Sherman’s hairy face reminds me of this guy in the old myths my crazy grandmother used to tell me about as she tried to convince me that my bedroom was safe enough for her to get back to those reruns of Dallas she enjoyed so much. Or was it tequila she liked? Maybe Dallas was incidental.
Regardless, Sherman’s eyes dazzle with the same chilly grey the icebergs flanking our apartment boast. They’re kind, even when troubled. Deep crevasses chisel his warn face the same way I, shall we say, instruct my students to carve soap stone in the art classes I teach at the local community college of this tundra (wonderland). He has lived a thousand lives that I will never know about; even though their lessons are woven into the very world we build together.
That’s kind of a tough break for Sherman, because I’m not going anywhere and I bet he is kicking himself for trading down from whoever he adventured with before me. At least I am a spark-plug; although, I have also heard the term flight risk used accurately as well.
Regardless, Sherman’s eyes dazzle with the same chilly grey the icebergs flanking our apartment boast. They’re kind, even when troubled. Deep crevasses chisel his warn face the same way I, shall we say, instruct my students to carve soap stone in the art classes I teach at the local community college of this tundra (wonderland). He has lived a thousand lives that I will never know about; even though their lessons are woven into the very world we build together.
That’s kind of a tough break for Sherman, because I’m not going anywhere and I bet he is kicking himself for trading down from whoever he adventured with before me. At least I am a spark-plug; although, I have also heard the term flight risk used accurately as well.
“Sheryl called this morning,” I say, jostling the white of Sherman’s polar bear hair to ensure he has not slumbered off to dreams of better days. My grandmother is a lunatic, but I love her. In spite of her perceptive ignorances, I think she loves me too—her gay, Jain, grandson with the polar bear boyfriend.
“How is Sheryl?" Sherman asks, his eyes livening up in the way I imagine they would if he had just gotten a negative test result for the chlamydia virus. They have grown close in recent months. Sheryl and Sherman; not Sherman’s eyes: that would be weird. Ever since Sherman helped her sign-up for some on-line dating service they have shared this bond that people who have similar game-show experiences boast. It’s completely baseless and somewhat ridiculous. Well, that and he did inform Sheryl that her first lover, Jesus, was Jewish. It was one of those mind-blowing, life-changing moments for her.
As it turns out, Darwin was wrong: even dumb people evolve; Sheryl appears to be proof of that. Her fondness for Sherman is the evidence of evolution.
“My lesbian father took her to see the doctor,” I get out before doubling-over in laughter.
“Why is that funny? What’s wrong?” Sherman asks, visibly mortified. In addition to having a relatively healthy relationship with my grandmother, he has a fondness for my father that I cannot understand. I appreciated it more than words can say, but understand it I do not. After realizing my father is a lesbian, Sherman loved him that much more. That he cares for them so genuinely is probably the reason all members of my family would choose him over me in any divorce our union may lead to. I suppose my reaction to their foibles would indicate that that’s a solid choice—a rarity for any one of them.
“Nothing,” I smile, kissing his cheek for caring. “She made him go into the appointment with her, so he thought it was the incontinency problem she keeps bitching about.”
“That might not be serious, but it isn’t funny either,” Sherman responds, with the conviction I both love and loath him for. His concern for a lunatic that drinks a pint of tea before bed and then wonders why she has to go to the bathroom four times a night is endearing.
“Trust me—it is,” I laugh. It would seem that Sherman’s sense of humour is far more advanced than mine.
“How so?” he protests. I think he used to be a lawyer. I generally eat lawyers for lunch, but he is bigger than me. Besides, not knowing how to make my own parka, I imagine it is best to keep him around until the “balmy season”, a two day period in August, hits our village.
“She met a guy she digs on that piece-of-shit dating site you logged her into,” I smirk. “She just wanted to make sure all of her equipment was working. You know, since it expired in 1928.”
“And?” Sherman now questions, queasily.
“And when she came out from her examination, she called everyone, including me, to tell us the doctor checked her with two fingers and ‘if there are any problems, it’s his fault,’” I laugh uncontrollably.
“His?”
“Her on-line lover,” I say, trying, and failing, to keep a straight face. “My grandmother just had to call and tell me about her ‘two finger salute’.”
“That’s disgusting,” Sherman says, puking in his mouth a little bit.
“You don’t know the half of it,” I continue. “I was going to leave out the part where she describes her nether region as being ‘in tip-top shape’. But then, that’s grandma. She’s a moron. I mean, what did she think? It’s not like her hymen was going to grow back or something. You only get one, and it’s no one else’s fault that Sheryl traded hers in for a club sandwich back in 1812. Why do you think they call it a hymen Sherman—like Hi Men, I’m ready!?”
I have never stunned Sherman before. But then, I have to give the props for this to Sheryl.
“It’s all well and good for you to laugh Scott, but your grandmother becoming sexually active could be very serious, Sherman replies. I am sure he is right, but I can’t take anyone seriously when they are talking about Sheryl having sex. Not even Sherman. I think I viewed some old-school porn on Beta once that was that funny. It was also the first time I knew (for sure) that I was gay.
“STIs are a real problem for the elderly community,” Sherman continues, annoyed. “HIV and chlamydia are sky-rocketing among the geriatric population. With drugs like Viagra, there are a lot of highly sexual people who have no sexual education or awareness.”
“Plus, Sheryl’s Pope hates condoms,” I respond, losing interest in the conversation as it begins to get cumbersome with reality. “I think God told him they give you coodies.”
Sherman just rolls his eyes at this.
“What?” I ask, taken aback. “So I am not a fan.” Sherman isn’t a fan of the Pope’s either, but this conversation is about the sexual health of Sheryl’s lady-bits.
“I know. I know,” I say, begrudgingly. “The Pope isn’t relevant. Don’t worry. I already had the talk with Sheryl.”
“How did that go?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I said, Sheryl, chlamydia is not your friend and herpes are forever. Wear a fucking condom. Then I helped her pick-out some fruit-flavoured ones on-line. Did you know they come in blueberry and watermelon?”
This gets a smile. Sherman is finally starting to see the humour in this fiasco. “How did that go over?”
“Splendiferous,” I howl, as I mockingly jostle his hair again. It is so rare that I get the upper-hand in an argument with my big bear. “How the fuck do you think it went? She wasn’t impressed…not at first anyway.”
“What do you mean…not at first?” Sherman asks.
“I mean that when I got her to think about all of her idiot friends having sex, we came up with a winning game plan,” I smile, my voice bubbling over with juvenile glee. I roll over in bed and grab a rolled-up poster from the floor. As I peel-off the elastic, the glossy reality presents itself to the world of Sherman’s eyes. “Just look at what we came up with.”
Sherman looks down, considering the 17 x 24 sheet of colourful madness. Staring back at him is a picture of my grandmother with one thumb up and a condom-wrapped banana in the other hand. She is wearing one of my lesbian father’s more conservative business dresses and the sparkly wig I gave her in celebration of the winter solstice—the first day we had light here this winter.
Then Sherman’s eyes graze down to the caption. Herpes—it’s not just for young people. Wear a condom, bitches!
After a moment of processing, he responds.
“It’s good,” he smiles, searching for the words that will make his criticism constructive. “But, did you really need the bitches at the end?”
“Hell’s yay. It’s for emphasis,” I laugh, gregariously. “Besides, that was Sheryl’s idea. She said you have to have cuss words to make an impact. Otherwise…”
“Otherwise what?”
“Brace yourself,” I warn him.
“Okay.”
“Otherwise, those old fuckers are just gonna keep bangin’ without that balloon thingy.”
That’s all I get out before losing control of both my laughter and my bladder. It’s also the time Sherman loses it too—finally!
As it turns out, Darwin was wrong: even dumb people evolve; Sheryl appears to be proof of that. Her fondness for Sherman is the evidence of evolution.
“My lesbian father took her to see the doctor,” I get out before doubling-over in laughter.
“Why is that funny? What’s wrong?” Sherman asks, visibly mortified. In addition to having a relatively healthy relationship with my grandmother, he has a fondness for my father that I cannot understand. I appreciated it more than words can say, but understand it I do not. After realizing my father is a lesbian, Sherman loved him that much more. That he cares for them so genuinely is probably the reason all members of my family would choose him over me in any divorce our union may lead to. I suppose my reaction to their foibles would indicate that that’s a solid choice—a rarity for any one of them.
“Nothing,” I smile, kissing his cheek for caring. “She made him go into the appointment with her, so he thought it was the incontinency problem she keeps bitching about.”
“That might not be serious, but it isn’t funny either,” Sherman responds, with the conviction I both love and loath him for. His concern for a lunatic that drinks a pint of tea before bed and then wonders why she has to go to the bathroom four times a night is endearing.
“Trust me—it is,” I laugh. It would seem that Sherman’s sense of humour is far more advanced than mine.
“How so?” he protests. I think he used to be a lawyer. I generally eat lawyers for lunch, but he is bigger than me. Besides, not knowing how to make my own parka, I imagine it is best to keep him around until the “balmy season”, a two day period in August, hits our village.
“She met a guy she digs on that piece-of-shit dating site you logged her into,” I smirk. “She just wanted to make sure all of her equipment was working. You know, since it expired in 1928.”
“And?” Sherman now questions, queasily.
“And when she came out from her examination, she called everyone, including me, to tell us the doctor checked her with two fingers and ‘if there are any problems, it’s his fault,’” I laugh uncontrollably.
“His?”
“Her on-line lover,” I say, trying, and failing, to keep a straight face. “My grandmother just had to call and tell me about her ‘two finger salute’.”
“That’s disgusting,” Sherman says, puking in his mouth a little bit.
“You don’t know the half of it,” I continue. “I was going to leave out the part where she describes her nether region as being ‘in tip-top shape’. But then, that’s grandma. She’s a moron. I mean, what did she think? It’s not like her hymen was going to grow back or something. You only get one, and it’s no one else’s fault that Sheryl traded hers in for a club sandwich back in 1812. Why do you think they call it a hymen Sherman—like Hi Men, I’m ready!?”
I have never stunned Sherman before. But then, I have to give the props for this to Sheryl.
“It’s all well and good for you to laugh Scott, but your grandmother becoming sexually active could be very serious, Sherman replies. I am sure he is right, but I can’t take anyone seriously when they are talking about Sheryl having sex. Not even Sherman. I think I viewed some old-school porn on Beta once that was that funny. It was also the first time I knew (for sure) that I was gay.
“STIs are a real problem for the elderly community,” Sherman continues, annoyed. “HIV and chlamydia are sky-rocketing among the geriatric population. With drugs like Viagra, there are a lot of highly sexual people who have no sexual education or awareness.”
“Plus, Sheryl’s Pope hates condoms,” I respond, losing interest in the conversation as it begins to get cumbersome with reality. “I think God told him they give you coodies.”
Sherman just rolls his eyes at this.
“What?” I ask, taken aback. “So I am not a fan.” Sherman isn’t a fan of the Pope’s either, but this conversation is about the sexual health of Sheryl’s lady-bits.
“I know. I know,” I say, begrudgingly. “The Pope isn’t relevant. Don’t worry. I already had the talk with Sheryl.”
“How did that go?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I said, Sheryl, chlamydia is not your friend and herpes are forever. Wear a fucking condom. Then I helped her pick-out some fruit-flavoured ones on-line. Did you know they come in blueberry and watermelon?”
This gets a smile. Sherman is finally starting to see the humour in this fiasco. “How did that go over?”
“Splendiferous,” I howl, as I mockingly jostle his hair again. It is so rare that I get the upper-hand in an argument with my big bear. “How the fuck do you think it went? She wasn’t impressed…not at first anyway.”
“What do you mean…not at first?” Sherman asks.
“I mean that when I got her to think about all of her idiot friends having sex, we came up with a winning game plan,” I smile, my voice bubbling over with juvenile glee. I roll over in bed and grab a rolled-up poster from the floor. As I peel-off the elastic, the glossy reality presents itself to the world of Sherman’s eyes. “Just look at what we came up with.”
Sherman looks down, considering the 17 x 24 sheet of colourful madness. Staring back at him is a picture of my grandmother with one thumb up and a condom-wrapped banana in the other hand. She is wearing one of my lesbian father’s more conservative business dresses and the sparkly wig I gave her in celebration of the winter solstice—the first day we had light here this winter.
Then Sherman’s eyes graze down to the caption. Herpes—it’s not just for young people. Wear a condom, bitches!
After a moment of processing, he responds.
“It’s good,” he smiles, searching for the words that will make his criticism constructive. “But, did you really need the bitches at the end?”
“Hell’s yay. It’s for emphasis,” I laugh, gregariously. “Besides, that was Sheryl’s idea. She said you have to have cuss words to make an impact. Otherwise…”
“Otherwise what?”
“Brace yourself,” I warn him.
“Okay.”
“Otherwise, those old fuckers are just gonna keep bangin’ without that balloon thingy.”
That’s all I get out before losing control of both my laughter and my bladder. It’s also the time Sherman loses it too—finally!
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