. His second wife, my sister--15 years his junior; he was my age, 60--didn't complain much about his renewed prowess, he boasted, although it exhausted her, made her late for work.
"Get it," he demanded. It was a direct order, not a suggestion, unusual coming from my typically retiring brother-in-law.
When I joked with my girlfriend Laura about Jerry's renaissance, she raised an eyebrow, reminding me, I suppose, that I was no Valentino, not lately anyway.
"He says he feels like he's 25 again," I marveled.
"Twenty-five?" she rolled her eyes. "I don't know if I can handle that, but I wouldn't mind if you felt 50 again."
Me either, but I didn't say anything, even though I was already planning to see a doctor as soon as possible--and secretly aiming for 25. If Jerry could wear the patch and reap the benefits of testosterone replacement, why couldn't I? Of course, I cleverly decided not to share this competitive impulse with my doctor, lest he conclude that enough free-ranging testosterone still sparked around my circuits to preclude any battery boost.
"I'd like to go on the patch," I told him on the phone, "if that's all right with you."
"Good," he replied. "It'll ease the withdrawal process."
Withdrawal? "Not the nicotine patch, doctor. The testosterone one."
"Oh. In that case, you need to come see me," he said.
BEFORE THE ADVENT OF THE PATCH, testosterone was delivered in other ways: as pills, lozenges, topical creams, and intramuscular (IM) and even penile injections. Except for the most fastidious, people tend to be a little lax in taking pills on schedule, and in the case of testosterone this carelessness leads to a jumpy and inconstant supply. Besides being painful, injections pose the same problem. IM injections are typically given at three-week intervals, meaning you start with a bang and end with a limper. Penile injections are self-administered, but since they provide little more than a half hour's effect, they don't enhance the spontaneity of sex very much. So patch technology is revolutionary, because it provides a constant, correct dosage and is easy to slap on.
A few days later, I had a physical and left some blood for testing. The next week, I arrived at the doctor's an hour early for the results. By then I'd boned up on the rudiments of testosterone, realizing for the first time that a shower of it in the womb had engineered me into a male. Then, during adolescence, the hormone helped bring about my wide shoulders, rampaging acne, exciting (and victorious) fistfights, success as a high school quarterback, unbelievable erections, and the virtually nonstop sexual pursuits that caused my grades to plummet through distraction.
But as the decades passed so, evidently, did my body's ability to produce enough testosterone. Some drying up happens to most men over time. We get a little flabbier, lose muscle mass, grow more irritable, and less lustful. Our bones weaken and our zest drops. One researcher in human sexuality, Theresa Crenshaw, M.D., equates this slump with female menopause, dubbing the male version "viropause." Happily, she claims the emotional and sexual side effects of both pauses can be avoided or reduced by a judicious mix of hormonal supplements.
My blood tests revealed a few unpleasantries, including a slightly elevated cholesterol level. But the good news was that my total testosterone level was low enough to justify some replacement, particularly as my libido was on permanent vacation.
The end result? I was cleared for a test-drive.
DAY ONE
"WANT THIS IN A BAG?" THE PHARMACIST ASKED IN A DISCREET VOICE.
A box of 60 Androderm testosterone patches make for a hefty package, all right, but I didn't feel the slightest need to disguise the purchase, carrying it instead in such a way that anyone could see what I was toting home. I caught one amused glance from a middle-aged woman, but that was it.
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
