Impotent and Inadequate

The overwhelming pressure to perform, to impress with rigid self-confidence and vigor. Such oppressive expectations take their toll, disrupting what ordinarily would occur without much coaxing. Flirting with strange images, setting the mood with music and a stiff drink to ease the nerves. All is in place for a fruitful coupling, yet the flow is weak and the member slow to stir.

It is an anxious moment. Presented before her at your most vulnerable, humbled by momentary inability, rendered ineffectual, not certain why.

The silence is deafening. Heat of humiliation stains cheeks ripe magenta, as you sense the electricity begin to peter out. Thoughts race through your mind as you hurriedly struggle to make sense of it all. This doesn’t happen to me ordinarily, usually quite virile and potent when I set down to my work. Normally lay right into it, working up a steady rhythm.

I enjoy watching it play out before me, how she changes in the moment, blooming from unsullied plainness into something else entirely, filling her from the deepest part of me. Cover her in nocturnal emissions and clasp her in loving embrace, something meant for only us. There’s a sense of pride in seeing her like this.

Now though, there is no pride, just enfeebled desperation in an attempt to salvage what little ground’s been made. She stares back, a gaze that she probably thinks isn’t contemptuous, not patronizing, but you can feel it is. The poised, self-assured posturing subsides to a boyish, infantilized flaccidity.

I stare at the page, so few words written. The ideas refuse to form in my mind and flow out onto the page, creative impotence. I question myself, my identity, with one word forming on my tongue, slipping to my lips.


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