My animal instinct won out over reason. I may have been as excited as a macaque in mating season, but I’m also the kind of man who appreciates the discretion of hygiene.
That’s why I had a bidet installed in my London flat.
By the time I get to the villa, a flash of volcanic heat has ignited the front of my underwear and its contents, followed by a persistent burning sensation.
I take a total of three ice-cold showers—for once, the broken boiler isn’t an issue—but once the cold water’s temporary numbing effect wears off, the burning flares up stronger than ever.
The chili pepper. I have a mental flashback in which Pompilia, before launching into her oral performance, sucked a finger dripping with her demonic tomato soup.
Around three o’clock in the morning, my penis turns lobster orange; at four o’clock, it’s red; at five, Pompeian red; and over the following two hours, it reaches shades of cardinal purple and gangrene. At seven thirty, just before it’s about to turn dark blue, I get dressed and rush to the pharmacy.
I enter with an embarrassing waddle, and with a good dose of stoicism, I await my turn while the pharmacist and the baker chat about this and that, as if I weren’t there.
“I’m so sorry,” I interrupt them. “I have an urgent request.”
“Oh, good morning. Even our English friend here has become a loyal customer!” he exclaims in his usual booming voice.
“Yes, well, you happen to be the only pharmacy for miles,” I say.
“Good, good. Wyddayaneed?” he asks, in a thick Tuscan accent I can hardly make out.
“What?”
“Wyddayaneed?” he shouts again, as if I hadn’t heard.
“I don’t understand. Can you speak more slowly?”
“Wa-d-ya-need? What do you need?”
“I need something for ... for a burning sensation,” I say, refraining from clutching the crotch of my jeans in desperation.
“A burning throat? I have this spray, just spritz as needed,” he decrees, slapping the package in my hand.
“No, it’s not my throat,” I say, pushing it back to him.
“Ah, so it’s a stomach problem. Then you need Gaviscon. This will take care of it, but you have to eat bland food for the next two days.”
“I think you’ve misunderstood. It’s a burning sensation further ... further down.”
The pharmacist claps his hands. “Hemorrhoids! Eh, Preparation H,” he announces, waving a yellow box in the air that you could see from the main square.
“I don’t need Preparation H.”
A lady intervenes. “Preparation H is great, you know! I use it for wrinkles. Look how smooth my skin is.”
“Ma’am, would you mind standing back to wait your turn?” I blurt out. “I don’t have hemorrhoids,” I reiterate through clenched teeth.
“So what’s the matter?” ask the pharmacist and the baker in unison.
I lean forward so no one can hear me. “It’s my penis,” I whisper.
“Why didn’t you say so?” asks the pharmacist.
“I tried.”
“What happened? Did you polish it a little too much?” asks the baker.
“I think it got burned.”
