Testees

My roommate Matt had been living with my other roommate Alec and I for about 2 months when I came to the unfortunate conclusion that he was much more interesting than me. I had a stable job selling reasonably priced travel to baby boomers, with respectable insurance, barley able to make ends meet. I was living clearly the dream. Matt on the other hand bounced from job to job and had no insurance or stability of any kind, whatsoever. He’d come home after his random jobs and tell us of his day bottling beer, or selling cell phones, or something equally fascinating. It was clear that he had things all figured out, and while I still considered myself the looks of the apartment, there was no questioning that he was the charisma, and I wasn’t about to stand for that. After 23 years of living outside the box and relying on my raging, uncontrollable attention deficit disorder to help me stand out, I’d finally become a boring salesman. What a catastrophe. I knew something had to be done. I thought the most appropriate course of action would be to observe Matt in his day to day life. After closely stalking him for several days, I noticed that he had a strong affinity for partaking in college research studies. I was astonished that I hadn’t yet considered a scheme which would not only increase my interesting level five fold, but potentially harm me physically or mentally to a degree worthy of a class action lawsuit. This was my ticket to riches and popularity, and I wasn’t about to pass that up.
I searched hither and yon for the perfect research study, but sleep deprivation and eating disorder observation were all that Craigslist yielded for me. And while I toyed with the idea of taking up Bulemia for a while to make the cut, I’d invested far to much of my parents money in orthodontia and teeth whitening to throw it all away on weight loss. I thought it was a lost cause until on day while cheating at my Soduku puzzle in a local paper, I saw an add for a Testosterone Mediation Reasearch Study. There wasn’t much information provided in the ad, but fate had grabbed me by the balls and given me an opportunity, who was I to spit in her face? I immediately wrote down the phone number and made a mental note to call that night. About a week later while cleaning my room, I found the number and remembered my ambitions. I immediately googled the organization running the study and found that although they were not entirely reputable, they did have a respectable website and that was good enough for me. The study seemed pretty reasonable. Their plan was to inject the participants with steroids for a 10 month period and study the outcome, and after which time the participant receives a $1,000 check. This was perfect. Not only was I going to have enough money to buy the big screen Mitsubishi TV I’d had my eye on, I’d also come out of it with the body of Carrot Top, and minus the blazing red fire crotch, and isn’t looking like Carrot Top every man’s dream? I ran with lightning speed to Matt and pitched him the idea (I’m unhealthily codependent and refuse to so much as go to the grocery store alone). As I expected he was in, so long as I perused it first to let him know how it went. DEAL!
The next morning I called the research lab and spoke with a charming woman whose voice soothed me in a way I hadn’t experienced since being captivated by Teen Choice Award Nominee Liv Tyler in Armageddon. Clearly this was a reputable establishment, and I made my evaluation appointment right then. I was unbelievably excited and it was all I could talk about for the entire week before. “I’m starting a strict, laboratory controlled testosterone study soon” I’d brag to my coworkers, “don’t worry, I’ll remember you all when I’m toned and popular.” Finally the day of my appointment arrived and I was downright giddy. My days of being boring and predictable were numbered, and I couldn’t wait to get my injections started. The second I arrived at the testing lab I began to regret my decision. The facility reminded me of the mental hospital in the movie House on Haunted Hill, only Ali Larter was nowhere in sight, and I remain convinced that the receptionist was in fact the ghost of Eleanor Roosevelt. The researcher assigned to examine me was no better. He was a nice enough fellow but he’d clearly just immigrated to the United States from a country where godless savages roamed free and medical degrees are traded for sex. I half expected to wake up an hour later in a bathtub filled with icecubes, minus 1 kidney, but that would have actually increased my “interesting” level much more than steroids, so I decided to stick around and see how things played out.
Although I had serious doubts about his legal status in our country, the doctor was extremely nice and I started to feel more comfortable in the situation. He went over the basics of the study and then handed me a 12 page synopsis to read while he left the room briefly. The first thing that caught my eye was the possibility of hair loss. At this stage in my life I’d been trying for months to grow a mane as thick and voluptuous as John Stemos’ circa 1992, and the thought of losing all of my gains for money made me hesitant. I continued to read in the hopes that the conditions would improve but things only took a sharp nosedive after I read the following:
“We will ask to record your erection response to a sexual stimulus. You will be asked th watch an erotic video in a private room while you wear a device called a RigiScan. The device is a small box with a wire attached to two loops with sterile covers. You will be told how to place the two loops around the base and the tip of the penis. The loops fit snuggly, not tightly, and will allow the device to record the degree to which you may have an erection while you are watching the erotic video.”
My chin hit the table. I was shocked at what I’d just read, and in although I was impressed by their use of hygienic penis covers, and intreagued by the prospect of singing “Dick in a Box” and meaning it, I started to seriously consider the possibility that this might not be the study for me; a suspicion which I confirmed after a little more reading, I learned that participating in this study could result in shrinkage of my testicles. That was the last straw. Watching my hair fall out of my head while my penis was trapped in a box was acceptable, but not if my little treasures were put in harm’s way. I knew now that I wasn’t going to go through with this, and my next task was to figure out a way to get out of the situation. Being honest and forthcoming with the doctor was the logical and mature route to take, but given the fact that I’m a red hot coward I decided to just go along with it as if I was still interested. The doctor came back into the room and asked what I thought. “Sounds great to me! Where do I sign?!” He showed me where to put my signature and I signed wondering if this was in anyway binding. The doctor said I’d wait ½ hour and then go in for blood tests. I agreed, told him I’d see him shortly, then got my parking validated and drove as fast as I could to work where I sat trembling in a corner for the better part of the morning before telling coworkers my story. “Wow” one of them said, “maybe you should just try a sleep study.”