The Old Demon - The Penile Implant Pt. 1

The day the old demon called me to tell me he wanted to have a penile implant installed, I was admittedly caught off guard. My father, like many men his age (82) suffered from erectile dysfunction. He spoke openly about this issue and was not ashamed to admit it.

“My biggest problem is that bloody ED,” he would say.

Of course, there were several other medical and health problems plaguing his body, but the ED issue was the only one that ever rose to the level of personal urgency.

I think it’s important to note that the old demon was quite the cocksman in his day. He could be a stern, overbearing father, but he saved his charms and good humor for the fairer sex. Whether it was his Scottish accent, his sense of humor, or smoldering charisma, he seemed to do okay in the female department.

This was evident to me as a kid, and even after my parents separated, there were times I unknowingly stumbled over this fact.

When my parents separated, the old demon, in his infinite wisdom, moved into a studio apartment around the corner from the place we lived. It gave him the ability to drive by and see what was doing at the house. One explanation was that he wanted to stay close to his family. His two boys. The other is that he wanted to check to see if my mom was seeing anyone.

He needn’t have worried. My mother, as a single mom, worked her fingers to the bone and had zero time for a social life after coming home and taking care of our needs.

But I digress…

One Sunday morning, I decided I would walk over to his apartment and bring him the Sunday paper. I was probably ten or eleven at the time, and didn’t tell my mother of my plans.

I went to the Boys Market next to the apartment and checked the paper machine for the Sunday Edition. At the time, it was fifty-cents. I searched through my pockets and realized I only had thirty-five cents. I couldn’t go to his place empty-handed, so I stood in front of the entrance and begged people coming into the market for the fifteen-cents I would need to buy the paper.

It took a little while, but I eventually got the change I needed, and I purchased the paper and headed over to my father’s apartment to surprise him.

And surprise him, I did.

When I knocked on the door, it took a moment or two for him to answer. When he did, he looked disheveled, as if he hadn’t gotten out of bed yet.

“Hi, Dad,” I crowed. “I brought you the Sunday paper!”

The look on his face told me something was very, very wrong.

“Look, son. It’s not a good time. You’ll need to come back.”

For me, as a kid, I couldn’t understand why a father would refuse his son. Especially one bearing gifts. I saw the look on his face. It didn’t occur to me at first that what I was seeing was embarrassment.

I spied behind him and I saw a pair of legs lying on the Murphy bed against the wall.

Oh, I thought. He had company. My eyes met his. There was nothing left to say. I simply handed over the paper. He took it and shut the door. I walked away feeling butt hurt for being pushed aside.

Now, all these years later, I empathize with his situation. He was out on a Saturday night and hooked up with some hottie from his local bar. Can’t really blame him for that. I also kind of get that I was trying my best to be the “goodest boy” for my father. It’s a level of control you try to wield in a completely powerless situation.

I count this incident as one of those indelibly burned moments that acts as a signpost about the life I was living at the time. I don’t remember speaking to him about that moment ever again. It became one of those family secrets you simply keep without being asked to.

Point being…

He was a bit of a player in his day, and I knew this. Now, age and male-related ailments had left him without a hard-on. To a cocksman like my father it must have been a tremendous blow to his self-esteem. To his manhood.

He tried all number of remedies over the years. Viagra, Cialis, you name it; he tried it. He even went to a clinic that offered him an injectable solution that could help him achieve an erection. That had worked apparently, but was problematic for reasons I won’t go into here. He fell prey to any and every crackpot remedy or treatment on the market. He even paid thousands of dollars to have shockwave therapy sent through his rod to help break up plaque. The kind in your veins that causes a lack of proper blood flow.

Thousands of dollars down the tube, but no marked improvement. So, to say the penile implant was a simple whim is probably being extremely unfair to the old demon. He had done everything he could to help himself and came up empty.

“What do you think?” He asked.

I need to tell you that when he asked; it wasn’t for show. He wanted my honest opinion on the issue.

Now, let’s break this down a bit…

My knee-jerk response was that he was out of his mind. I felt like his priorities were completely out of whack. Of all the things he needed in life, was a penile implant that high on the list?

Let me preface this by saying my father lived alone. My stepmother had died a year or two prior after a long, protracted illness.

Let me be blunt here —

There was no long line of women waiting in the wings to fuck my father. In fact, no women. None. So the idea of having an invasive procedure done in aid of something that wasn’t currently happening or bound to happen seemed wholly irresponsible and completely off the rails. Somebody had to tell him.

“I dunno, Dad,” I said. “If it’s what you really want, you might as well.”

Yeah, that somebody wasn’t me. He lived two hours south of me near the Mexican border. He also told me about this procedure in part because he needed me to drive him to and from the hospital.

When the day came, I took him to the surgical center and came back hours later to pick him up. I got him home safely and made sure he had everything he needed.

For all intents and purposes, the procedure had been a success. No complications, no issues, no hangups. Once he was settled, I headed back home and wondered if he would ever be able to use this magical wand and if he was happy with his decision.

Approximately two weeks later, I received a phone call from the old demon that went to voicemail.

“Frank, it’s your dad. I’m in trouble.”

His voice sounded panicked and urgent. I felt a ball in the pit of my stomach expand and churn. Anxiety raced through my body. I felt a tingling in my fingers as all the blood rushed to my heart.

End of Part One!