[Ed Note: Yesterday we learned that Hope's partner pal, Randy, was taking testosterone pills to treat his "lactating man-boobs." Today we learn about the downside of hormonal supplements.]
“Testosterone pills? Like, how many do you have to take?”
“Well, right now three. One with every meal.”
I wanted to end this conversation and finish the bloody filing so I could go out and get wasted.
“Well, I hope it helps and you feel better soon!” I gathered my papers and stared at my laptop.
“Well, my chest isn’t hurting as much, but there’s this other problem.”
“Well…” Randy leaned forward and whispered, “I can’t stop thinking about sex. I’m like obsessed with it. I can’t do my work. It’s all I think about — I feel like I’ve turned into a teenage boy again.”
Okay, this is weird. Really weird. And, weird is what I sought to escape. I found myself longing for the hairy armpits, unbuckled trousers, and pool parties back at Pants Down.
“I mean… I can’t even go to lunch in public without staring at every girl that walks by.”
This proved to be true. I later witnessed this at a lunch with some summer associates. Each time a remotely attractive girl walked by, his neck moved more rapidly than the ducks I fed stale bread to at our lake house. Clearly he was hungry — and not shy.
“Well, I really think you need to talk to your doctor about this. Maybe they can lower the medication.”
“Well, he has lowered it. Still. All I think about its sex! Even my wife is sick of me — I want it like three times a day.” My mind flashed back to the photo of the blond trophy wife on his desk. Please. She probably doesn’t even want to do it with him three times a year.
“I’m really sorry about your problem. But, I do have to get this filing done in an hour.”
I get him out of my office — and fast. I mean, what does he want me to do here? Service him? Well, he can try the self-service island. I wanted to tell him to go whack off and leave me alone.
Hope tries to finish the task at hand, after the jump.