Beyond a Reasonable Gout

ADULT: A recent event marking yet another year in his sixties has Barry Lowe reminiscing about a more exciting – and satisfying – birthday party.

“What did you get for your birthday?” Gavin asked a few days after the milestone event.

“Gout.”

“You mean the old man’s disease?”

He had the good manners to look embarrassed by what he’d said.

“The doctor told me years ago that I was prone to the disease and it struck two days before my birthday so that I couldn’t walk.”

“Did you have to wrap your big toe in bandages and sit with your leg elevated like all those guys in old black and white movies?” he asked with a touch too much enthusiasm.

“No, I had it in my ankle.”

“Oh.” He seemed quite disappointed I didn’t conform to cliché. “Did you get anything else of interest?”

“I was taken to a nice vego restaurant. The food was great except the chef obviously believed quinoa is the way of the future and decided to share his belief by serving the wonder grain with every meal. By the time we left I had quinoa coming out my arse.”

“Is that all you had coming out your arse?”

Gavin was now getting down to basics.

“Wally tried to get me 65 tops for the important event but there just aren’t that many good tops available in this city. We live in a very bottom town,” I said sadly.

“He couldn’t even find 55 tops and ten bottoms.”

“Tell me about it.” Gavin had as much trouble as I did finding suitable sex partners and he’s forty-odd years younger than me and forty times as cute.

It did, however, put me in mind of two previous birthdays that stood out in my memory. (Doesn’t it always in my column?)

The first must go into the annals of Most Embarrassing Birthday Ever!

I’d just split up with my then boyfriend and was feeling miserable, deciding that a good buggering would cheer me up. A gentleman in his forties took me back to his flat, listened patiently while I bemoaned my lack of success in love, and then fucked me senseless while I wailed and wept copious tears into his pillow. He was either desperate for sex or else totally uncaring.  

The much more pleasant experience was also when I was a bit of a youngster and decided, again, that I would be a cliché. I decided I’d take on a fuck for every year of my thankfully short life at that stage. I was nineteen.

Strangely enough, when you’re young, slim, blond and available in an era when slim was desirable, you have no trouble picking up. I had a flat full of horny hot men eager to party, most of whom were up for the game of Slam the Slut.

I know many mental health experts would suggest that the sort of behavior I was exhibiting was indicative of low self-esteem and/or sexual addiction. I guess they’ve never considered it the pursuit of a personal challenge on a par with climbing Everest or swimming the English Channel. More fool them.
I have a low threshold for psychobabble and a high threshold for cock. What I hadn’t taken into account was how quickly the effects of poppers wear off and how painful it becomes around about cocks eleven and twelve. I’m only counting pricks that entered my posterior; those of an oral persuasion didn’t register as part of my birthday treat.

As it was all being performed in public in the lounge room, some men could see I was visibly flagging and decided the solution was alcohol. Indeed, it turned out it was. The pain vanished, my fear that the mixing of undiluted vodka and spunk in my stomach would prove explosive was unfulfilled, and, I was told days later after my hangover had subsided and my arsehole had poked back up inside my body, I had accommodated anyone who needed relief.

Stupid buggers forgot to keep count so I never knew if I made my personal best or not.

So I’m currently resting my butt for another attempt. On my seventieth. If we can find enough tops.