Chapter 8
Dick Advice from Pee-Pee
Geoff
The office is beige.
Not apologetic rental beige. Intentional beige. The kind that suggests someone chose it on purpose and then stuck with it.
There are plants. Real ones. Thriving. And that feels like a judgement.
My eye lands on one of the certificates on the wall. Cream mount. Neat lettering.
Phyllis Philpott, MSc, MBACP
I let my attention drift back to Pee-Pee, who is watching me with calm interest as if the fact I’ve been silent for a full thirty seconds is not remotely alarming.
She looks comfortable. At home. Like this room makes sense to her in a way my own body currently does not.
The sofa dips when I sit. Not much. Just enough to register. I stay perched near the edge anyway, spine straight, feet flat, hands clasped together like they’re worried about misbehaving.
“So,” she says pleasantly. “What’s brought you in?”
I open my mouth.
Nothing happens.
My brain cycles through half a dozen options, rejects all of them, and then throws one out anyway.
“I’m not broken,” I say.
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.
“That’s when it completely disappears,” I say. “Usually before anything’s even really started.”
I shift on the sofa, suddenly hyper-aware of everything. My legs. My hands. The fact I’m a grown man discussing my dick in a beige room with a woman whose name I cannot emotionally process.
“And just before that happens?” she asks.
I breathe out through my nose.
“Nothing,” I say. “That’s the problem. No spark. No anticipation. Not even a tingle. It’s like someone’s switched the lights off and left the building.”
“How long has it felt like that?” she asks.
“A few weeks,” I say. “Long enough that I’ve stopped telling myself it’s just timing.”
She hums. Thoughtful. Not disapproving.
“And what else has changed in the last few weeks?” she asks.
Ah. There it is. The actual question.
“I’m not in a relationship,” I say. “If that’s where you’re going.”
“Tell me about that.”
“I don’t really do relationships,” I say. “Or I didn’t. I dated. It suited my life.”
“I guess this means it doesn’t anymore. Before we look at what has changed, why don’t you tell me what that life was like, when dating was enough?” she prompts.
“Chaotic,” I say. “Jet-setting. Photoshoots everywhere. Milan one week, New York the next. Dating was dinner, drinks, maybe a night or two. Fun. Light. No drama.”
“And that worked for you,” she says.
“It did,” I say. Then pause. “I think.”
“What do you do for work?” she asks.
I hesitate. Just a fraction.
“I was a professional photographer,” I say. “Fashion. Commercial. I was working freelance.”
“Was? And now?” she asks.
“I stopped,” I say.
She doesn’t jump in. Lets that sit and then asks, “Recently?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” she digs deeper.
I look down at my hands. They’re still clenched, like they’ve got opinions.
“It was getting too much,” I say. “The travel. The pressure. Always having to keep up. And financially… I don’t have to do it anymore. I can retire.”
“And how does that feel?” she asks.
I huff a laugh. “Like I should be happy about it. But life is different now, with nowhere to go on a daily basis. And hookups usually came with the job.”
She hums again.
“And are you looking for something different now?” she asks. “Job wise or relationship-wise?”
I blink. “I hadn’t even thought that far.”
She nods. “What have you been doing instead?”
“Carrying on,” I say. “Doing what I’d always done when I was home between shoots.”
“And that’s when things stopped working,” she says, not as an accusation. Just an observation.
“Yes,” I say. “Exactly.”
She lets the silence stretch, warm rather than sharp.
“There’s more, isn’t there?” she says.
I rub my thumb along my finger.
“There’s… a situation,” I say.
She smiles faintly. “I find there usually is.”
“There’s someone in my life,” I say. “Not someone I’m dating. Not exactly.”
“Tell me.”
“She’s my brother’s partner’s best friend,” I say. “Which already feels like a terrible idea.”
Pee-Pee hums.
“And?” she prompts.
“And we slept together,” I say. “Once. A few months ago. In January to be exact.”
“And now?” she asks.
“And now she’s pregnant.”
The words land and stay there.
Pee-Pee doesn’t react. Just nods, steady as ever.
“I see,” she says.
Something in my chest loosens, just a little.
“There are no expectations,” I add quickly. “We agreed that. We’re being sensible.”
“How does that feel?”
I laugh under my breath. “Like sensible is doing a lot of heavy lifting.”
She hums again, amused.
“And how long has this been part of your life?” she asks.
“I found out last week,” I say.
She sets her pen down.
“So,” she says gently, “in a short space of time you’ve stopped doing the job that shaped your routine, the dating pattern that worked for you no longer does, and you’re facing a future that comes with real responsibility and emotional weight.”
When she puts it like that, it sounds less like bad luck and more like my nervous system waving a white flag.
“Yes,” I say. “That does sound… busy.”
“And, in all of that,” she continues, “you’re expecting your body to respond the way it always has.”
I frown. “Isn’t that reasonable?”
“It’s understandable,” she says. “But bodies are excellent at noticing when something matters.”
I stare at the rug again.
“So my body’s panicking,” I say.
She smiles softly. “Your body’s pausing.”
Pause. Again.
I lean back and this time I let myself stay there.
“That feels… inconvenient,” I say.
“Most growth is,” she replies.
I huff a laugh. It comes out tired.
“So how do I fix it?” I ask. “Because I’m very good at fixing things. Give me a problem, I’ll research it, optimise it, get it back to working order.”
Her expression sharpens.
“That’s useful information already,” she says. “Because this isn’t a mechanical issue. If it were, you’d have solved it by now.”
I grimace. “That sounds suspiciously like bad news.”
“It’s not bad news,” she says. “It just means the solution isn’t something you can tighten, replace, or upgrade.”
I drag a hand over my face. “So no quick win.”
“No quick win,” she agrees. “But a very human one.”
She shifts slightly in her chair, settling in rather than wrapping up, and that alone makes something unclench in my chest.
“When something stops responding like it used to,” she continues, “I’m interested in what else has changed around it. Not just externally, but internally. You’ve told me about work, about dating, about this pregnancy. What I’m curious about now is how all of that sits with you.”
I open my mouth, close it again.
“That noise,” she says mildly. “That was a thought you didn’t finish.”
I snort. “I do that a lot.”
“I’ve noticed,” she says, unapologetic. “Try finishing it.”
I sigh. “I don’t like being behind.”
“Behind what?” she asks.
I hesitate. There it is again. That tightening.
“My brothers,” I say.
Her eyebrows lift a fraction. Encouraging, not surprised.
“Tell me about that,” she says.
“I’m the oldest,” I say. “I was always the one who had things sorted. Career. Money. Direction. I left first. Did the exciting thing. Lived the life people nodded approvingly at.”
“And that has changed?”
“Yeah,” I say, staring at the ceiling like it might offer absolution, “they're both settled… loved up, and I’m… here. Retired before I'm fifty. Single. Accidentally involved in a pregnancy I didn’t plan. Of course I'm happy for my brothers. But my life is chaos and theirs is all sorted.” I let out a short breath. “It’s not how it was meant to go.”
She nods slowly. “And how does it feel,” she asks, “to no longer be the one who looks like they’ve got it all figured out?”
The question lands cleanly. No judgement. No trap.
“Unsettling,” I admit. “Like I missed a memo.”
She smiles faintly. “You built an identity around momentum. Achievement. Independence. And now you’re in a phase that values presence, connection, and uncertainty.”
I wince. “You say that like it’s a lifestyle choice.”
She chuckles. Proper chuckles.
“Not a choice,” she says. “A transition. And transitions have a habit of showing up in the body when we don’t give them space elsewhere.”