Chapter 1: The Last Appointment

March 10, 2020

Bob Callahan sat in the paper gown that never quite closed in the back, feet dangling above the cracked linoleum like a schoolboy waiting for judgment. The exam room smelled of bleach, burnt coffee, and the faint copper tang of fear that never quite left medical buildings. A cheerful poster on the wall showed a smiling cartoon prostate the color of a peach: “Early Detection Saves Lives!” Bob had stared at that smug little gland for seven years and still wanted to punch it square in its nonexistent face.

Dr. Patel knocked once and slipped in, tablet glowing under his arm. Forty-something, kind eyes, the sort of man who still said “Mr. Callahan” even after gloving up and sliding a finger where the sun didn’t shine every six months since 2013.

“Morning, Mr. Callahan. How are we feeling?”

“Like a man who hasn’t had a hard-on since Obama was president,” Bob said.

Patel gave the small, professional laugh he’d perfected for that exact line.

Bob didn’t laugh back. He was tired of pretending it was funny.

Patel tapped the Screen. “Your PSA is undetectable again. Less than 0.01. Seven years post-prostatectomy. You’re officially one of my favorite statistics.”

Bob nodded. He’d heard the speech. Cancer gone. Nerves were spared as much as possible. Everything below the belt still worked (sensation, orgasm, the whole stubborn circuitry), except the plumbing had been rerouted. When he came now, what poured out was warm, clear, and came from the bladder, not the missing prostate. The textbooks called it climacturia. The internet called it a nightmare. Bob called it Tuesday.

Patel set the tablet down. “Any changes in volume? Control?”

“Still the same. Ten, fifteen seconds once I tip over. Can’t stop it, can’t fake it, can’t aim worth a damn. Like pissing pure adrenaline.” Bob shrugged, paper gown crackling. “Gets me where I need to go. Just takes the scenic route.”

Patel hesitated. “And intimacy? Any attempts since we last talked?”