Harold had few faults. He was tidy, clean and inoffensive. He liked ordinary plain food and enjoyed nothing more than to walk with friends across the moors or beside the lake. He sometimes chided himself that instead of going to the pub like other men, he would stay at home and put his feet up with a mug of cocao.
His wife, Monica, was similarly inclined – her home cooking was superb, and she pottered about the semi-detached garden weeding, tidying, trimming. Before bed she'd regularly relax in the bath.
The problem, however, had always been there. She noticed it even before their lovely white wedding, even before they had shared a bed, even before they had finished their first date. It was his problem and it had simply not diminished as she had hoped, and he had prayed, over the years. The problem was his wandering eyes.
He just couldn't help it. When a woman walked past, he had to look at her. Whether walking, driving, cycling, sitting, watching TV, in the dentist's waiting room, on the number 9 bus, when at work – he stared just about anywhere! But to use the word 'stare' was a bit strong. No, he just couldn't help noticing. He noticed their attractive faces, their delicate skin, their thin arms, their gracious necks, their fine hair, their solid torsos and thin waists, their fleshy thighs, their beautiful clothes, their bouncing bottoms, smooth calves, delicate ankles, exciting shoes and pretty feet. He particularly enjoyed noticing boobs, from flatline small to pendulous and gargantuan swingers, and couldn't help but think of them in his hands – what kind of nipple they might have, what their consistency was when within his grasp...
These erotic daydreams didn't exactly fill his thoughts, but they popped in and out of his mind with a regularity that felt to him as normal as a casual reading of the paper. But it wasn't always so. The mere sight of a woman had aroused very strong emotions in the younger Harold. He would often be so aroused that he would have no option but find quiet places to masturbate – at school, in college, even on his first day at work. But the fixations of his intense self-arousal were not the deliberate manifestations of any special stimulation of the day; they were more the combined effect. He came upon the merged effect of all women – all the bums and skirts, all the cleavage and tops, all the hair-dos and shoes.
His wife, however, found it all too much. She watched him at the lights: if an eyelid so much as flinched as a pretty girl nonchalantly made the crossing then he would get a stern rebuke, or even a slap. If they were at a restaurant and she thought his eyes were noticing too much about the approaching waitress, then he would receive a belting kick under the table. It wasn't that he didn't love her – for he was devoted. He would do anything for his beloved wifey – even she could notice that. But his noticing was too hard to ignore, and impossible for him to turn off. She couldn't cope with it and he simply couldn't control it.
Things came to a head at her birthday party. She noticed him noticing her sister – her very own sister! That night they had a blazing row where she accused him of flirting, of affairs, of being an unfeeling monster who put others first and made her feel insignificant. This was too much. He was reduced to a blubbering wreck. They discussed his noticing in the past, that he had promised not to notice, to reform and take charge of his eyes like a man, but now at 3:30 am, after two and a half hours of non-stop badgering, he was broken. He was thoroughly ashamed and felt completely rotten. This problem was bigger than him. He needed help.
The following morning he made an appointment with the surgery. At 11.00 am Doctor Crowther admitted him to his consulting room and Harold made his sorry confession at length and in detail. The doctor listened in silence, pen in hand and head tilted to one side, scribbled a few notes in Harold's thin file, then made his pronouncement.
"Hmmm... you have a problem. And it sounds like you've tried everything in your power to resolve this. I think it's time you let the professionals take over. I will suggest you go to see this man–" the doctor scribbled a name on a pad, "and see what he has to say. He's very good, is a personal friend, and has worked with many of the best – stars of screen and stage, academics, industrialists, financiers and politicians. If he can't help you, then come back and I'll see what else I can do."
So, indeed, with Monica's blessing Harold chased up the appointment with Dr Bloom. He suggested a course of drug treatment. Harold took the little green pills religiously for three months, but nothing changed and the eyes followed boobs, bottoms and thighs. Dr Bloom suggested something a little stronger and took Harold off the pills and gave him a course of aversion therapy, using elastic bands and even a pin to prick himself whenever he found his eyes resting on a beautiful girl's hairline or ankle chain. But Harold ended up snapping all the elastic bands and pricking his fingers and thumbs so much that he resembled a pin cushion. Dr Bloom then suggested his last resort – electro-shock therapy. In a state of desperation, Harold was taken to the hospital where the convulsive treatment was given. Although he awoke feeling calm, and even collected, it was seconds before he noticed the nurse's starched uniform was having an effect, and he was back to square one. Despite repeated attempts to change his behaviour, he remained a dogged and miserable observer of the delights of womankind.
Returning to Doctor Crowther at 11:30 the next day, he felt ashamed to reveal that none of the treatments had worked. As Harold retailed his litany of failed treatment, the good doctor listened once again in silence, his head inclined and his pen once again held in his hand, before scribbling more short notes, this time complete with underlines.
"Hmmm... this problem is worse than I thought. I don't doubt that you have tried your hardest, nor that the professionals have done their best, but perhaps it is time for drastic action. Have you considered homosexuality? I wonder if you should take a good look at diverting your attentions towards men instead. Come back in one month after you have done something about it."
Harold was not sure about this rather unorthodox approach. It seemed like some sort of perversion to him. But he was desperate – more so than before. So with heavy heart he told his beloved wife the doctor's peculiar advice and she suggested he go to the Cricketer's Arms to see if oogling at men would change things for the better. He turned up the next Friday night in spandex and lycra, trying to smile. Standing at the bar a regular, Steve, struck up conversation with him. Not wishing to feign interest for therapy's sake, he accepted the offer of a quickie in the toilets, just in case this would dilute his unsatisfiable cravings for the sight of a girl. The gay man closed the toilet door behind him, grabbed him around his waist and, running his hands down the inside of his leggings to his groin, took his member within his fingers. Harold winced. No one had done anything like that to him – except for Monica, and that only after a bath. It wasn't right. He tried to enjoy it, but in truth all he could think about was a spectacularly large pair of tits. Realising this was not going to work, he stopped Steve from going too far, politely thanked him for his understanding and walked back home to bawl his eyes out on poor Monica's bony lap. Monica also wept: how could they overcome this seemingly insuperable obstacle to marital harmony?
Returning at 11:55 am the next day to the excellent Doctor Crowther, Harold retailed how useless stab at homosexual therapy had been. The Doctor once again tilted his head, held his pen, scribbled his notes and said, "Hmmm... I fear this problem will only have one solution: surgery. I will make an appointment at once."
So saying, an appointment was made with the leading ocular specialist at the local general hospital. Harold turned up next day and, after a preliminary examination, was admitted for the double enucleation. The operation was a success and Harold was returned to his private room to recover.
It was more than a day before he roused to full consciousness, the effects of the anaesthetic taking a long time to wear off. He tried to open his eyes to focus on something else; but they had gone. Groggy, he asked for water.
He felt a hand – it was Monica's. He sensed she was worried: had the operation worked? At last he would now not be able to notice other women. He'd be free from all this noticing: both he and she would at last be happy – they'd both be happy together! But as he came to, now completely unable to see, his first thought was of the perfect small of a woman's back – its delicious sensuous curve like a venusian wave upon a sea of engaging tranquility.
Harold tried to cry, but he had no eyes.
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