Posting for Saturday, March 5, 2011
If you’re one of the guys like me who go faithfully to the gym three or four times a week, I’m sure you’ve shared my frustration when you’ve busted your bump to raise your weight threshold and then watch some built-like-a-brick shithouse guy who you know is juicing (i.e., taking steroids in heavy duty, illegal doses) and probably has a set a balls the size of peanuts, sit down on the same machine, lower the weight to half what you just pressed, do twenty faggy reps and move on, muscles bulging like some gay God.
(It’s even more irritating to know those Big Guys on SS disability because of Big A are getting their steroids and human growth hormone covered by Medicaid that your tax dollars and mine help fund, since they’re part of the guy’s “medication regimen.”)
Yea, I thought of taking steroids myself, which either one of the personal trainers at the gym or my body builder/financial planner could sell me, but I just couldn’t stomach sticking a needle in my butt everyday. So two Novembers ago, after years of skipping those ads in the weekly bar rags for rejuvenation centers (not legal in most places except for the Wild Wild East known as South Florida), I decided to give them a second look. It sounded like testosterone, Mr. T, was the fountain of youth that would max my results in the gym and give me the lean mean look I coveted, among other benefits. My financial guy confirmed that most guys’ T levels drop after 30, obviously a major problem in America, eclipsed only by the federal deficit; thus the need to find it elsewhere. So I figured it was time to trot my ass up to the northern fringes of Palm Beach County to see what all the voodoo was about.
Now I’m sure I wasn’t the first or five hundredth fag to visit the Life Enhancement Center and I know Josh, my “consultant,” a handsome, humpy, thirty something, breezy, fast talking surfer type who was a Center client himself, knew exactly why I wanted the stuff – to beef up. But that wasn’t a legitimate enough medical reason for the Center docs to write a script.
So, first came the survey for which Josh practically set up the answers. Not sleeping well? Yep. Lacking energy? Sure. Libido weak? You betcha. Next I paid three hundred bucks for blood work at a nearby lab which the Center either owned or got a kick-back from. It confirmed what I knew from the last physical with my gay M.D. in Lauderdale: I was as healthy as a horse (no cholesterol, sugar, blood pressure issues, negative for HIV, etc, etc.). But, surprise, surprise, my testosterone levels could be a lot better. Thank you, Gay God! I think.
The stuff was a topical that came in a pump dispenser like skin cream ($90 bought you a two month supply) and once a day, after you showered since it took 3 to 5 hours for the shit to enter your bloodstream, you were supposed to squirt a dose on the back of your forearm and rub your forearms together til it was gone. Again since Josh read my real agenda – wanting to look hot for whatever sexual animal I wanted to snare – he also got the Center doc to prescribe a kosher dose of Stanozolol, (a steroid, by God!) you took just before working out to give you more stamina and endurance and which the guys at the gym told me would give me that wet dream “cut” look. At five bucks a dose, it was the most expensive sugar cubes I’d ever suck on – but hey, what’s money? (As long as my Visa card doesn’t self-destruct.)
As I was ready to head back onto I-95, my wonder drugs tucked away in a paper bag like a McDonald’s Burger, Josh pronounced his final two caveats:
The stuff needs time to kick in, and I wouldn’t see any visible changes in my physique or demeanor for a good month; and because of the higher doses of Mr. T and especially Mr. S, I needed to take hefty daily handfuls of fish oil, calcium and zinc supplements along with a good multi-vitamin so my kidneys or liver didn’t turn to mush.
Tomorrow: More Man Make-Over, Mr. T Therapy and More: and “Vanilla, No Sprinkles, ” Final Chapter