1
Erection in Retrograde
Geoff
Iknow the exactmoment things go wrong because my body announces it with the confidence of a PowerPoint slide titledTechnical Difficulties.
We’re kissing. It’s good kissing. The sort where her mouth is decisive and her hands are curious without being grabby. There’s wine involved. Obviously. There’s always wine when you’re forty-five and pretending you still do this casually. Her flat smells faintly of something floral and expensive, which suggests candles… which suggests effort… which suggests expectations.
And then there’s me.
Or rather, there isn’t.
My cock, usually a reliable if occasionally overeager colleague, has decided tonight is a hard no. Not a maybe. Not a slow start. A full refusal to participate. He’s not even pretending to wake up. He’s clocked off, put his feet up, and is watching the whole situation with detached interest.
I panic internally while smiling externally, which I’ve perfected over years of client meetings and family dinners.
This is fine, I tell myself. This happens. Stress. Age. Wine. Mercury in retrograde. The ghost of my twenties shaking its head at me.
She pulls back slightly and smiles, the kind that’s warm and inviting and absolutely going to be followed by trousers coming off. I know this because I am not new to women, despite what my current situation might suggest.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say instantly. The response of a liar.
I kiss her again with enthusiasm that borders on performance art. If enthusiasm were enough, we’d be halfway to naked by now. Unfortunately, enthusiasm is not the same thing as circulation.
Her hand slides lower. My brain promptly forgets how to function while I focus all available energy on appearing composed. I do not flinch. I do not squeak. I do not push her hand away like a startled Victorian maiden. I allow it to rest there, hoping against hope that this will be the moment my body remembers what it’s for.
Nothing.
There is no stirring. No flicker. No polite acknowledgement.
I consider coughing loudly. I consider pretending I’ve left the oven on. I consider confessing to a crime just to end the evening.
She shifts, clearly registering the situation, and, because she is a kind human being rather than a monster, she does not make a thing of it. Somehow that makes the moment even more awkward.
“Do you want to slow down?” sheasks gently.
This is my out. This is the graceful exit ramp. This is where I nod thoughtfully and say something emotionally mature and dignified.
Instead, I say, “I think I might be coming down with something.”
What that something is remains a mystery. Cholera. Consumption. A medieval wasting disease. Anything that would explain why my body has suddenly decided we are done with pleasure forever.
She blinks. “Oh.”
“Yes,” I say, leaning into it now. “Bit of a stomach thing. Probably the wine. Or the cheese. Or… life.”
She laughs politely, and I deserve that. We disentangle ourselves with the careful choreography of two adults pretending this is normal. I put my shoes on too quickly. She offers water. I decline because water is for men who are staying.
At the door she touches my arm. “We can do this another time.”
“Yes,” I say again. “Definitely. When I’m… less sick-ly.”
I leave before I dig an even deeper hole for myself, which I am fully capable of doing.
Outside, the night air hits my face. I stand on the pavement like a man who has just been gently rejected by his own anatomy. I take a breath. Then another. Then a third, just to be dramatic.
