by Ashley Beth
The most recent data on mild to moderate erectile dysfunction (ED) in males reports a rate of 10% of men being affected per decade of life. Meaning 30% of men in their 30s, 40% of men in their 40s, 50% in their 50s and so on experience mild to moderate ED. (Source: UW http://www.uwhealth.org/urology/erectile-dysfunction-ed/20537)
Mild to moderate ED means that occasionally or frequently enough, a male will have trouble achieving and maintaining hardness to sexually satisfy himself and his partner.
Let us not confuse this with complete erectile dysfunction (ED), which is the complete inability to ever achieve an erection without the outside assistance of meds like Viagra, Cialos, etc.
Now complete ED, while shitty, at least makes the solution to the problem crystal clear; you need some boner meds. However, the chances that a man will choose to doctor up and turn his head and cough for the occasional frustrating flaccid experience? Well, I have a story about that.
One of the first times I ever partied in Louisville, I was invited to a birthday rager where I knew a handful of people. Most of them I had met hours earlier at a local rock show to benefit an artist in the community who had fallen ill, because that’s the kinda AWESOME town Louisville is.
Anyways, I was going on hour three of this party that I rolled into at about midnight, having driven across the Ohio River to Indiana, which is an experience that most Louisvillians bemoan and avoid as much as pronouncing their city with three syllables.
The rainforest that is this Ohio River Valley was pounding us with some big, ol’ Forrest Gump fat rain, and had been for hours. I learned that night that despite its 4 wheel drive features, my Subaru could not drive efficiently in mud, so my entrance consisted of me abandoning my car in the field in front the house and shlurping up to shelter under the tents by the garage where the bands playing that night were just finishing up.
Upon scanning the party tent, this one guy, who looked familiar, caught my eye. The occasional sideways glance game eventually concluded that I had caught this guy’s eye, too. So, I did what any woman would do in the situation. That is, walk over to said d00d’s general area and pretend to be engrossed in the conversation of everybody else around him.
Finally, the water cooler brought us closer, and as I reached for my red Solo cup, I suddenly found my icebreaker.
“Hey! You guys are the dudes I met a few weeks ago at Mag Bar!”
“Fuck yeah we are!” says the dude, and bam, insert instant re-acquaintance dialogue.
After about three sentences, the dude swooped me in his arms and pulled me into an adjacent, unoccupied tent in the shadows. He made out with me for about an hour until I got thirsty. As I was gulping down water he asked me, luxuriously, if I wanted to go to his van (and to think my father says the 60s are dead……)
In case he wasn’t into splatter porn, I answered the request that I am absolutely on Day 2 of the heaviest menstrual flow I’d seen that year. He didn’t care. Cool dude.
It was that night I learned the range of distance in which my legs will move once someone has made friends with my clitoris. It was also the night I learned that steering wheels with working “honk” buttons do not belong anywhere in that range of distance.
He told me his nickname. He told me, under duress, his real name, and we even exchanged real world info like what we did for a living. Shit was getting real. Our vibes were syncing so well that if we were lesbians we’d have moved in already.
I invited him to my pad across the river to crash. We got to my bed. We made out more. I was excited to unleash his pleasure wand after excitedly learning what his finger rivers could do to my clit stone. Upon request for penis play I was told “No.” That it was only our first time and that he wanted to focus on me.
I mean, like, whoa. For a second there I got confused who the Catholic with the vagina really WAS, here. But then you know what they say about us Catholic girls…
Quite frankly, that was the first time of many that I smelt his bullshit.
I mean, sure, upon discussions with other men who have romanced my body, it is quite normal for a dude to delay sex until more familiarity is obtained. Especially in the age of STD’s, Tinder and hook up culture, I have had many men admonish me that to fuck a girl the first night often yields an irreversible placement in the “fuck buddy” compartment. Even if they wish to have feelings for the woman. So I got it. And as much as many wise women before me have discouraged young women of romantic whims, I chose to believe this dude was for reals trying to respect me and court me the clit first, old fashioned way.
Fast forward eight months. After six more months of pretending I didn’t NEED to move to Louisville for Spiritual and Life Purpose reasons, I finally moved to Louisville and started dating this dude full time. We lived 100 miles apart so our visits were infrequent and sweet, but definitely an improvement from the “I hook up with you every time I decide to drive 14 hours from my RI home to the Louisville–about once monthly” interaction.
He had a nice penis. While hard, it presented aesthetic, well proportioned and symmetrical. That one time I saw it hard, I examined it with admiration and got intimate with it down to the fifteen minute taste the tip to base test.
I often had clitoral orgasms from his fingering me. Sometimes I didn’t.
He was controlling.
He wanted to tie me up. He wanted me to wear a dog collar from Feeder’s Supply. He wanted me to wear fishnet stockings. He wanted me to tell him every time I masturbated and he wanted a picture of my face when I came.
Tea light candles being spilled on the back of my legs and aw shucks, the wax remained on his dirty, sweaty bed sheets for weeks afterwards to remind me. Aw.
Wait, why am I being blindfolded? Why exactly are you trying to tie rubber bands around my nipples? Why do you want a chain metal dog leash to whip me around? And why the FUCK haven’t you taken your dick out in the two months you asked me to be exclusive to you?
After a couple orgasm-less nights on my part, I was asked to shave the hair around my vagina, as that was obviously the reason why I was no longer having orgasms. While I was at it, I needed to clean up the “smell” down there too.
Apparently I started smelling funky a couple weeks after he was regularly tonguing and fingering my sensitive, vaginal flora. At the time I was unaware that a partner’s dental hygiene and dirty fingernails could disrupt the acidity and cleanliness of the Lady Box, so I vowed to purchase pricy probiotics at the Co Op along with organic apple cider vinegar to sit in. All to to keep my Nappy Dug Out smelling fishy fresh and lemony sweet for Mister Boss Man Whose Meat I Had Not Met
The last time we ever hung out, I greeted him at the door with my bonny new collar, red fishnets from the sex store and a very acidic, very Brazilianly waxed vah-jay-jay. That’s right. I was ready. I wanted to walk funny for days.
We got to my room. I got tied up. I got played with. I got tired of pretending to like it. Don’t get me wrong, I know giving up control in sex is one of the secrets to pure, sadomasochistic pleasure, but alas, the Story of O I am not. I’m more of the school girl next door, fuck the guy I baby sit for, Eyes Wide Shut-like who wants me tonight, submissive.
I’m too wild to orgasm in chains. Or at least, when the guy plays my clitoris like he does the fifteenth fret on his guitar while he’s trying to trill. Just like cocaine and sound pedals, bro, less is more.
After sufficiently screaming and moaning and squirting enough female lubrication out to get properly and totally ravaged, I rolled off my back and began to pucker his dick for a fuck with some suck. Mouth moist, spit pooled on tongue, gag reflex suppressed, neck muscles loose, hair to side……music, maestro….and ONE….and a TWO….and—
I cannot explain how pathetic it feels to suck unsuccessfully on a flaccid penis. It feels like a worm that just wants to be out of your mouth and the only thing you can taste or smell is the urine from the last bathroom trip. There was no hardness. There was no swelling. There was no heat glow of 98.6 degree blood pumping straight to his organ of love.
I sympathized. I empathized. Being a woman, I could only imagine how embarrassing this was for him. I mean sure, he had no problem telling me I was too hairy, too smelly, or that he noticed I had been hitting the Christmas party buffet tables hard, as my growing pot belly betrayed me. But still, I felt embarrassed for him.
As a woman, society expects us to cater to whims of the White Man, but as a man, to be discovered as impotent was torture.
Alas! Perhaps there was hope! After a few more minutes, it felt like I was hitting gold. The flesh in my mouth began to harden, feel firm, feel warm, and I could feel my body’s excitement responding. Quick! I thought. I raised my head, shifted my knees up beside him and went in for a nice easy straddle position. Using my hand to stroke and gently glide his organ into my awaiting chamber.
After the third time of landing back on his small, soft, flaccid urine tool, I dismounted him. Crawled up into a fetal position as far away from him on the bed I could muster. Until he asked “Hey babe, what’s wrong?” the room had been silent since before I stopped sucking him. He said nothing. He expressed nothing. No moans of frustration, no sighs of aggravation, no apologies or explanations that this “happens sometimes.”
I would have accepted all of these things. Any of them. With patience, empathy and a constructive attitude. I would have researched extensively the complete pathophysiology of erectile dysfunction, including psychological, in order categorical, like a modern major general, but alas, the Truth came to me.
I’m a working girl averaging 42 hours a week. 84 of those of work get completed in seven days, leaving the other seven to sleep, drink whisky and not live a life that entails driving 20 minutes home from work only to turn around and leave the house 10 hours later. All week long. Sleep shift disorder meds. Brazilian waxes. Trips to the sex store. Trips to the pet store. Trips to the Co-Op. Scrubbing out my bathtub so I could sit in acetic acid (vinegar) to achieve freshness to his taste, and better NOT eat that Papa John’s the boss at work bought the team for my dinner, after all, gotta watch that belly.
It was then that I realized FUCK. THIS. SHIT.
Although many will see this article as me humiliating a dude when he’s already, very much, DOWN, I find complete justice in this.
Do I accept that he might not have deleted every dirty pic I sent him and could thus could be at risk for revenge porn? You betcha. Bring it on! After all, I am always looking for more things to have in common with Jennifer Lawrence.
This is not a story of humiliation. This a story about standards. And how they double on one side of the road. Which is often seen as the “wrong” side of the road. This is a story of bending over backwards to suit the needs of your next vagina occupier, and being thanked with a silent avoidance of a pretty important sex factor.
The following Wednesday I had an appointment with Planned Parenthood (whom I stand with) to be put on estrogen and progesterone analog chemicals that despite the risk of ovarian cysts, even more weight gain and blood clots, would allow this dude to splooge in my bun baking box without risk of begetting babies.
At that precise moment the knowledge of his boner problem made that appointment feel like putting a space suit on in the desert, putting sun block on at night, building a bunker for that nuclear war… you get the picture. I felt as wise as a Seventh Day Adventist/Zionist/Jehovah’s Witness except, the invasion wasn’t coming. NOTHING was coming. Not now. Not in the past eight months of rolling around together. Probably not ever.
At least not until he felt like dealing with the problem. And at this point, he couldn’t even talk about it. I’ve had many men apologize for what they felt to be a lack of performance that they shared happens occasionally and I wasn’t the first one they had this problem with. They say this out of courtesy because IT FUCKS WITH A WOMAN’S HEAD WHEN HER MAN’S DICK WON’T GET HARD FOR HER.
It’s just like when a girl won’t orgasm with a dude. It’s personal. It’s important to us. And unless there is COMMUNICATION about the problem, it ain’t ever gonna change.
I still see this guy from time to time. I wonder what he thinks about me. I wonder what he tells his friends about our break up. I wonder if my departure was a wake up call for him to notice and perhaps take better care of his body.
My bush has grown back, the apple cider vinegar is now under the sink for cleaning use only and the probiotics are purely for digestion of this preservative-packed food chain we are force fed. Even the dog collars have found a new home with my kinky, fashion designer, genius of a gal friend. I have better boundaries now. An awareness of what I will and will not do for love.
And just like Meatloaf, I have found that while my vagina is being held on trial, I will not deal with That.