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I have brief and uncertain memories of being about 7 years old, and running around a playground. I went to a small, private Christian school where they had converted a barn-like structure into a gymnasium. The playground was off to the side of this barn, separated by a parking lot converted to a basketball court. There were swings and monkey bars, and they all seemed so enormous at the time.

I remember running up the silver, shiny side of the slide as I was being chased by those wretched annoying girls (prepubescent years as a boy dictate that girls were annoying). As they’d catch up to me midway up the slide, I distinctly remember two small hands firmly planted on my buttocks, violently pushing me forward, causing me to slip and lose my grip, consequently slamming my face down on the metal surface and hearing the chink of my front tooth bounce off the slide and onto the grass. This was before I had braces.

I blacked out, not before seeing some stars and awoke lying on the grass with my hands in a fist. Opening my hand, I saw the piece that should’ve been attached to my front tooth. I considered using some kind of cementing glue to put it back on, but was concerned my tongue would remain permanently stuck to the roof of my mouth giving me a lisp that would undoubtedly endanger my future as a heterosexual male.

That chipped tooth has since then prominently stood out in front as the vanguard of enamel, reminding me of that day and of my childhood. Some twenty years later, that tooth has begun to show early signs of darkening and decay. It turns out, my tooth has been slowly dying, all these years. Well, just the nerve endings I suppose. Meanwhile, all this time, I thought I just had coffee stained teeth.

Don’t be mistaken, the rest of my teeth are pretty yellow too, its just this one is much more apparent in its discoloration. My trip to the dentist today uncovered this truth. It was decided that I may need a root canal, or in the worse case scenario, a fake tooth to replace it. Worse case is a fake tooth? I would’ve assumed a root canal was the worst case scenario.

I can’t imagine a fake tooth being that bad, particularly if it was made of gold. Or even perhaps with a tattoo of a lightning bolt emblazed upon the front of the tooth. Maybe an implanted microchip and some WiFi receptors so that I’d be a walking hotspot.

Going to the dentist is becoming more and more like going to trial. Have you been flossing? Am I under oath? If so, the answer is still yes. I can’t floss, I have all kinds of wires behind my teeth. It’s like a circuit board back there. As a result, I have about six inches of tartar build up from two years of avoiding the dentist, and lately its been killing me. I can’t stand it. I’ve tried unsuccessfully to clean my own teeth just to avoid this guilt-ridden visit. I’ve tried a Swiss Army knife, a hammer and chisel, even a ice pick. To no avail!

Luckily, my hygienist was a really cute blonde girl, probably fresh out of dental school. Tall, slender, and dark eyes; flawless olive skin and a gentle disposition. Our first encounter was spoiled, as for some odd reason, I couldn’t control my saliva while she was prodding around in my mouth. Is it inappropriate to start salivating uncontrollably when a cute girl pries open your jaws like its a bear trap?

I nearly confessed to her, about my attempts at cleaning my own teeth at home, and the makeshift dental equipment I’d fashioned out of elastic bands and paper clips. Apparently, we’re not at the stage in our relationship yet. This particular appointment today was just an assessment, and no scaling was to be done. No scaling until the next appointment which is in… four weeks! Four weeks! How am I going to last that long? I am running out of paper clips!

Why hasn’t any dentist invented a home scaling kit yet? I wanted to ask her to come over tomorrow, for perhaps a romantic night of candlelight dinner, movie and a full scaling. Or screw it, just slip me the tools, and I’ll do it myself. Some people wash their hair on Friday nights, I do my own scaling. There is nothing quite like a glass of red wine, a game of Scrabble and a good old fashioned tartar scraping to finish out a hard week at work.

Everytime time I go see my dentist, he tries to upsell me on a new accessory. The first time, it was this new and improved electric toothbrush for a million dollars. I was on a tight budget at the time, so I passed. Then it was this miracle floss that was made of gold. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I don’t floss, and that actually, I’ve been lying to him all this time. Lying to my dentist, is quickly becoming a natural recourse to his hard-hitting questions of flossing frequency.

The last upsell was for this pimped-out mouth-guard — to prevent grinding your teeth. Apparently, I grind my teeth. Three-hundred pounds of pressure on my molars, he says. Like an elephant stampede, even. So I bought it and three-hundred dollars later (one dollar per pound) I have what looks a whole lot like a retainer. Of course, it is also extremely uncomfortable. And I’m suppose to use this every night.

The first night I wore them, I had a nightmare that someone was applying a hammer in measured beats to my back molars, just for fun. I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, and threw the stupid mouth-guard across the room.

It all reminded me of when I had to wear a retainer after I got my braces off. I had braces for two years, back in ‘98 and those two years were altogether forgettable. It’s not easy approaching a beautiful girl at a bar, let alone doing it without opening your mouth and showing your teeth. You could mumble, and appear mysterious, but that novelty wears off all too quickly.

Even if they’ve accepted you and your wired mouth, you could blow it entirely by stopping mid-conversation to suck in a loud intake of your breath through your mouth to stop the unbidden flow of drool coming out of the corner of your mouth. Drooling is, if you haven’t noticed, the instant conversation killer.

Kissing became a challenge for someone already so awkward as I was at 19. Licking my chops and making sure there was no impending drool to come, I made ready my approach. Who knows, maybe they’re into S&M. Along with my stainless-steel oral accessories, I also boasted ass-less chaps and a bull-whip. I could see the other girl contemplating fleet. A mouth full of barb wire — some girls would be bold and adventurous to risk their lips on them. The first time you cut their lips, it’s kinky; the second time, it’s grounds for assault.

I haven’t since used that nightmare-inducing mouth guard. I tried it on again tonight just to see if I could sleep with it in my mouth and it just ended up making me so very angry. Three-hundred dollars for something I don’t use. I could’ve got a high society hooker for that amount of money. I’m hoping that I could convince my dentist to take back this useless mouth guard and instead, get me some grills.

I have 5 brothers ranging from 26 to 52(?), with an average of 3-4 years difference between each one. Each brother comes fully equipped with a smattering of coarse, sharp facial hair and a sharp tongue to match. Being the youngest of 6 boys, and the runt of the litter, I’ve learned one true life lesson: eat fast or don’t eat at all.

I have two older sisters; one is 10 years older than me, and the other, about 15 years my senior. When I was 13, my brothers would be out playing Minor League hockey, and I’d be home reading Cosmo with the younger sister. The older sister was married when I was only 4, and lived with her husband. I usually hung out with the younger sister for the better half of my childhood. I spent the other half of my childhood marvelling at the wonders of pubic hair (which came just in time for my 18th birthday).

Because I was 13 and never played hockey, my brothers always worried for my heterosexual health. For some reason, hockey equals testosterone and clearly I was lacking in that department. Reading Cosmo was helping me understand girls and why late-bloomers are usually the best-bloomers. Not playing hockey was giving my brothers a reason to kick my ass. So I tried to play hockey and grunted a lot, for their sake.

I never liked playing hockey. Not because I was 4 foot nothing and would get squashed by everyone else; not because I couldn’t skate 5 metres to save my life; not because the sticks towered over me like trees. It was because I’d have to be the goalie. The smallest guys get to be goalie. I hated being the goalie. And I was the worst goalie in the neighbourhood.

When someone took a shot at the net, I’d run for my life. I ran out of the way. In hockey, if you’re the goalie that means, everyone is shooting the puck directly at you. If they could, they would blast that puck so hard it would rip through your wheezy chest (if you had asthma like I did back then) and then they’d all cheer. So, I ran out of the way.

Needless to say, no one was impressed at this turn of events. As it was my brothers would make me stand in front of a hockey net, tie my hands to each goal post like J.C. being crucified on the cross, and fire slap shots at me until I could handle playing hockey with them. ‘Don’t be a pussy. Just stand there, its not going to fucking kill you, you little baby.’ they’d say. Then they’d fire five hard slap shots at me. Let me just say, I’m amazed I never blocked that trauma out of my memory banks.

Mercifully, they used tennis balls instead of those hard pucks. But I still screamed each time they took a shot. I did my best to make it sound like a war cry, but it usually ended up as a whimper. Of course, I would be layered with ‘protective’ equipment like an apron. And oven mitts. And if I was lucky, a spaghetti pot with pillow lining for a helmut. I wore a jock strap, secretly.

My Dad would come outside with the garbage, walk right past us, drop the bag of garbage on the curb, walk back inside, without a word. I’d be looking frantically at him out the side of my eyes, trying to make a telepathic connection for him to notice that one of his sons is tied to a hockey net. Once, without even turning his head, he said, ‘Be careful not to put a dent in the garage door,’ apparently, not so concerned about the dents about to be put in his youngest son! My brothers would be watching me to make sure I never made any plea for help from my Dad, but that wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He wasn’t going to save me.

When they finally thought I was ready, they’d untie my hands, and have one brother stand to one side, leaning on his hockey stick, looking extremely menacing, in case I decided to run. When you see a 50 mph hockey puck coming at you, every instinct in your body says, RUN FOR YOUR LIFE. But I stood my ground, because one hockey puck is nothing compared to the pummelling of 3 older brothers. The other 2 brothers were married and off taking care of their own family. At that point, I seriously thought things would be easier if there was a testosterone pill I could take that would spare me from this rigorous Hetero Man training.

“I’m going to untie you, but don’t move, got it?”

“Okay.” Never mind that I had to move to make the save.

“What do you mean Okay!?” he asked, tightening his grip on the stick.

“Okay, I won’t move,” I said. “Especially with you holding that stick.”

He turned to look down the driveway and gave a fierce bellow.

 ”Fire!”

“JESUS!” I screamed.

I did in fact move, just enough to kick out my left foot and save the shot.

After that, each time I played hockey, as the goalie, I would scream when I made a save. It was very distracting to the kids on the other team, but my brothers didn’t care because it meant we would win. If I screamed a lot then that meant I was making a lot of saves. I was actually a pretty good goalie, with fast reflexes, no longer being afraid of the puck.