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"We've managed to get some testosterone from a blond homunculus," he reported. "That should put you on your feet in no time. Don't worry, young man we'll keep you vivified somehow until the Sign changes." But he didn't sound convincing. "Everyone is chanting for you," Nema told him. "All over the world, the chants go up." It meant nothing to him, but it sounded friendly.
Even though this incident had happened long ago he still admired and even loved her for it. He told himself that with time he would become even more professional and accomplished at compassionate portrayals of life in his paintings and his interactions, even if it were to take thirty years, when his testosterone levels had finally plummeted.
He wanted him as his lover, the lever for the fuel of his testosterone, dopamine, adrenalin, and serotonin which would be extinguished at ejaculation like the falling of a bottle rocket. Thus he stayed silent. He sensed that this imparted kiss was deliberate in its ambiguity; that his stare was a spotlight; and that his grin was one of gaining satisfaction from not disclosing all that he knew.
It was also useful for society since men needed to be exorcised of aggression. After all, an excess of testosterone had kept the planet in a type of marginal nightmare. It certainly did not need to be plunged into it further by a lack of prostitutes.
It passed away as youth itself no matter how many doses of Vitamin E and C, growth hormones, estrogen and testosterone replacement, vegetarian meals of choices rich in antioxidants, low fat foods high in carbohydrates, botox injections, wrinkle reducer creams, and morning racket ball sessions with her employees that she implemented into each day.
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