I don’t need a new woman.
What I need, apparently, is to work out why the one part of my body that used to function flawlessly has decided to down tools the second it is supposed to take centre stage.
That thought sits there, heavy and inconvenient, as I kick off my shoes and wonder when exactly my calm, well-funded midlife pause turned into a problem I can’t ignore anymore.
2
Present, Alert and Apparently Delighted
Geoff
Iwake up withan erection so confident it feels like it’s taking the piss.
I lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, breathing carefully, as if sudden movement might offend it. My cock is present, alert, and apparently delighted with himself. Upright. Purposeful. Ready for action in a way that would have been extremely helpful approximately eight hours ago.
“Well done,” I mutter. “Outstanding contribution. Really showed up when it mattered.”
He does not respond. He never does when I have questions.
I swing my legs out of bed and stand there, naked and unimpressed, looking down at him like I’m assessing faulty equipment.
“So,” I say quietly. “You work alone. You’re fine. You’re energetic. You’re basically a morning person.”
My dick remains resolutely perky.
“But the second anyone else is involved, you vanish. No warning. No apology. Just gone.”
I wait. Nothing.
I sigh. “Right. If you’re not going to communicate, I’m escalating this.”
That seems fair.
I shower, because standing naked arguing with myself has limits, and make coffee, because civilisation depends on it. By the time I’m in the kitchen, mug in hand, my cock has retired without comment, which feels like further evidence of his unhelpful attitude.
I try to carry on as normal. I scroll my phone. I tidy a surface that was already tidy. I stand at the window longer than necessary, watching people who appear to have places to be.
The problem is, now that I’ve noticed it, I can’t unnotice it.
Last night wasn’t a blip. It wasn’t bad luck. It wasn’t wine or nerves or timing. It’s a thing. A recurring, inconvenient thing that is not going to sort itself out while I reorganise the spice rack.
I check the time. It’s not even nine.
I could leave it. Give it another go. Pretend everything is fine and hope enthusiasm carries the day next time. That would be the version of me I’ve been for years. Push through. Don’t overthink. Keep moving.
Except I’ve stopped moving.
I look down again, half expecting my dick to weigh in, offer an opinion, stage a protest.
Nothing.
“Fine,” I say. “We’re going to the doctor.”
There’s no fanfare. No dramatic decision. Just the quiet certainty that this is no longer optional.
I ring the GP surgery but don’t specify why I need an appointment. I simply say I’d like to see a doctor today, please, and brace myself for judgement. None comes. The receptionist slots me in without comment, like this is a completely normal way to start a Tuesday. Which, judging by her tone, it probably is… for her.
The waiting room smells faintly of disinfectant and resignation. I sit between a man reading a newspaper from last week and a woman scrolling furiously on her phone, her foot tapping like it’s about to launch itself into orbit. I suddenly feel very aware of my age. Forty-five. Old enough to know better. Young enough to be annoyed that I’m here at all.
