EPTIf you're unsure of what this blog is about, it's just generally food for thought [of my day] so 1. ease back and get out your utensils, 2. don't fill up on bread and 3. tip your waiter with your own thoughts or sentiments.
Thanks
Winter Parmesan and Myself, Tortellini
The Dentist is just like one bad date...
That's right gents. You read right and if you're asking why I'm writing this, it's because the dentists I currently was seeing won't stop calling me. Perhaps due to the fact that I haven't kept in contact or met with them in the past 2 years, maybe they just can't get enough of my irresistible facial features, who knows?
Why's that you toothless mother-fucker?
Well now that you have been insulting towards me, I might as well tell you to prevent you from exerting any more frustration onto me.
So what the hell is up? Well I'm glad I pretended that you wrote this inquiry so I can explain. Basically I feel like going to the Dentist is like a real bad first date. A time with another young dame (or two) to which there is a lot of teasing, trivial knowledge about her you wish you never knew. This is all coupled with fumbling inside my mouth just for the heck of it all.
Right now, on my answering machine, there are two messages from the dentist's office wondering if I'm ever going to come in for my check-up. Two reminders of how close we got last time, 2 flickering lures for me to respond back, to acknowledge her need for me and vice-versa... they already know my teeth are fucked-up, they know my insurance company has given me plenty of money to pay for our last get-together and I have 0 interest in answering the same daunting questions that revolve around: "Do you know how to brush your teeth?"
Fuck you and fuck your inquiries! I shall not open my eyes and see beyond the mountains towards the hallow of your office.
Ugh, you know what, watch, here's how it's going to go down; I'm going to call them, smile and tell them how much I missed them like any good liar further decaying his/her teeth with the mistellings that spew from my mouth and cracked smile. An excuse? Just check my right-sleeve for a barrage of possibilities that can somehow fill the gap of 730 days minus long hours of sleeping and my appointments with other women. Then, schedule a time I know they can't keep and sit in the waiting room hoping she shows and we can get this over with. The phonecall will transpire like any usual faux-first date: "My last appointment just called it off, do you want to meet? I can squeeze you in somewhere". How typical, as all women I've been with, they presume I have nothing better to do and think life works around them instead of the other way around. Who even said I wanted to even see them? Honestly now, it's true I have nothing better to do, but for them to assume is a whole 'nother story that I am somehow fussing about without considering the idea that they never realized or intended such an implicit idea.
The day will roll around, I'll fumble with my tie, try to brush my teeth to a white equal to sand on the beach and hope to God she doesn't smell my breath. Don't worry, I won't be alone on my trip, entrenched in my cheap cologne will be my nervousness, forever festering in my mind about what to say when she pokes an interest about me, do I lie about my age [but she has my chart!]? Do I pretend the chair's comfortable? Do I relax and lie back? What do I do, what do I do?
As I'll pull open that glass door, plop my name at the secretary, I'll see my dentist's fleeting shadow escape into the other room. Probably finishing up her dinner with another patient/man. I'm just another bro on deathrow, awaiting the eventual. I'll twiddle my thumbs, swallow my tongue and plop my balls by the nearby bathroom stall, forever scared of what will come, if the dentist will even remember me or be able to spot me among the many scattered people, unsure why the hell they even bother going to these appointments. I should have hit the sack, closed my eyes and let the ring of the pestering phone dissolve into my dreams and become and integral part of my imagined scenery.
From my spot, I'll see fingers start to coil around my file from the counter. Her nails, sharpened to perfection and painted to a polished colors will drum a soothing beat on my peach-colored folder. She'll chant my name with a glee she's perfected and replicated throughout these years, never missing a note and never missing a hint of translucency and call me over to her special chair.
Yeah, you know those chairs. They're no Laz-E-Boys, but they taunt you fun as they can go up and down, lift your legs or drop your head. They're actually capable similar to the tomfoolery of sex except the cover is plastic and there's not a single hatch of warmth and affection emitting from this piece of technology. Beside you are sharpened toys that you wouldn't ever imagine fitting inside your mouth like a Saturday night with that old girlfriend. You know who I'm talking about [you may begin to nod your head and smile devilishly], that girl who skipped past all those novel banters about your job and would just jump you before your bodies even hit the comfort of the bed. Yeah, her and boy you wish she'd jump on you on this chair to show you how to truly lift those legs or drop your head.
I'm going to stop assuming you know everything I'm talking about and resume my vast attempt to be as descriptive as possible.
You're at the dentist and before they shine you that literal limelight - one that reveals your worst features, the streaks of make-up, that powdered nose or rings of age only trunks of trees could imitate - she'll ask you questions that you know she doesn't give two shits about, her tone will bloom this false interest you fall into like in any other first date: What do I do, am I still 21, do I still enjoy XYZ. In the background, you can hear that same old Michael Bolton tune; the one that you know she puts on just to tease you, toy with the idea that she'll touch you anywhere but in your mouth:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZYP9hWSZ6q8
*Can I touch you there
*Can I touch you there
Now comes the date, as we get settled, she'll have me open my mouth. Her eyes with flutter with a keen attentiveness in what she's seeing. She'll scratch, nod, moan about something or give a look straight into my eyes and ask the dreaded question: "Do you brush your teeth?" Dare I lie? Dare I tell her three times a day, after every meal and before going to bed? Do I tell her the truth that I brush when I can? There are no right answers and she knows this. She knows too much already, why did I come out for this date? She's reading me like a book. Get me the fuck out! How are these questions even formulate where the answer always revolve around either: None of the answers above or worst yet: what do you want me to fucking say?
"I do what I can, I brush but my teeth won't stop fussing. Kids these days, huh?" I try to bend a smile, but unfortunately there are a few metallic tools in my mouth, so my execution of a joke and side-step is somewhat of a miss. She doesn't giggle, but just moves on, tells me to brush three times a day.
I nod and tell her o.k like any guy would. Yes to everything and at least make it look like you're listening. One circus hoop jumped, now...
Round 2: "Show me how you brush your teeth" What? Show you how I brush my teeth? Want me to show you how I shower too? How about how I toss my hat to the left to portray a sense of disproportion of my body and thus, myself mentally. I must have demonstrated how I brush my teeth to her a million times. I show her, top to bottom, a sort of literal way of brushing each tooth. Catering each specific attention and sweeping away any tart of build-up that glosses my teeth with filth. I'll do it exactly like she would do it with as much attention as I could put into the motion, either going slowly or as hastily as possible knowing it'll never be good enough. I'll never be good enough and this is clearly why we'll never work out in the long run or hell, through this evening. No matter how I cut my steak, drink or "enjoy" my wine, she'll never be satisfied and be obsessed with showing me how to do it.
Her head sways left, then right with her swagging along like a puppy's tail. She purses her lips behind that mask and takes the brush from my hands and "shows" me how to do it, knowing full well I'll either A. just admire my teeth from another angle, B. just buy an electric toothbrush or C. brush left to right like in a Tex Avery cartoon.
I try to restrain myself from rolling my eyes like a locomotion, to maintain a still face of "I'm still there, but totally dazing off by putting me in this slanted position where all the blood rushes to my head". She talk some more and I'll mumble or gargle something beyond the prodding of these metallic tools.
If the similarities to a first-date were not emphasized, consider this: when she moves on to the opposite side of my mouth, she always reaches forward instead of moving in. I've made it through the bitter chatter of endless nothing to get to the physical teasing that will also lead to an endless empty void. As she leans over, her bosom always rubs against my cheeks. We're not talking of scrapes or pass-bys, we're talking almost literal detailed outlining of her breasts against my ear and cheek. Not exactly the most ideal feelers, but it'll have to make do and despite the fact that I'm no pervert, I find it typically difficult to tell a highly-attractive dentist to adjust herself because her large C-size breasts are currently being acquainted with my cheekbone. Even if I could, she's too busy scratching my teeth looking for hieroglyphs or lingering fossilized pieces of food.
To reiterate, I basically have two hands in my mouth and the right-side of my face is tangoing with the chest. Twenty minutes later, you'd think I'd be going down on her and eating at the "Y". But alas, no. When my pants could not be pointing any more North and I think this evening is over with no follow-up even if I did escort her to her place, she calls over the "chief dentist": a balding man that I'm sure is Ben Kingsley with another accent and glasses.
What? A three-way? I'm not one to object, but I prefer with two women... she'll call him over and they'll banter about numbers, is she giving him my number? Are they enumerating how many cavities they can pretend I have in order to leave me with the check as they wrap up dinner? If you thought two hands in my mouth was kinky, try four. Four very large hands might I add. He'll ask me to open further and of course I'll comply because what else would you do with four hands trying to squeeze in there? No thanks, I'm full? Tried that, didn't get much reaction between impatient sighs...
Speaking of sighs... I obliged and the rest is just a bad headache. He says numbers, banters some status report and she jots it down. I know beneath the table/chair, they're playing footsie while I'm trying to enjoy the taste of latex chicken fingers of my leftover dinner.
When all's said and done, she'll pat my head, give me a souvenir that basically says: "I endured 2 hours of finger-licking chicken breasts (see what I did there?) and all I got was this toothbrush of mediocre proportion and value". She'll tell me that I'll have XYZ cavities and we should meet again.
Like in any deja-vu Friends episode, I'll say: "Well, this is great, I'll give you a call, let's do this again sometime!"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M8Ev-mp2SLM
She'll smile, click her heels and pass me off as another chump. I'll check my watch, wave the secretary and run as fast as I fucking can before the glass door can reconnect with the equally transparent wall and self.
6 months later, guess who comes running back to me with the consideration that we should try this again...
Yes, this was written in exaggeration, though everything that transpires is accurate and has been giving me wet-dreams since I was 12
