The words land badly. Defensive. Unhinged.
Brilliant. Nailed it. Strong opener. Ten out of ten, no notes.
Pee-Pee doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Just tilts her head slightly, like she’s curious rather than concerned.
“Alright,” she says. “Do you want to tell me what made that feel important to say first?”
I exhale slowly.
“My GP sent me,” I say. “Maybe I should have opened with that.”
A flicker of a smile. Encouraging. Not mocking.
“She checked everything,” I go on. “Bloods, hormones, the whole greatest hits album.”
“And?” Pee-Pee prompts gently.
“And apparently I’m in perfect working order,” I say. “Which is deeply unhelpful.”
Her pen moves now, slow and unthreatening.
“So what’s not working?” she asks.
I stare at the rug. It’s very tasteful. Very non-judgemental.
“I can’t get an erection,” I say.
There. Out. Horrible. Like dropping a glass and hearing it shatter.
“In the moments when it truly counts,” I add immediately, because I seem incapable of not clarifying myself into a hole.
Pee-Pee nods once. No reaction beyond that. No wince. No sympathy face. Somehow that makes it easier to keep going.
“And what’s it like when you’re on your own?” she asks.
I grimace. “Confusing.”
She waits.
“I wake up with morning… you know,” I say, making a vague hand motion that could mean anything from weather patterns to semaphore. “So that still happens.”
My ears are on fire.
“But if I try to give myself a helping hand,” I add, eyes locked firmly on the carpet, “nothing. Like my body’s filed a formal complaint and gone on strike.”
Pee-Pee nods. Thoughtful.
“And your GP’s take on that?” she asks.
“She thinks the morning wood situation means it’s not physical,” I say. “Which I am told is meant to be reassuring.”
“And is it?” she asks.
I snort. “Not especially.”
She smiles. It reaches her eyes this time.
“And with someone else?” she asks, gently.
