Beware the man who looks like he should be tossing tuna carcasses at the Fulton Fish Market, who calls himself a urologist, and is bearing a tube with a camera on it, headed for your penis …

“I’m not numb yet” I say, but he proceeds to ram the tube inside me.

“Your prostate is enlarged. See for yourself on the monitor.”

“I can’t see. I’m blinded by pain.”

“I’m prescribing Flomax. It can kill an erection and give you floppy iris syndrome, which can complicate cataract surgery. But I suggest you take it. Or would you prefer prostate surgery?”

“Why would I need prostate surgery?”

“Without the Flomax, your condition could worsen and you’ll need it.”

I take my prescription to the drug store, where a female druggist fills it. A few days later, the urologist calls.

“I started the Flomax,” I explain. “My wife is changing into something from Frederick’s of Hollywood, to help things along.”

“Is it the red teddy from the new catalog? That one is a keeper.”

My wife enters the room in her red teddy. She twirls around. In my mind’s eye, the urologist is wearing the same outfit and he twirls around. My wife looks a little fuzzy.

“I gotta go,” I tell the urologist.

“What if I need cataract surgery?” I ask my wife after the two of us make love. “How difficult will it be, with a floppy iris?”

“Why are you worried? You don’t have cataracts.”

Barry White comes on in my head, singing “I’m Gonna Love You Just a Little More, Baby.” The urologist starts twirling again.

“I have to say—you look fabulous in that teddy,” I blurt out to the urologist, though he’s no longer on the phone.

My wife is confused. “I’m not wearing the teddy anymore.”

“Did,” I correct myself. “Did look fabulous.”

I imagine myself being wheeled into an operating room. The surgeon looks like Vlad the Impaler. His assistant looks like the druggist who filled my prescription. She’s wearing nothing but a bustier.

“Scalpel,” the surgeon says. His assistant hands him a small dagger. “Buckle up: it’s another floppy iris.”

“What is Love?” comes on in my head. Suddenly wearing a red teddy, the surgeon starts dancing with his assistant-cum-bustier-clad druggist. They’re joined by the urologist, who is dancing with a tuna carcass.

“You look weak,” says my wife. “Let me make you a tuna salad sandwich.”

I take a bite of the sandwich. “Not bad.”

“I got it from the Fulton Fish Market.”

“Seems about right.”

———–

Gary Derish lives in New York City, in a drafty apartment once owned by Vic Damone, whose ghost has asked Gary not to sing in the shower, but admitted Gary’s version of “I’ve Got the World on a String” in the style of Frank Sinatra isn’t half bad. Gary’s work has appeared in The Missouri Review, The New York Times, Salon, and Points in Case.