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Middle Age
- University of Pittsburgh Press
- Chapter
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65 Middle Age After an hour on the phone with creditors, your testosterone feels like watered-down lemonade. You couldn’t impregnate an awkward pause. Remember the old days, when your wife was belly swollen, and you strutted Brooklyn streets with an internal boner twanging against your spleen, imagined being a crop duster filled with semen and pollinating all the women passing in springtime dungarees. Now you clean greasy spots of masculinity off the tiles, and mop on your knees like Cinderella, with saggy boobs and a T-shirt that says used to be one of the fellas. Now the bathroom feels just way too biological. Even in your man cave, you’re civilized: to-do lists spray-painted on the ceiling. A latex doll wobbles towards you, holding a strap-on and a palm full of Rogaine. ...