I’ve had awkward sex. Bad sex. Sex where someone cried unexpectedly. Sex where a fire alarm went off. Sex involving a cat that refused to leave the room and made prolonged eye contact. I’ve done casual. I’ve done complicated. I’ve done things I would not admit to my brothers under oath.
But this? This is not something I want to deal with.
I walk home instead of getting an Uber because I need time to think, and also because sitting down does not feel like an option right now. My mind spins through explanations like a badly organised filing cabinet.
I turn the corner and nearly walk straight into a lamppost because my brain is replaying the last ten minutes on a loop.
Claire. That’s her name. Claire-from-the-pub. Claire-who-laughed-when-I-spilled-wine-on-the-table-and-pretended-not-to-notice-how-fast-I-drank-the-second glass. She’d kicked her shoes off by the door like she wanted to make sure I knew where this evening was heading.
When I’d said I needed to go, she hadn’t argued. Just tilted her head slightly, like she was rearranging information. Arms folded loosely, barefoot on the mat, not offended so much as recalculating.
“Text me when you get home,” she’d said, kind enough to hurt.
I had nodded like a man who absolutely intended to do that and then left before she could ask anything else.
Which would be fine. Annoying, but fine. If it were the only time my dick had let me down.
But, as I keep walking, the memory nudges others out of hiding. Different flats. Different names. Same moment, where things stall and I start lying about my digestive system. Same look, too. Not pity exactly. More a quiet assessment of what just happened and whether it’s worth revisiting. Or, for that matter, whetherI am.
Four times.
I’ve been calling them “off nights”. Blaming wine, timing, tight jeans, jetlag. Anything except the possibility that this is no longer bad luck but a developing trend.
I slow, then stop, one foot half off the kerb like my body has hit pause before my brain has caught up.
Four dates is not coincidence.
It’s a pattern.
And patterns don’t fix themselves by ignoring them.
I step back onto the pavement and carry on walking, hands shoved into my coat pockets like they might keep me in line.
I’m forty-five years old. That should mean something. Experience. Perspective. The ability to handle a mildly humiliating moment without spiralling like a man discovering adulthood for the first time. Instead, here I am counting failed erections like they’re parking fines.
It’s not as if my life has gone off the rails. If anything, it’s suspiciously calm.
I haven’t worked in months. Not because I can’t, but because I can afford not to. Twenty years of shooting beautiful people in beautiful places for brands that never remember your name tends to leave you with a decent cushion if you’re sensible. I was sensible. Invested. Bought property. Smiled politely while someone younger explained what my vision needed to be.
Somewhere along the line, the glamour wore thin. The airports. The late nights. The endless parade of faces that blurred together unless the people they were attached to were particularly difficult or particularly naked. I’d got tired of being told what was trending by people who’d never loaded their own camera bag.
So I stopped.
Just like that. Handed the work off, ignored the raised eyebrows, told everyone I was “taking a breather”, because it sounds healthier than “I can’t be arsed with this anymore”. I’d assumed the rest would sort itself out. That I’d wake up one morning with a plan or a passion or at least a decent hobby that wasn’t drinking coffee and reorganising shelves.
Instead, I’ve had a lot of time to think.
And apparently enough headspace for my body to decide now is the moment to stage a rebellion.
I pass a shop window and catch my reflection. Tall. Broad. Still recognisably someone who used to get waved through security because people assumed he belonged somewhere important. I look fine. Better than fine, according to four women over the last few weeks.
Which makes this worse.
I unlock my front door and pause on the threshold, suddenly reluctant to go inside, as if the flat might ask me what I’ve done today and I won’t have a convincing answer.
I step inside anyway, shut the door, and lean back against it for a moment, staring at the ceiling like it might offer guidance.
I don’t need a new job.
