We’ve been discussing testosterone in our house.
Well, that’s not exactly right. I’ve been discussing testosterone. Everyone else has just been listening.
The lack of discussion among other house participants might be because the majority of them are male and for reasons outlined below they haven’t been particularly forthcoming about the whole subject.
Part of this slight obsession on my part is because of Poppy, our bull at the farm. I’ve watched him mature from a clumsy, undersized juvenile to a full on, bull capable of keeping his herd happy… hmm, well at least impregnated. (The early mating ritual regiment looks to be more coercive and pestering on his part. Eventually his girls must comply willingly.)
The other reason is those Low T commercials. The ones where the handsome, virile looking older men, none balding with bellies hanging over their belts, wander and shuffle giant white letters that spell out the latest amount of T filled gel you can buy. The instructions are spewed forth in rather innocuous sounding tones directing you to carefully roll the chemicals into your armpits diligently avoiding contact with any other person so as not to induce unwanted hair or breast enlargements on t