Dr. LoveGlove: Forbidden Pleasures On Tape

On a dare, my terrified 19 year old self decided to make the most of that dreaded prostate exam. The recording turned out better than I could have imagined, winning the prize & trickster street cred.

Nobody expected the possibility I could be transformed into a Mormon Missionary.  Myself included.  I never felt the societal pressure most do in the Utah Mormon culture I was raised in.  Mine was a very practical decision.  Common sense even.  Though I possessed very little of anything considered common sense at the time.  I had seen many fellow wildlings that didn’t go, and they continued down the narcotic rabbit hole.  I was coming off an eight month Cocaine binge that had me down to 115 pounds at my 6’1” height.  Gray, skin and bones, I more resembled a carcass on the coroner’s slab than a living 19 year old humanoid.  If I was going to do it, I was going to do it right.  Obey all the rules.  No shortcuts.  Put all the guarantees and promises to a proper test. 

I had no idea whether the Mormon Church was really “true” or not.  I’m no longer a Mormon, but I do feel grateful for much of my upbringing.  Without question, the principles I was raised believing have been a net positive in who I am today.  It isn’t anything exclusive to Mormonism.  The principles and practices I believe help contribute to a balanced, healthy and happy life.  Though I’m not claiming I was ever very successful at refraining from substances of various type. 

A thorough medical exam is mandatory for every person embarking on a Mormon Mission.  Wisdom teeth out.  A procedure that led to a 12 week nightmare, almost canceled my Mission, and became one of the best of all my stories.  Days before my Doctor’s appointment I received a letter from a bro in the Provo, Utah Missionary Training Center.  The MTC.  “Dude, what did you think of that whole butthole thing the Doc did to you?  I cried all the way home, haha.”   I had no idea what he was talking about.  I asked my Mom, Mary.  “Mom, Harold says I have to do that butthole check thing at the doctor.  Can I opt out of that?”  “For a 19 year old boy? No, Matty, I don’t think that will happen.  Harold is teasing you.”  I was more than relieved.  I decided to ask Willie, my older brother.  He had served a Mission to Baja Mexico.  I didn’t like his answer.  Confirming it was part of the physical.  “Oh yeah, full-meal-deal examination little brother.”  He did nothing to try and allay my fears.  “It feels like he’s sticking a super-sized wide broom handle up there and making a left turn. You’re gonna scream like a wounded animal.”  “Haha, yeah whatever,” I said.  Stone faced serious, he confirmed, “No, I’m serious.  I screamed, even though I knew it was coming.”  

Zoiks.  I was immediately overcome with fear at the thought.  I’m a master of compartmentalizing worries and fears.  To an unhealthy degree.  Nothing could diminish the anxiety at the thought of such a procedure. Maybe a visit to my best friend Augie would help tamp down my worries.  I should have known better.  The macho locker room humor we practiced meant solace was the last thing a conversation with Augie would bring. Hell, I would’ve done the same.  Even worse than anyone that teased me about it.  Augie knew I had ceased all party behavior.  Doogers (cigs) too. A camping trip to Wyoming 3 months previous had been the grand finale. A glorious weekend of fishing.  5 of us piled in Augie’s Dad’s Landcruiser, I was the pilot.  More raging and swerving than fishing, but  a good time was had by all.  A memorable final blowout. 

Augie was entirely baffled by my decision to do a Mission.  He was one of the rare non-Mormons I grew up with.  Episcopalian.  His parents were well informed about the reality of Mormon Church history.  What the Church claimed, and the truthful less flattering version.  He never once tried to convince me.  Never shared a single unflattering fact he knew to be true. I wish he had.  That he could prove to me, only using the Church’s own library for source material.  Facts I wouldn’t seek out for another 20 years.  Dissuading members from researching anything at all remains inexplicably effective even today.  However, the internet has changed everything.  Information that took time and effort, inconvenience, is now easily accessible.  

With all the mockery and “you’re going to hell” Augie was barraged with, it gave me a whole lot of respect for his restraint.  I would not have shown a fraction of the restraint and kindness he always maintained.  People arrogantly preaching and peacocking, while snorting line after line of booger sugar, with a dooger dangling from their mouth.  I was the least dismissive of of all his friends, but still, plenty of cringeworthy claims and statements.  I don’t know how he did it. Humility, even kindness in the face of such awful behavior. Ironically, it was true Christian behavior.  I’ve asked him recently.  His maturity at such a young age was advice from his parents.  “It is a very personal, private thing.  I would have taken no joy in blowing up what you took great comfort in believing.  Even if I believed it largely untrue.  My parents made me promise I wouldn’t try and convince you of anything.  I wouldn’t have mattered anyway.  It would have only destroyed our friendship.  I might have felt like unloading on people that gave me s**t, who I didn’t really consider friends anyway, but they would have never believed me anyway, so what’s the point.”  Many former Mormons are obsessed with setting current believers straight.  It would only serve to damage relationships and not change anyones mind.  One has to commit to researching no further than the Church’s own library.  Books, records, affidavits, journals, sworn testimony, published interviews and sermons from people who were there from day 1.  It’s more than enough.  No need to look outside Church resources, though members are aggressively discouraged from doing so.  Many are excommunicated, not for ever sharing an untruth, but because those truths are damaging others faith.  

I understand, it’s a terrifying prospect, to face what you’ve believed all your life is not accurate.  If your personal, professional and social life is entirely entwined and dependent upon believing  something, the humanoid can pursue a game of truth/logic Twister  contortion that fully embraces cognitive dissonance.  Any other option would shatter the foundation, house, and everyone in it.  A warm fuzzy security blanket needn’t be true to be completely effective. 

Augie didn’t agree with my Mission, but it was fellow Mormons who tried every trick in the book to get me to smoke weed or get drunk with them until the day I departed.  Many who went, kept on partaking of anything and everything, until the day of departure.  Lying about their preparedness.     My little bro Hambo has a close buddy, now known as the “Cornhole King.”  This was long before someone was dumb enough to give the slang for anal sex to name a drunken redneck barbecue game.  Many Mormons are extremely skilled at self delusion.  With substances, with sex, with sin.  All humans are, but Mormons are sometimes next level.  The Cornhole King ceased having intercourse with his girlfriend a year before his Mission.  Confessed, repented.  Then promptly replaced vaginal intercourse with anal.  Because anal, well, that isn’t a sin, right?  Two or three times a day, until the King went on his Mission, he and his girlfriend DIDN”T have sex.  Several months in, his conscience began bothering him, he came clean.  Was humiliated when he was sent home early.  Then, all but christened himself the “Cornhole King” by complaining far and wide how unfair it was.  Getting sent home, when it wasn’t even REALLY sex.  

 When I arrived at Augie’s before my Doctor appointment, he sensed anxiety and doubt.  “Hey, dude, I have some of the best smoke I’ve ever had.  I don’t wanna pressure you.  But, whaddya say, one more bowl for old time sake.  One for the road.  I won’t let you partake again after this.  Even you beg.”  I offered some resistance.  “But dude, I have my Missionary photo session before my doctor appointment.  I can’t go in there looking all crosseyed and painless.” 

“D****e up.  Visine.  You’ll be golden.  You always look fine after Visine brudda.”  It didn’t require much convincing.  We roasted up one final time. 

“The final session of our professional bowling league, hee hee,” Augie giggled.  “Damn, I am rip-stick Enos bro.  Been awhile.”  He took one look at me and busted up laughing.  “Duuuude, your eyes are half shut.  Haha, you are baked goods bro.  You look like when Hollywood puts makeup on white actors to look like Samurai or some s**t.  Haha.”  I scrambled to look in the mirror.  I couldn’t help but laugh myself.  I then remembered what I wanted to discuss with him. 

“Dude, I found out something that is freaking my s**t out completely.  But, I have to go.  The doctor is gonna finger my butthole.”  Augie laughed and laughed.  “Oh dude, you should see your face.  Scared shitless mighty Samurai warrior.”  “Dude, shut-up man.  Not cool.  It’s gonna f****n’ hurt.”  Seeing his expression and endless belly laugh made me start laughing.   All I could do was laugh. 

Remembering the contents of my pocket, I removed the handheld mini cassette recorder my Mother had just purchased for my Mission.  Hitting record, I extended it toward Augie and went reporter mode.  “Sir Augusto, how do you really feel about the thought your best bro is going to get corn-holed by his physician?”  His laughing escalated to the point speech was incompatible.  Then, the trickster lightbulb appeared above his baked dome.  The baked dome light.  “Dude, I will give you $100 if you record it.” “The corn-holing?”  “Yeah, I swear, $100!”   “It won’t sound like anything on tape…”  I pause, as the trickster lightbulb appears above my baked dome.  “Unless, I scream and moan with pleasure, right as he gets in real good.”   The thought destroyed us with laughter. 

“Uhhh, uhhhh, yeah, yeaaaaah, ohhhh ohhhhh,” I let ‘er rip.  We laughed until it hurt, then we laughed some more.  A more practical thought that entered my mind.  “I dunno though dude, $100 isn’t very much.”  He paused, then took off to the phone in his parents kitchen.  I watched as he solicited donations from 3 of our bowling league bro’s.  Quite proud of his wheeling and dealing for the cause, he hung up the final call.  “How about $350?  Huh?  If you don’t do it for $350 it’s only because yer chicken. Bawk, bawk, bukaaawk.”  Damn, Augie knew the key to getting me to do damn near anything.  It wouldn’t have cost them $350 if he had led with that line. 

“Sold.  Done deal.  $350, I’m gonna put in an Oscar-worthy performance.” I was running late, I flew home and put on my brand new Missionary suit and best new tie.  Catching a glimpse of my obviously baked eyes in the mirror, I began the first of 3 shots of Visine.  Arriving at the photographer, I added more eyedrops.  They were white as it gets, but still droopy.  Baked out of my gourd, I scolded myself out loud in front of the mirror.  “You idiot. You still look totally ripped.”  The photos, I’m reverently holding an open Book of Mormon, softly illuminated from above.  A white dude made up to look like a movie Samurai, I’m torqued out of my mind.  My miscalculation and shame recorded for time and all eternity.  My Mom, she didn’t notice. She gets weepy every single time I visit.  As we visit the photo, “Matty, I just love this picture.  It’s my favorite picture on this wall maybe.  Surely my favorite of you.  You look so full of the spirit.  It’s so obvious the 180 you accomplished in your life.  I knew you would be an excellent Missionary.”  “Okay, okay, you say this every time Mom.  What it really means is you wish I was still your little Mormon boy, and not the apostate prodigal son I’ve become.”   She only partially tried to deny it. 

“Matthias Gregory, you’re next.”   I completed the photo session and headed straight to the doctor’s office.  Checking and rechecking the recorder in the waiting room.   I thought I may have doubts.  Nervousness. The only emotion was giddiness at how freaking awesome this was going to be.  I hit record and carefully placed it in my bag, with the mic pointing up.  Perfect placement.  It wasn’t two minutes later, “Matty, your turn. Japan huh, wow. Congratulations,” the nurse said.  A line they say even when the poor b*****d is going to Pocatello, Idaho or Buttfuck, North Dakota.  

Waiting in exam room 2, a bit of anxiety creeped in.  “Is this too far? Too much?  Is the good Doc gonna freak out?  Nah, he’s seen it all,” I reassured myself.  My Doctor was also a Stake President.  A Stake includes dozens of wards, aka congregations. 

I shook my head back and forth and slapped my face with both hands. “C’mon, it’s showtime,” out loud.  I thought it was my cue when the door abruptly opened, but it was just the nurse entering to draw two vials of blood.  Seconds after she exited, I heard the shuffling of papers as the Doc removed the chart on the outside of the door.  In that instant, I knew I was gonna go for it.  Balls deep, for glory.  The good Doc entered and began the obligatory small talk.  Early 60’s in age, he had Movie Star good looks.  A head of stylish, flowing salt and pepper hair, designer glasses, a deep voice, perfect for radio.  Ears, nose, chest, this was back when the clinician still physically touched you, he checked everything.  His tone took a more somber turn. 

“Okay, now, this part usually surprises you young bucks.  Now I’m gonna check your tailpipe.”  We both laughed.  “It might seem early, but in very rare cases we are glad we checked the prostate of young men, even your age.” 

“Umm, okay.  Opting out isn’t an option?”  He looked me squarely in the eye.  “No. It isn’t.  But, it will be over before you even realize it.  And, it doesn’t physically hurt.  It’s just a little unpleasant.  Just imagine yourself somewhere else, doing something you enjoy doing.” 

“What if I enjoy having my prostrate (mispronouncing) checked?”  He didn’t even smile, just gave me an odd look.  When he removed the blue latex glove from the box, I knew s**t was about to get real.  He gave it the loud snap, as he finished pulling it over his right hand.  Why do they have to do the snap?  The most menacing, unpleasant snap known to the male species.  On second thought, women probably disagree entirely. 

“Okay Matty, if you’ll drop your shorts, and just bend over the exam chair, right here.”  I glanced back and saw his approach.  Just another day at the office, he was far more relaxed than I was.  I looked at my bag on the chair next to the exam chair.  Perfecto.  “Lubricated por favor. Do they call you Dr. LoveGlove?”  The recording captures his silence. Other than his tailpipe comment, humor wasn’t part of the process.  My attempts were going over like a t**d in the punchbowl. 

It startled me.  How unpleasant even a lubed finger was.  Maybe it’s all about state of mind, or the ridiculous fear and anticipation the male humanoid attaches to the procedure.  I didn’t hesitate.  Even before he could turn the corner and really fiddle my prostate, I let it rip.  “Ohhhhh. Uuuuh,” even biting my lip for effect.  I felt Doc pause.  Obviously, not expecting that.  I knew at least one good “yes” had to be part of it.  When he turned the corner, I reacted, “Yesss. Ohhhh,” in an entirely inappropriate erotic tone, moans of pleasure.  Now he knows what the patient feels like. Wanting to be anywhere except right there in that moment. 

I don’t know if he was done or not, but the “yess, ohhh,” brought drilling to a close.  He nervously cleared his throat several times, scampering across the room and away from me.  Realizing the garbage can was on the opposite side, he nervously changed direction.  Removing and throwing away the Love-Glove.  So proud of myself, I had a stupid smile on my face as I pulled up my underwear and turned to see his expression.  Grim surprise.  I don’t think it crossed his mind I was a trickster hooligan doing what I do.  He genuinely thought I had taken all too much pleasure in the process. 

I was expecting further conversation.  Something.  He said nothing, he quickly exited the room.  I waited for some time.  Eventually the nurse cracked the door.  “Okay Matty, umm, we will send you the test results. Unless there’s something noteworthy, your Mom will throw it away.  But um,” she looked over her shoulder.  Speaking to some unseen person. “Anything else?  No?  Oh yeah, Godspeed on your Mission to Japan.” 

She was relaying the Doc’s parting instruction and words.  The Doc didn’t finish our appointment face to face per usual.  Maybe he was busy elsewhere.  Initially, I thought he was angry.  I think he was just a bit startled and uncomfortable with my behavior.  He simply wanted to move on to the next patient.  I couldn’t blame him.  As I walked to my car, I had a s**t-eating grin on my face.  I rewound and hit play. High fidelity, it was all captured on tape.  Proof for the lads and releasing the prize money.  I went straight to Augie’s house.  We listened to the recording over and over. Cackling laughter, his Mom entered his lair and asked twice if everything was okay.  Suspicious we had ingested something that was responsible such hilarity.  Analyzing every pause and especially the nervous throat clearing and quick exit stage left by the Doctor, as he shut the door behind him.  Augie insisted on recording it on a regular cassette for his archives. 

I made him promise.  “Dude, if you swear you won’t play it for your girlfriend.  Or your sister, no female, period.  You swear?”  “Yeah, yeah, I swear.  Same security protocols as the 7 minute fart solo from St. George Spring Break ’89.  Remember, you let me borrow that tape.”  A story for another time, but I was well known for a particular sphincter talent I had been perfecting since 6th grade.  I called it DDASC.  “Dynamic Directional AirFlow Sphincter Control.”  I couldn’t say how or when I discovered this capability.  Probably a sleepover.  I can intake air into my arse, then release it via very long farts.  Controlling pitch, tone, volume, duration etc. All types, per audience request.  Unlimited to the amount my intake valve can suck in, therefore allowing for farts one would think can’t be real.  Must be audio or tech trickeration.  Because it’s an unthinkably disgusting and vulgar “skill,” you would think the sound exiting is the worse of the two.  But, the intake sound effect is exponentially more disgusting sounding than the fart sound of air exiting. A nauseating sound, a cross between a slurp and a suck.  The star at every sleepover, a big hit with the male teenager species. 

One particular night over Spring Break, I was goaded into proving my skills to an unbelieving, incredulous group of  hammered punters.  Besides Augie, Casper and Beef, not a single soul in attendance believed I could suck unlimited air in, then upon request, deliver every type of fart audio on exit.  After a sufficient amount of alcohol, weed, and codeine cough syrup, I executed some terrible judgment and allowed my “Fart Solo” to not only be witnessed by a jam packed hotel room full of 17 year old ragers, but also to be recorded.  “7 minutes of glory” was how Augie and the lads explained it at the time.  On the tape, I announced, “Fart Solo: Take 1.”  A play on the late great Cliff Burton’s “Bass Solo Take 1” on Metallica’s “Kill Em’ All” album.  That’s another inappropriate story for another inappropriate time. 

For me, the funniest part of the recording is Augie solemnly cautioning, again and again: “Please, no smoking, no open flame, crack a window.  This room could go up like a TNT storage shed!”  After the performance, it was the first incident where I was lucky to have a sober babysitter in attendance.  Beef awoke to notice my respirations were barely twice per minute.  I had packed along a bottle and a half of prescription hydrocodone cough syrup.  I was still recovering from a recent bout of Bronchitis.  In my drunken stupor, I had guzzled both bottles.  I had soaked through everything in my vicinity with sweat.  After being pumped full of caffeine and marched around the room.  In, around, and over the bodies packed tightly on the floor, I must’ve stepped on every poor partier at least once.  Most were beyond caring.  Dozing off, I awoke with that pre-puke saltwater mouth and knew what was coming.  The path to the bathroom  was totally blocked.  I sprinted to the motel room door and flung it open.  From the doorjamb I roared a 6 foot, high velocity of stream of green tinted vomitus all over the face of the Pepsi machine.  The green hue owing to the cough syrup color.  Filling up the soda can catch receptacle and then some.  I stumbled back to bed.  Satisfied with my breathing rate, Beef finally went to sleep when I did.  

At 6am we were awaken by angry pounding on the door.  Dodging the bodies on the floor, I vaguely recalled the projectile puke incident, and the pounding on the door made complete sense.  The first of our 3 unceremonious ejections from hotel lodgings that memorable Spring Break.  I couldn’t even bring myself to contest the angry owners declaration.  The poor Pepsi machine.  The poor employee required to clean it up.  I couldn’t have disagreed with the stated lifetime banning from Best Western Motels.  Rock bands left the premises in better shape than our group of good little Mormon lads.  We had spread the bullshit on thick at check-in. 

“Oh No Sir.  Alcohol?  Us?  No, Brother Thompson,” I replied, seeing his  “eternal smile” neckline of his Mormon garments under his shirt and tie. “In fact, at 9pm each time, you should stop in for Book of Mormon study group and scripture chase.”   “That’s neat.  I’m so impressed Matthias, kids these days, geez.  With their devil music and marijuana reefers and party balls ( a transparent ball mini-keg, big sellers in the late 80’s for Budweiser and Coors) defiling their body and soul.  It’s an honor to host you this weekend and surely others will note your good example.”   In only 18 hours, it went from that, to 6.8 pounds of puke trail from my door to the Pepsi machine. vIt didn’t require Columbo to follow the trail of evidence. And only an idiot would attempt to deny guilt.  Back to the LoveGlove audio. 

Not convinced Augie was hearing me,  “No dude, I’m serious.  Chicks don’t  understand our twisted humor.  They’ll think I’m a total freak.  They don’t need to know I just got corn holed.  It’s embarrassing.  Alice (my first true love) cannot ever hear ABOUT the incident dude.”  He reassured me. 

“Dude, if I hadn’t kept Fart Solo Take 1 a secret, everyone at school would be talking to you about it.  Circle of trust bro.  I’ll keep the LoveGlove chronicles a secret too.”  “Ha, no you won’t.  Everyone did ask me about FartSolo, not because of you though.  20 witnesses will do that.  I told them a dual-flow sphincter valve wasn’t scientifically possible and if it were, I would be famous, packing theaters worldwide, haha.” 

 I didn’t forbid him playing it for dudes, and it quickly went far and wide.  Another blt of questionable judgment in a history full of them.  As to which of many incidents is brought up over the years, “LoveGlove” remains a very distant second to “Fart Solo Take 1.”

After a life of toil and struggling to lead a life my family, my children can be proud of, I’ll always be known behind my back as the dude with spectacular sphincter skills.  Thanks for reading, until next time, Stay Frosty, Stay Aerodynamic.