by Greg Gerke
(04/18/07)
When Barry Wendell discovers the problem, what it truly is, he has a good laugh, a mighty good one. After a Betty, a May, a Maria, a Stephanie and a Wendy it becomes all clear. He can only get an erection with women whose first names begin with M.
Barry wants to call someone and let them know -- maybe even the government -- he could be sent on a secret mission with his special power, but then again it is not something to brag about -- it is wildly inhuman, something more attuned to a super computer with a demeaning glitch. Convulsions start. To calm himself he spins Mozart's Jupiter Symphony. The music does nothing. He has been without an M in his life for a few months and he is going through withdrawal. Of course it is easiest to look on the computer -- there he can lay eyes on all the M's his prick desires, complete with head shots for simple acceptance or dismissal -- women like Melinda, Maribeth, Monica, and Melanie. For a few moments he is saved, but when few if any return his inquires he turns to singles events -- those requiring name tags. He lurches and snakes his head to catch glimpses of the placards pinned atop their breasts and then sets to speaking if those M's are attractive enough and regrettably now, after a drought of months and such a limited selection, the bar is set very low.
Why M of all letters? They could have made Barry suffer eternally by choosing Q, X, or Z (and possibly he might just as well have become a priest because there would've been hardly any erections, though priest has become more than a little soiled and sticky as of late, let's say Pope) or S or A for all the choices, but M does have a large contingent of names in the world so he should be happy. He isn't.
One night he puts his fusty penis on the planchette of an Ouija board and it instantaneously shoots to M, never to choose another letter. For magazines he must use Mademoiselle and hope to find an M in its sweetly scented pages. In bed one evening, suffering from insomnia, he reasons that he could conceivably include all those single mothers who go by "Mom," "Ma," "Mommy," or "Mummy." This is just to see if the penis could be fooled, if it is as daft as Catholics who take the Resurrection literally. But again, there is only a slim pool of candidates; the penis almost smirks and even shrinks with regret that "Mother" or any derivative will just not do, and poor Barry sinks lower.
When in desperation he blurts out the truth of the situation to a Margaret he has seen for a few weeks in the spring, and though a sufficient trust has developed, he is the object of bold laughter and derision. Margaret lies back on the sofa and calls him one of the funniest guys she's ever known, "Where do you come up with this stuff? It's great. You write science fiction, huh?" Barry doesn't have the heart to try and convince her otherwise, and though the sex is outstanding, he decides he must be with someone who accepts and even cherishes his anomaly.
Barry is at work one day fixing a bank's Web site when the
idea comes to him: Men. Of course. Why didn't he think of this before?
He'll date men.
Mark Van Hest, a droll, lisping man associated with the art world is his first attempt. A certain sloppiness pervades their courtship. Most of the time Barry is clueless about what another man wants in terms of intimacy, but his face is clean, his gait measured, and Mark Van Hest is a little in love with the idea of breaking in a lifetime heterosexual.
They attend a dinner for the popular German artist Gerhardt Blix at a lounge in Chelsea. Mark Van Hest insists Barry sit on his right side at the dinner table -- Barry doesn't know why and he doesn't ask. During the meal Mark takes a butter pat, squeezes it out of its foil into his palm and slips his curved hand into Barry's pants and with his index finger and thumb rubs Barry's penis. While performing the delicious motion (and he does keep the visible part of the naughty arm fairly stable) he insists on taking a position on the argument at the end of the table about the state of present day painting. "The thing is, gents...it's that one must overcome, overcompensate, and overcome and paint with their belly. The belly is the portal to modern consciousness. And we all want to see what is going on...in there. Or down there should I say. We all want to see great painting flooding, oozing from the unconscious. I know I do. The Jackson Pollack of today. Where is he or she? And hopefully we won't ever have to refer to him or her as the Jackson Pollack of today; but just their name in print, for that will be enough," he says, all the while keeping Barry in a highly alert state. Soon he turns to his companion, "What do you think of all this talk, dumpling?"
At this point Barry is on the verge. He makes a choking sound, then adds, "Mum's the word."
The party is mystified. Mark turns to those confused and makes a flourish with his free hand, "Barry...what exactly are you trying to say?"
"Ma-ma-ma."
"Barry dear, is this code for something?" he says, speeding up below.
"Mmm, mmm."
"Barry?" Mark Van Hest feels Barry's little man going a tad limp. He doesn't understand and again publicly questions him. "Barry, my God, what is it dear?" Finally he stops, as the penis has shrunk away from his touch.
At this moment, Noah, a man with a full white beard and deep blue eyes
Barry met earlier, returns from the restroom and sits down.
Below, little Barry instantly rises. Barry's face brightens; he drinks some water and belatedly answers Mark Van Hest and prospective partners everywhere, "I think I am on to N."
