just when you thought it was safe to get back into the water
Don’t mean to alarm/upset anyone but I may have been having sex till 5 o’clock this morning and then from 8 till 11 today…and once again in the shower! Which is easy when you know how.
It wasn’t great, I didn’t stay hard the entire time which was an endless source of frustration but still…
Watch this space.
who the fuck am i?
I’ve waited three years for any signs of life in my pants and on the 22nd of June at 1:30 in the morning I had the first yawning’s of a semi erection. Here’s what I’ve never been able to translate to my largely female following on here, not a brag, more a statistical fact but this is me so take it as you wish, the biggest issue with becoming impotent is your complete loss of identity.
I don’t ever write about penis envy because it’s something I’ve never thought about. Your dick is ugly, it hangs there like a drooping dog, falling helplessly over a scrotum filled with two testicles (if you’re fortunate) and lies dormant begging for titillation. Too stoic and even lazy to urinate by itself, it needs your hand to point it in the direction of the toilet/wall/motorway overhang/empty water bottle/ex’s bed sheets it is about to soak unless of course you have the innate desire to piss over yourself, your shoes or in your own trousers. Yes we can make it jolt with the same muscles both genders use to stop themselves from peeing but the moment is fleeting and hardly impressive, like a person letting out one last convulsion before they die. The ugliest of appendages. Unless it is hard.
Whether a man is gifted or among the less physically mature it matters not when he’s hard. Proud and filled with not just blood but the unforgivable urge to penetrate the soft delicate walls of the nearest cunt. I know you hate that word but it’s how it thinks and as I said, unforgivable. A hard dick is us saying to the world “I am about to fuck you. Hard and in as powerful a manner as you can stand.” and with it comes confidence. Thus even when it’s not there the confidence oozes through all, be they fans of intercourse or not, just the knowledge that you can.
One day you wake up and it’s gone. One of your testicles is gone. You lack the ability to envisage your identity. The body has said it cannot possibly create testosterone. You are therefore no longer able to penetrate the world, you have to learn to live a life where you develop moobs and very sensitive one’s at that, feel decidedly weaker, witness your thighs and bottom change shape and cellulite begin to develop & wonder of this is in part psychosomatic.
My dick was the same lifeless symbol it had been for the majority of my life but was now without the chance of being anything else.
I was no longer the alpha or the beta.
I was as good as dead but with sore breasts and I cried. A lot.
For the past 3 years I developed a new branch for my sense of humour. Other days I was miserable. Bi-polar living but really just long bouts of depression with the odd good spell thrown in. I realised I’ve never got over “her” and the “she” wasn’t one but all of my big loves. I realised that I never will be over these times in my history. I’ll think fondly of them safe in the understanding that love being the circular little shit fucker it is that I’ll fall again but happy to exclude past loves from the present I’ll put them out of mind unless I split from new loves. Then I’ll feel the emptiness, real emptiness where you can’t feel anything in your chest as the person you base your dependence [sic] on starts to drift away and you hate yourself. I’ll feel it, I’ll be helpless and then I’ll bang her sister. Or maybe I’ll find love and it will stick around in-spite of how my past experiences may have conditioned my romantic destiny.
I re-discovered real jealousy and paranoia. The sort that makes you hollow, unable to breath or sleep at night for months on end. The kind that makes you tear yourself apart through psychoanalysis and search for answers to questions in the wrong place. I hated myself. I felt bad for those who had wronged me and ashamed that I’d made them do it. I was too nice.
Then in my lowest point I had a heavy and disappointing bout of racism. On a bus one day I was sat next to two brown men who clutched bags to their chest and spoke in a language I didn’t know. They stared at their watches or messaged everyone in their phone when they weren’t reclining in their seats with eyes shut and mumbling. I was going to die at the hands of terrorists and this was happening now. Stuck to my seat with fear I waited for the first stop on the journey to run from them, why was nobody else as scared as I was? I felt sincere dread and it felt just like every other part of paranoia or loss or jealousy or the fact my dick didn’t want to work. I was hollow, I was empty and I wanted to cry.
Twice in my life I’ve thought about killing myself. Once when I discovered I wasn’t going to be a father and the girl I loved had invented the pregnancy and once when for some reason I felt like nothing and truly believed the world wouldn’t miss me. Both times I envisaged my funeral, who would be there, who would cry and would I be fondly remembered or put in the ground without much of a fuss. I can’t tell you how close I came because for the life of me I truly do not know. Both times a voice spoke to me (no not God, unless he has my accent) and said…
"Oi! Mate. You scared? Don’t worry yeh. You’re doing ok you know? Now see what’s bothering you and face it."
…I’m paraphrasing but then private conversations with oneself aren’t for others ears.
So there I was on this bus. Scared of brown men with bags so to escape the terror I thought I’d face it and talk to them. “Where are you off to?” I felt the words leave my chest more than my mouth and fear clung around for a while. Turns out they were Indian, one of them had lived here for 9 months and the other guy was visiting. I’d only gone and fallen victim to the overly aggressive media view of terrorism and the fact I was scared of them absolutely said more about me than them. At last I had a genuine reason to feel regret, shame, stupidity, disgust and hate for myself.
I got home and decided on two things, both mutually exclusive.
1. I will never be myself again until my dick can be erect.
2. I have to live in the present without fear of what may be.
There was a third.
3. Talk about it.
but that was a long time later…it’s where writing everything down and posting it in all it’s inarticulate, sexy glory on tumblr came in.
Today I write this on my phones notepad before I paste it to my tumblr and post it for your enjoyment or your general dismissal. I cannot control which. I have a semi working penis and with it a new hope of regaining/discovering who I am. My dick has been in my hand and nobody else’s. I haven’t had sex. Yet.
Nothing is your fault. You’re doing the best you can. Happiness is there if you want it.
I’m not a successful self made millionaire but fuck it, I just think that makes me more qualified to tell you in all earnestness what’s working for me.
I’m sexy, I’m fun and I’m gaining (even more) confidence with everyday. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be 30 in a week. Someone wrote to me on here after I said my dick worked saying “your dick works? Who’s better than you?”
We’re just getting started.
life is all about balance
I move back to London into a flat full of dancers - I don’t fancy any of them.
I see a suit I’d look great in - I can’t afford it.
My dick starts to work and I can masturbate - Sharapova gets knocked out of Wimbledon.
Just discovered yesterday was national kissing day and was also the 1,250th day since I last had sex!
party hats people!
Today is day 1,000!
Yes it’s 1,000 days that’s 24,000 hours/1,440,000 minutes/86,400,000 seconds since the guy writing this post has had his dick inside a woman.
January 5th 2010. That was the last time I had full sex with someone. Now I can tell you my dick hasn’t been a stranger to the odd adamant woman’s mouth (“I bet I can get it up”) or hand but never hard and never for long.
Think of the last time you went without for a while and now imagine it was for 1,000 days. See why I’m so messed in the head right now? Seriously, I want to fuck every woman I know and see that is of legal age and that I’m not related to.
A landmark indeed.
rehash and repeat
By now you know me. You can spot a poorly written article a mile off and see past that to see me for the dirty enthusiastic story teller that I am. It’s what I do. I enjoy telling a story and relish little things like details. Now although this makes for long winded accounts (I’ve read the criticisms) it’s just how I am. A 1 minute story takes 5 as my anecdotes have anecdotes. So why would this ever change? When people don’t fucking listen.
I have friends and acquaintances and maybe it’s just me but when I hear something, I remember it more so than reading something. This is due to an illiterate childhood where I did the bulk of my learning by remembering things I’d heard so now I can hear a line off TV or from a song lyric and it’ll stick…there’s probably a name for that. Audiographic? Sonographic? Someone find out for me. I don’t think it’s a requirement though for the issue I find myself faced with when bumping into old friends.
"Hey I lost my testicle, can’t get it up."
You won’t be shocked to learn that’s not how I broke the news to most folks, it was a self indulgent yarn replete with swearing, first hand detail of the situation and whimsical elements (like asking the GP for a dinosaur shaped prosthetic). I have mastered the story over the 2 years since it happened and there is none better than myself to tell it.
So last week I bumped into an old friend. We had worked together for a small amount of time about a year ago and I let her in on the issue. She replied with the usual though still sincere expressions of sympathy and curiosity. I answered her when she asked what the doctors had said and we hugged it out. That was a year ago, you can imagine my annoyance when Saturday she seemed utterly fucking clueless about the whole episode. She told me, “No, I’ve not been having loads of sex at all, I’ve been with one guy in the last 7 months (incredible as this girl once went through a dozen guys in two weeks) I bet you’ve been with more than I have.” I made a joke of it saying I hadn’t been with any guys at all so she was beating me but I could tell from her facial expression that she hadn’t remembered. All the effort gone into cultivating this grandiose tale of a rather traumatic time in my life that I seem quite comfortable sharing with all of you as I have no face on here but still can’t tell my own family in the real world. In fact only a small amount of people are remotely aware and these are people I trust. So should I expect them to remember?
I didn’t correct her as there were others around and although I knew them from the same environment as her, it didn’t feel right to tell them a year ago and nothing had changed Saturday. Sometimes I do remind them and their expression shifts with horror as they immediately regret not remembering. It happens. Sometimes I give them a small chance to remember and they still look at me perplexed. Is losing the ability to get it up so common that my version can be discarded with ease? It is far simpler for my closer friends to remember as they spend more time taking the piss out of it. Last Thursday I was in a bar with a friend when we both spotted this cute brunette so I told him I was going over to get her number to which he replied “Why bother? What if I wanted her? I mean it’s not like you can do anything with her or is this another girl you’re going to take home and get her to beat your flaccid cock while you sit crying at the foot of her bed?” This is the humor I like. I got her number anyway, went back to hers and ate her out because I don’t like being told what I can’t do.
There it is though. The newest update on my physical disability. I spend the odd moments reacquainting myself with old haunts and faces only to repeat myself over and over. When my NHS appointed shrink forgets about it, then I’ll know I’m in trouble.