My Boyfriend Has No Balls

That’s not a euphemism.

I talk about Matt's lack of balls as if I was there when he lost them. I was not.

I actually hadn’t seen him in the 10 years since high school during which, four years ago, he survived testicular cancer. But we'd been flirting over text message for three months, sending drunken haiku poems and jokes about eloping to Mexico. He was as slyly sarcastic as I'd remembered from high school. And attractive, and smart, and kind. Why was he still single? Particularly in Ohio, where everyone our age was already three babies deep in an unhappy marriage. It had to be the balls. At what point in a relationship can you ask a guy if his dick works?

The answer was, naturally, at a bar, six pints in. Standing next to him, I let my eyes wander downward. "So, the cancer… " He turned to face me.

"Did you…. I mean… does it… " I cringed at my awkwardness.

"Can I get it up?" he asked for me. "Is that what you're asking?" Then, the longest pause in the history of drunken conversations about penises.

The answer was yes, which Matt barely uttered before I pounced like a makeout attack cat. Our breathless face-sucking got us kicked out of the bar and subsequent taxi; we felt no shame over either. He was capable of erections with no family jewels! I didn't care about the logistics of how. This was a miracle of modern science in action.

Later I saw the oval-shaped patch on his thigh, and the red marks where patches had been on his back and inner arms. The testosterone patches are not just for sex. With no natural way to produce testosterone, they're also fuel for energy and building muscle. Without them, Matt says, he'd be "a pile of pud."

That drunken night we proved their effectiveness, several times, and soon after became the first two people in humankind to experience real true perfect love. (Or that's how we saw it.)

It wasn't until Matt moved to New York for me that I experienced what we now called The Monthly Nightmare. Thanks to its popularity amongst doping pro athletes, testosterone is a controlled substance. Every 30 days, we meet a new wrinkle in the process to getting the testosterone prescription filled.

A new doctor suspicious of our need for a controlled substance prescription. A new insurance rep who says his cancer is a pre-existing condition or requiring he experiment with an ineffective generic drug. (Without insurance, the patches cost $400 a month.) Twenty new pharmacies that don't carry the drug and won't order it. A new drug maker that decided, without warning, to stop packaging the drug in a certain dosage, forcing us to start the whole process again from scratch. A new state, or federal, or local law that shortens the number of days we have to fill the prescription, which must not overlap with our existing supply.

This is life with a boyfriend who has no balls.

Our ability to have sex relies on these stupid patches. We have no control over them, and we need them to stay the same, forever. When a new roadblock stretches Matt's monthly supply of patches a few extra days, he gets hot flashes and sometimes faints. There are tearful breakdowns. And — the scariest of all — Matt can't let any mental or emotional factors interfere. Every new medication brings a plethora of new surprises. Lately, we've experimented with a new, higher-dosage gel, which has increased Matt’s sex drive and given him more chest hair.

Yes, I have perspective. I know relying on a medication is not as nightmarish as the testicular cancer that got him here. It doesn't compare to the surgery that removed Matt's guy parts, or the chemo. And hey, it is physically impossible for him to impregnate me, so we save money on birth control. (When he has an orgasm, nothing comes out. That part makes sex incredibly convenient.)

Even with the patch, though, there's no promise he'll magically get erections. Luckily he does, but someday, I fear, his body could just decide that he's done. It's a possibility that I feel sick thinking about three years into our relationship.

Each month, when the Nightmare returns, I ask myself if I would love a very different Matt. What if he became that pile of pud? What if, without a physical outlet like running and balanced hormones, he becomes depressed, and his mood swings push me away? And most important, what if he can't satisfy my physical needs, and no longer has any needs for me to satisfy?

Last week, over dinner at a Mexican restaurant near our apartment, Matt was shoveling rice into his mouth like a starved monster. I laughed to myself; his horrible table manners are a running joke. But instead of cracking about it, I inexplicably blurted out the impossible question.

"What's going to happen if the boner patches stop working?"

His chewing slowed as he looked up at me. "I don't know."

We stared at each other in silence for a beat and went back to our enchiladas. I thought forcing myself to address uncomfortable hypotheticals was something all mature, serious adults must do. Maybe it is. But there's something to be said for occasionally embracing naïveté, for simply ignoring the things we can't stand to think about. I wasn't there when he lost his balls; what matters is that I'm here now.

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