Chapter 2
Present, Alert and Apparently Delighted
Geoff
Iwake up with an 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.
When my name is called, I stand up too fast and immediately regret it.
The doctor looks at me in the calm, professional way of someone who has already seen whatever nonsense I’m about to bring into her room and survived it.
“Have a seat,” she says.
I sit. Carefully. With dignity. Or at least an attempt at it.
“So,” she begins, tapping something into her computer. “What can I help you with today?”
This is the moment. The moment where I say the words like a functional adult.
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out. I wish I had asked for a male doctor. But then getting judged by another man didn’t sit well with my male ego either.
“I’ve been having a bit of a… situation.”
She nods encouragingly. “What sort of situation?”
I glance at the door, then at the floor, then at a diagram of the human digestive system on the wall.
“It’s… intermittent,” I say.
“Intermittent pain?”
“No.”
“Discomfort?”
“Also no.”
She waits. Patient. Silent. Unflinching. This woman has clearly built a career on letting men talk themselves into corners.
“It’s more of a reliability issue,” I say eventually.
She types something. “Reliability of…?”
I inhale. Exhale. “My downstairs.”
She looks up. “Your genitals?”
I wince. “When you say it like that, yes.”
She smiles, kind but not amused. “Are you experiencing difficulty achieving or maintaining an erection?”
There it is. Clean. Clinical. No judgement.
I nod, relieved and mortified all at once. “Yes. That. The… achieving part. Occasionally the maintaining, but mostly the achieving. Or rather, the not achieving. Except when I’m asleep it seems.”
She blinks once, then nods again. “How long has this been going on?”
“A few weeks.”
“And how often does it happen?”
I hesitate. “Every time it matters.”
That earns me a pause. Not a bad one. Just a brief moment where she assesses me like a puzzle she’s already half solved.
“Do you wake up with erections?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say immediately, then grimace. “Sorry. That was fast.”
“That’s fine,” she says, unbothered. “That’s useful information.”
Useful for whom remains unclear.
She asks about sleep, alcohol, stress, exercise. I answer honestly, which is to say I sound semi-healthy. When she asks if I’m under pressure at work, I laugh before I can stop myself.
“No,” I say. “Not at all, not even a bit.”
That gets her attention.
She leans back slightly. “Tell me about that.”
And somehow, without meaning to, I do. Not the dramatic version. The practical one. The stopping. The quiet. The absence of urgency. The sense that I’ve stepped off a moving walkway and now I’m just standing there while everyone else glides past.
She listens. She nods. She does the usual medical tests: blood pressure, a little rummage of my dick. She does not once suggest blue pills.
When the examination is done and she sits back down, she folds her hands and looks at me.
“Physically, everything appears normal,” she says. “I will send off your blood to see if there is any underlying issue but, given what you’ve described, this is very likely psychological.”
Right. Figures.
She says it gently. Explains that stress doesn’t always look like panic. Sometimes it looks like disconnection. Like a loss of momentum. Like a body that’s waiting for direction.
I nod, because despite myself, that lands.
“We can refer you for counselling,” she adds. “It can be helpful to talk through periods of transition.”
Transition. That sounds polite. Almost flattering. Like I’ve chosen this rather than blundered into it.
I hesitate, then ask the question that’s been hovering since I sat down. “Does it… come back?”
She meets my eyes, calm and steady. “Yes. In the vast majority of cases.”
Relief loosens something in my chest. “So this is… temporary?”
“Erectile dysfunction can have many reasons,” she says plainly, like she’s telling me the time. “And yes, very often it’s temporary. Especially when there’s no physical cause.”
There it is. The phrase. Erectile dysfunction. It sounds heavier than the reality feels, like it should come with a leaflet and a support group and a sombre nod from society. I swallow.
“If you’d like, I can make the referral,” she says. “Talking it through sooner rather than later tends to help.”
“In fact,” I begin, then stop, because this is where I either commit or wriggle. “I might already know someone. A therapist. Friend of a friend. Apparently a miracle worker.”
Her eyebrow lifts. Just a fraction.
“A miracle worker,” she repeats. “Is that so.”
“I mean,” I say, immediately defensive, “I haven’t met her. But I’ve heard very good things.”
She leans back in her chair. “Men have a tendency to say that when they’re trying to avoid actually booking anything.”
I open my mouth to protest.
She holds up a hand. “I’m not saying that’s what you’re doing. I’m saying that if you do nothing, this won’t magically resolve itself. Avoidance tends to entrench the problem.”
I nod again, because she’s right and she knows she’s right and there’s no point pretending otherwise.
“I will,” I say. “Book something. I promise.”
“Good,” she says, like a woman who has heard that before and will believe it when she sees it.
I shift in my chair. “What about tablets?”
She doesn’t sigh and I appreciate that. “They can help in certain cases,” she says. “But, given that you’re having spontaneous erections and there are no physical indicators, medication could mask the issue rather than address it. You might find it adds pressure rather than relieving it.”
“Brilliant,” I mutter.
She studies me for a moment. “Mr Corbin, please don’t think there is something wrong with you. This is your body responding to a change in circumstances. If you address the underlying cause, function usually follows.”
Function. Such a hopeful word.
She prints something, hands it to me, and stands. “If you change your mind about the referral, call us. And, if things worsen, don’t wait.”
I stand as well, more carefully this time, and thank her, because, despite everything, this has been oddly reassuring.
At the door, she adds, “And, for what it’s worth, you’re not unusual. Men just don’t talk about it.”
I nod. “Yes. We’re very committed to suffering quietly.”
She smiles, dry and knowing. “Only when it actually matters. Give a man a mild cold and he starts drafting his will.”
I huff a laugh despite myself.
“But something that affects confidence, intimacy, identity?” she continues. “Suddenly it’s all stoicism and silence. Which isn’t terribly helpful.”
“Point taken,” I say.
“Good,” she replies. “Because talking about it is usually the first thing that helps.”
She opens the door, already done with me in the nicest possible way. “Good luck. And do book that therapist. Preferably one who exists.”
I step back into the corridor, dignity mostly intact, and realise that was possibly less humiliating than I thought it would be.
And that says more about me than it does about doctors.