I’ve just sat down, five minutes before bedtime, to search for a few caption photos or videos that might be relevant to the Reservoir Dad Facebook fans. I Google most ‘sexist pop video ever’ and am horrified 0.39 seconds later, when Google tells me that it is also including search results for the sexiest pop video ever. It is that very horror that leads me to click (uncharacteristically) on a video clip that seems to depict scantily clad women acting in a sexualised fashion.
An hour passes by as I watch Eric Prydz’s ‘Call On Me’ over and over again. Refresh – women doing aerobics – refresh – women doing aerobics – refresh…
It takes a mercurial I just climbed out of quick sand kind of strength to finally snap the laptop shut. I feel exhausted at the same time that I feel driven by a panicky enthusiasm. I’m panting a little. If I had a bottle of ‘angina’ pills I would rush to them right now and look around all wild-eyed until I’d calmed down. But I don’t have the angina to necessitate the pills and so I am left to calm down on my own as these complex questions terrorise my mind –
What just happened? Who does Eric Prydz think he is making sexist videos so damn sexy? What are leotards made of? If I sign up for aerobics classes at the local leisure centre will I be the only male in attendance …. where’s Reservoir Mum?
I find Reservoir Mum sitting up in bed typing away at her laptop because she’s been learning about a new statistical analysis technique for the past week and she really, really loves that shit. As I take off all my clothes, (apart from pair of bone-colored undies that I wear in honour of Rick Astley’s Trench Coat) I am looking at Reservoir Mum like a sea lion looks at its handler for food. I actually feel like barking and clapping my hands together just to get her attention.
‘I’ve just been looking at the sexiest pop video clip ever,’ I say, in a whisper that creeps me out a little because it reminds me of Michael Jackson.
‘And I’ve just been learning about factor analysis and eigenvalues,’ RM says.
‘Those aren’t even real things,’ I say. ‘Are they? I can’t think straight… I’m hormonally overwhelmed…’
A moment passes as RM draws herself away from her make-believe world of statistics and careers and wages and during that time I’m looking at her body under the doona. I know how it looks and feels and I want it so bad but – disturbingly – I want to have it while listening to a regular techno beat in a room full of mirrors.
‘Jesus,’ I say, as I fall into bed next to her. ‘I think I have a fetish now. We might never be able to have sex normally again.’
‘What’s normal?’ she says, nonchalantly.
‘Shazaam!’ I exclaim, hugging her. ‘Okay, let’s get into it then.’
She shrugs. ‘It’s getting late. Maybe we should save it for date night this week. We can watch your video clip and see what happens to you.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘We should watch it right now. Come on. Let’s Google it. I love you so much.’
I am overwhelmed with the level of excitement usually associated with a litter of puppies when she closes her stats program and opens Google. She types rapidly with one hand and passes the laptop to me. In the search box she has typed Dr Snip.
‘Have you started writing The Vasectomy Diaries yet?’ she asks.
The disappointment I feel is so great. The floor plummets at a speed that makes my stomach churn and when I imagine reaching for something to slow my decent I am holding one end of my slimy, white-ish vas deferens. Dr Snip is at the other end of the cord-like feature of my anatomy holding a scalpel the size of garden hoe.
‘I was going to but I don’t know how to start it… because we’ve been discussing it for over a year now and there’s so much to say…. and then that sexy video came on and…’
‘Not true!’ RM says. ‘You’re just too scared to get the procedure done. I should just help you out and ban you from having any sexual contact with me until you’ve actually gone through with it and had the snip.’
Don’t be silly,’ I say, despondently. ‘You wouldn’t do that to yourself.’
‘Why don’t you start by collecting all the vasectomy mentions from your previous posts, dating them in the one article, calling that Entry One and then moving on from there?’
‘I was thinking of doing exactly that,’ I lie, as I roll towards her. ‘You’re a smart sexy, stat-obsessed women. I’ll do it. I’ll have it ready to post this Friday. And then, with the motivation to find more writing material, I’ll be booked in and snipped before you know it.’
‘Yes, promise. Now, can we… umm…,’ I hint, raising my eyebrows and motioning with my hand from her genital area to mine.
‘Okay,’ she says, snuggling in close and then whispering, ‘But when I say go you have to keep saying eigenvalues until I tell you to stop.’
‘Fetishist,’ I say. ‘Deal. But when I say go, you have to say doosh-doosh in my ear, to sound like a techno beat, until I say stop.’
‘Deal,’ she says. ‘You freak.’
**Come back Friday for The Vasectomy Diaries #1**