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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. 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. She told me 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 an ice pick, all 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.

She touches my teeth like no other woman does. Fondling my pink, flush gums, I am overcome with a sense of awkwardness. I think she likes me. This is not good. I have a girlfriend; what’s going to happen? I am an unbendable rod of fidelity! But I can’t get away from this cursed chair! She’s strapped me in and tied a freaking hanky around my neck! My hands, gripping the knobs on the arms of this slippery, vinyl chair, I squirm beneath each touch, trying my best to avert my eyes from her gaze. The palpitations of her heart echo through the soft latex gloves on her hands.

“Look this way, please.” Sure right into your breasts! Clever girl, this hygenist, thinking she can seduce me like this. No, you will not break me, I won’t fall under your gauzy spell.

“Slight bleeding, behind 6-4. Gums are enflamed.” Just like your heart I bet, you hussy! You can’t have me! My silent cries are stayed and I remain to endure the proximity of her face, inches above mine.

“Front maxilla canis, 2mm.” She softly breaths out the measurements being so obvious about it to make sure I would catch her sense of admiration in her trembling voice. I became flushed and tried to renew my struggle with vigor; my eyes dart to the ceiling looking for a divine hand to save me. She leans closer brushing her hands across my chin (oh, that naughty latex feeling!), and suddenly waves of uncertainty flood me over.

She was wearing me down. I felt weak, beneath the hot orange lamp; driblets of sweat running away from me, along with my will. No! I must champion this fight, I cannot lie here helplessly while she seduces me with her cajoling words of enflammed body parts! I must fight!

“I have a girlfriend!” I burst out, with my mouth filled with her tools.

She pauses, pulling out her silver tool of the trade, The Tartar Picker. Gleaming in the flourescent light, it’s doubly-curved ends, resemble a sickle. A small glint of light bounces off the pointed tip. Her assistant looks at her, then down at me. The room is completely silent. Will she strike me down with the Picker? Will she break the dam of rage from this unrequited affection for me?

No, she gently lays down her weapon, and lowers her face mask, saying something quietly while motioning some burly gentleman over. Clearly, her muscleman is here to exact her revenge on me and I will be pummeled. I brace for impact, but at the last minute, he lifts me out of my seat with one hand, and escorts me out of the building, leaving me to wonder if she will ever get over me.