Written by Danny Wylde for his blog Trve West Coast Fiction. Originally published on November 21, 2013.
I’ve learned to process most everything through fucking. The thought that sex is no longer possible is akin to dread. It is loss of pleasure, love, livelihood, and my ability to cope. While it was once just a part of me, sex has become my sense of self. To take that away is as close as I’ve felt to death.
I didn’t think of it as fake. I’d found my process of arousal and allowed a sense of sincerity into much of my work. But the fear of failure always loomed. The work-flow of modern porn did not allow for the unpredictability of human performance. My psyche didn’t allow for it either. I’d wrapped up my identity in the ability to fuck anyone under most any condition.
I told her half the truth: the doctor’s orders that I couldn’t be aroused for several days. That I couldn’t have sex for more than a week. My genitals were bruised and sore. They looked beaten with a hammer.
For whatever reason, she agreed to wait. We went from phone calls apart to nights together, our bodies fully clothed. I wanted to feel loved before it became clear that I couldn’t please her the way I used to. Before my impotence was forced out into the open.
I nearly failed on the night of my disclosure. My body wanted hers but couldn’t find a way to show it. She allowed me to penetrate her otherwise – with a needle. Then she did the same to me. I jerked off while she pierced my chest, and my cock engorged for the first time since I’d quit porn.
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