I guess I was a weird adolescent. Because back in those days I saw a lot of crippled kids on television, especially during telethons and shit, pining for a cure. It was like the sad dog montage on those ASPCA commercials. Cripples doing nothing all day but hoping this will finally be the day when a clinical research trial for a cure pops up so they can drop everything and immediately sign up.
But for some reason, I was never one of those cripples. If someone came up with a pill that was guaranteed to instantly cure me, with no additional effort on my part other than swallowing it, I supposed I might get in line to take it. But until then, I had other stuff to do. As a teenager, I wanted what every teenager wants. I was much more concerned with getting laid than getting cured. And no research lab was trying to come up with a pill that would help me get laid. There was no heartbreaking montage on television of crippled youth who were sad because they couldn’t get laid.
Now if there had been a clinical research trial for something like that, then hell yeah, I sure would have dropped everything to sign up! Seeking horny adolescent cripples who want to get laid for participation in a research trial. I’d stomp over all the other cripples to be first guinea pig! I wouldn’t care what the treatment was. Take a pill that causes me to emit pheromones that attract females? Chromosomal manipulation to make me irresistible? Whatever! I’m game!
First they’d make me sign a consent form that says among the potential treatment side effects are dizziness, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, migraine headaches, sudden tooth loss, renal failure, seizures, terrifying psychotic hallucinations, early onset Alzheimer’s and crotch rot.
“Sounds like a no-brainer to me, “ adolescent me would have said. “Where do I sign?” And maybe, as was often the case with research subjects, I’d even receive a stipend. Getting paid to get laid? Paradise!
My room at the research facility would be like a super cool bachelor pad— a heart-shaped waterbed, champagne on ice, mirrors all over the place. The research assistants in their white lab coats help me transfer into the hot tub. They give me a pill and leave. A few minutes later, a buxom woman enters through the bead curtain. She wears a negligee. Her eyes are filled with burning desire. She approaches the hot tub.
But then, at precisely the wrong moment, it would’ve occurred to adolescent me that all those mirrors are probably two-way mirrors and all those research perverts in their white lab coats are watching me from the other side and getting their jollies! I’d be too self-conscious and distracted to perform and I’d be written off as a failure and kicked out of the research project.
Or the other likely scenario would be me in the hot tub and the woman enters but she’s not the tiniest bit interested in me and nothing happens. I’m written off as a failure and kicked out of the research project, but at least it’s not my fault. I was in the placebo group.
I guess I was a weird adolescent.
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