Tech-tosterone

The mysterious Doctor X and the buffing of the tech bro

I’ve been thinking about this for awhile. Why do all of our tech billionaires look totally different than in previous years? After some research, I found someone who was qualified and willing to explain this phenomenon: the mysterious, and fictitious, Doctor X. We met in person last week in Silicon Valley, at an address I’m pretty sure no longer exists. This is what happened.

I pull my car into the parking lot of a strip mall in a sketchy part of the South Bay. Technically it’s Silicon Valley, but this neighborhood somehow escaped any shred of tech wealth. I park and immediately see a some kind of big black hawk, huddled next to a garbage can, standing on top of a seagull, pecking at its eyes. Nature can be rough.

A row of offices promises the usual drab commercial hustles: run-of-the-mill pizza, insurance, pawn shop, a nail salon. A door at the end of the building opens, and a man comes out to greet me. He sports a man-bun, and wears a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. He looks about 30 but it’s hard to tell. He’s all bulked up, thick neck and torso, giant arms hanging to either side. He’s like a DC or Marvel superhero that nobody asked for.

He pumps a fist in recognition: “Dude!”

This is the guy. The doctor behind the new generation of jacked-up billionaires. For some reason, he wants to tell his story. We had agreed the location would not be revealed, and that he would remain anonymous. But he does ask to be identified as Doctor X.

He opens the flimsy screen door and we walk into his office: wood paneling, a few desks and computers, and a sound system roaring with heavy metal. It sounded vaguely familiar.

“Is this Metallica?” I ask. “From the album Kill ‘Em All?”

He smacks my arm. “You know it, dude!”

Remember when America’s computer kings were wimpy? Intelligent, shy little guys, concave chests, perhaps some moles. People like Bill Gates and Pierre Omidyar, diminutive dweebs guzzling sodas and programming into the dawn, launching companies and getting all of us addicted to their platforms. They grew into rich adults but still looked like they were 14. That was the previous generation.

Thanks to Doctor X, today’s tech oligarchs are kings of the jungle. They all have the same preposterous physique. We see these buffed-out CEOs laughing on their yachts, testifying before Congress with bicep guns and ripped abs. They’re challenging each other to cage matches, field-testing the best bio-hacks money can buy. They were once pale nerds just like Bill Gates, with cheap sweaters and dime-store haircuts. So what happened?

Doctor X happened. These are his clients, and they are accustomed to getting whatever they want: weight loss, weight gain, hair perms, hair plugs, scrotal rejuvenation. And the most popular? Testosterone Replacement Therapy.

“It’s better than ‘roids! Everyone is doing it,” says the Doctor, turning down the music and motioning that I take a chair. “There used to be T-Parties in the Valley, which were crazy! But the blowback was huge so now we’ve gone more underground.”

“So, wait.” It seemed unbelievable to me. “Tech billionaires come to this shitty little strip mall to get their testosterone replaced?”

“Nah, not here. It’s all off-site,” he says. “I get the call, I grab a Go Bag, and hop a private jet to wherever they are. I just got back from the Seychelles.” He exhaled a huge plume of smoke. “You want a hit off this vape?”

“No thanks. So how do they know to approach you?”

“Referrals only. We jump on a video chat and I ask them, hey, what do you need? Muscles? Hair? Lose 50 pounds? Some of them want a bubble butt—hey, I don’t ask. They’re techies, so I play them videos for inspiration. Do you want to look like The Terminator? Bluto from Popeye? Or Stretch Armstrong, the little toy? Those three always get them talking.”

“So it’s not about going to the gym, hiring a trainer, or changing the diet?”

“Takes too long. These people want it yesterday! All you need is the money.”

“Okay, I can understand weight loss, and the hair implants. But how does TRT work?”

“You can administer it a few different ways. Skin patches, pellet implants. Nasal gels. Injections are the hot thing right now. Get a fresh shot every 1-4 weeks. Feed the beast. That’s mostly what I’m doing lately. My shit is pure, too. None of that UGL homebrew.”

I’m growing aware that this guy might not be a licensed medical practitioner. “So you fly around the world with a bagful of syringes, and meet these guys in whatever country, and just give them a testosterone booster shot?”

“Hell yeah, it’s awesome. Any muscle will do—the thigh, the butt. I don’t do arms, just in case there’s a rash.”

“And what does it do exactly?”

“Muscles, dude. Stronger bones. Lose the fat. It’s an energy boost. And your sex drive goes off the charts. One of my clients got busted in Paris for trying to fuck a horse in front of his hotel.”

We both are silent for a moment. Because, what do you say to that? I ask about the side effects of TRT.

“Ah, the usual,” he waves it off. “Sleep apnea. Zits. Man tits. Prostate growth, testicle shrinkage, blah blah. There’s also something about blood clotting, but I’ve never seen it.”

A burner phone rings on the desk and Doctor X answers. “Yep…you’re on the island now? No sweat, dude, I’ll just chopper in from Miami.” He stands up. “Look it’s been real but I gotta get going. You want a free patch for later?”

I take the patch, and we say goodbye. Driving home on 101, I think about Doctor X juicing the nation’s billionaires, morphing their bodies and tweaking their personalities in some kind of perverse chemical-fueled experiment in vanity. Where was it all leading? A century ago, America’s aristocrats were proudly overweight, and smoked cigars, and had special bathtubs constructed to accommodate their size. Are we looking at a future where all the money, all of our personal data, is controlled by thick-necked muscle freaks, covered in acne? With tiny balls? I’m going to do my part, for the country, for the future, for all mankind. I roll down the window and toss out the patch.