Among the many joys of the passing years are the colourful and imaginative additions one suddenly finds on one’s annual medical. Up to the age of 39 it’s all innocent fun – “look this way”, “cough”, “are you remembering to wear a condom?” nudge nudge wink wink, and so on: on the whole still very similar to when they’d make you run around the gym in your underwear at Primary School.
And then you hit 40.
All at once a very long and scary list of intrusive tests appears, apparently brainstormed by world-class sadists in the Violent Wing at Broadmoor and then rigorously ranked for high Pain and Humiliation quotients. One is required to fast. There are needles. There are smears. There are more needles. You are no longer allowed to keep the underwear on. And now it’s the car park, not the gym.
Above all, there’s the prostate exam. My doctor is a personable young black woman who has learnt to channel several centuries of racial tension via her index finger, summoning unbelievable killing force into that humble digit like a kung fu master. I wouldn’t mind so much except for her accompanying cry of “Virgin no more!”, which I felt was frankly unnecessary.
And yet, amid strange sparkly lights and the dizzying musical ringing in the ears, I have an epiphany, if it’s possible to have an epiphany when one’s eyes are quite so tightly shut. If gay men are prepared to put up with similar or worse voluntarily, for love, who are we to deny them a wedding band? Surely no greater proof of devotion can be asked or offered. Skip the bans and break out the confetti, I say. They’ve earnt it.
Not lesbians, tho’. They have it too easy already…
A gay marriage, yesterday. Fair play to them.