What follows is the fourth installment of the "Dear Henry" letters published in reFRESH Magazine. Once again, I'm struggling to break away from Henry.

SOUND ADVICE

Dear Henry,

In my last correspondence I said good-bye to you in as many different languages as I possibly could. And any normal person would have just told me to bugger off and gone on with their lives, but not you. Your response was, "My friends Todd and Glenn, who are a 'power gay' couple, have invited me to spend the weekend with them at their house by the sea. Walks on the beach. Fresh air. Warm fireplaces. Watching the stars from their terrace. Gourmet food. My advice is; rethink our relationship and please join me?"

I wasn't sure what 'power gay" meant, but it sounded like they had a lot money so I had to say yes. (Sometimes my own shallowness frightens me.)

Instantly I had visions of us driving up to a Victorian architectural jewel of a mansion. We'd scamper from one stunning room to the next till we discovered our honeymoon suite. With gorgeous views of the ocean and crackling logs burning in the fireplace, we'd jump up into our four-poster bed and make mad passionate love. Then, as the sun is setting we'd stroll down the beach hand-in-hand and run back to the house and make love again. Too tired to cook from all the mind-blowing sex, we'd go out to a five star restaurant offering us sinfully delicious taste treats and we'd drink their most expensive wine only to rush back to our love nest and go at it again.

Hey, I'm a romantic.

But when we arrived at the house by the sea instead of a Victorian jewel we found a rundown 1980's timeshare condo, ten blocks from the ocean and ten thousand light years away from being romantic.

And I wouldn't say we scampered from room to room. Instead, we tripped, since there were only three; a living room and two bedrooms and all were horribly cluttered. And visions of hopping up into our honeymoon bed decked out in 1500 thread count sumptuous Egyptian sheets were squashed when we were put up in the children's bedroom with two twin beds fitted with broken-in rubber sheets.

A warm fire? They had no fireplace. But you advised me not to criticize too quickly when you noticed on our way to the gourmet restaurant, TGI Friday, that someone had set ablaze a trashcan on the street. How dreamy.

Walks on the beach? Sure, but we had to dodge in and out the pilings supporting the smoking oil refinery burping out sludge onto the sand.

And 'power gays'? I found out they are the most talented, successful and financially rewarded A- list gay men. Being a housecleaner and a dog groomer, I think Todd and Glenn are more like 'power poofs'. And their stories of being addicted to heroin and then finding Jesus and now adopting children horrified me. I haven't a maternal bone in my body but I was extremely concerned, after we polished off their box of wine, when Todd confessed to me that the Russian kid was missing a finger and he was going to send it back. The kid, that is.

Well, I took your advice and went out onto their tiny cement balcony to get some fresh air and enjoy the parking lot but failed to find a single star in the night sky due to massive amounts of pollution. It was then that you joined me and I immediately fell to my knees. No, I wasn't feeling amorous. Actually I thought you had stabbed me in the back.

Thank you Henry for rushing me back to the city and waiting patiently in the emergency room while they did a cat scan of my pelvic floor. Who knew nine giant kidney stones growing in my two little kidneys could be such a blessing?

The doctors wanted to flush the stones out with IV fluids but it was a teaching hospital and I was awarded the one student who had never inserted a shunt into a "human" arm before. I was so grateful when you took over and showed him a thing or two. What are you, a closeted phlebotomist or a junkie? Don't answer that.

Plan B, I took your advice and tried your home remedy for dissolving kidney stones; six cans of cola consumed in two hours followed by one pound of raw asparagus juice then holding my bladder for as long as I could while doing a headstand. I did and promptly threw up, upside down while wetting my pants.

Plan C was shock wave therapy; bombarding my stones with 3000 zaps of acoustical sound. But of course my rocks were made of kryptonite and the shock didn't shake a thing so on to plan D.

The doctor explained to us that he would slide a scope into my penis and travel through my bladder, on up to my ureter and then carefully lazar the stones, all while I was awake. Barely able to breath at the thought of this medieval torture device, you mortified me with what you said next.

"Hey Doc, I know people who enjoy the sensation of metal objects slipping into their wieners."

"Yes," the doctor said expressionless. "Those are sounds, hence we call it sounding."

"Some guys shove pens and plastic chopsticks in there," you added eagerly, "but I prefer spit and a thermometer. I like to see how hot I can get."

Hot? Personally, I found the subject so revolting that I started retching violently. And low and behold, due to the extreme spasms and contortions of my body, I dislodged and birthed my nine little babies all on my own.

Henry I'm not judging you, but you're a freak. Don't contact me, again. And if you insist on stuffing yourself with inanimate objects, please use the mercury filled glassed thermometer for taking temperature IN YOUR MOUTH ONLY and go to the local sex shop and buy yourself a tub of lube and a safe stainless steel rod.

That's just sound advice.

All the best,
Arthur