I spotted in the property section of last Saturday’s Irish Examiner that the former home of a sex doctor, located in the Skibbereen area, is up for sale.
The article mentioned that the sex doctor had pulled out in the mid-noughties.
The suggestion being, that he left before the bang, and that it was a fairly unique property, owing to the unusual profession of the previous owner.
Well, I’ll tell you, back then, west Cork had more sex doctors than you could shake a stick at.
If you were to throw a sod of turf anywhere between here and Dunmanway, during them summers, most likely you’d hit an expert with regards to the libido.
They all came here to unwind for the summer, and were welcomed with open arms.
Anyhow, the piece reminded me of a sex doctor who lived only a toss of a coin from where I’m stationed right now, and a more entertaining and gregarious character I have yet to meet.
Drunk or sober, he was always great craic, for he always had a lively story to tell. An hour in his company, was worth ten hours stretched in front of the television.
He had more tales than a hundred cats.
“I thought” says I, one night after a few jars “that a doctor, such as yourself, had to obey some class of a Hippocratic oath?”
“Yerra,” says he “sure where would the fun be in that class of behaviour?”
He was never one to shy away from a good story.
No stone was ever left unturned, no name left unmentioned, as he trailed through an ocean of misfortune and misery suffered by those unable to perform like a stallion in the bed.
A single man himself, he never married, explaining that for him to marry would be the same as an alcoholic giving advice on the safe consumption of alcohol.
“Better to stay away from the quare thing altogether,” was his motto, ‘til his dying day.
“But what advice do you give?” I once asked, concerned for those in dire need.
“Yerra,” he said, “First of all, you sit yourself down, and then suggest that the troubled old soul lies back on the couch and tells you all his woes.
“And sure enough, most times they spill the beans without much encouragement. And most times, it is the same old story.”
Like an old ram with his harness strapped too tight, it was usually tension that was causing the trouble.
“Anyway, on they rattle about life, and I scribble away on a piece of paper, nodding away from time to time, and sometimes nodding off entirely.”
The doctor was often able to complete the Farming crossword during such sessions, and was very thankful for it.
“Without that Farming crossword, I would have gone mad entirely,” the sex doctor confessed.
Anyhow, in the end, his advice to the patient was always the same.
“Go home now, eat a steak for your supper, tonight, tomorrow night and the night after, and if you come back to me again, you’ll be the first.”
And sure enough, he never had a repeat caller. After the steak suppers, every man would be like a matador.
“But what if they were a vegetarian?” I once asked.
“If they were a vegetarian, I say ‘sure there’s your problem!’”
The sex doctors of west Cork were always on the ball.