I breathed a sigh of relief as I stepped out of the doorway and away from the doctor's office. I couldn't help but smile a bit, it hadn't been nearly as embarrassing as I'd expected. I had that funny feeling in my mind that going to the doctor on April first, April Fools day, might not be such a good idea. But what could happen? Does Mother Nature have a sense of humor? But it had truly been innocuous; I'd answered the doctor's question of
is there anything else?
With an "I need to know what's available for ED."
I don't know why it would have been any more embarrassing to admit I couldn't get it up to the doctor than it had been to realize all I could provide was a limp dick to my lover as she sucked my cock. How had I not managed to notice? In retrospect, how could I have possibly thought it was going to get better just because I was with a hot and sexy woman who wanted me as bad as I wanted her?
I hadn't noticed because it actually wasn't any one thing. After being married for thirty some years to the same woman, she'd come down with cancer, and after a three year battle had passed on. When I thought back, I found out I couldn't actually remember the last time I'd had sex. She died two years ago; she'd been in and out of hospitals for three more, violently ill or weak most of the time. Neither of us really felt like sex for those three years of pain and misery. One day I was happily married and having regular sex, the next I knew it had been almost 6 years since I'd had sex with anything other than my hand.
I'd met her online. A comment on an article I'd written on my blog. I'd answered, she'd answered, I sent her a specific comment; she sent me a specific comment. From an anonymous e-mail to exchanging addresses, flirting, talking, and eventually video chatting. She was late 30's, I was 60, but so what? We thought alike, flirted alike, talked about wanting the same things -- what was a few years age difference?
Of course when my wife had gotten sick, I'd found that I could distract myself, when I wasn't caring for her, with porn and erotic literature. At first I'd made the excuse that I wasn't 18 anymore. Sure, I didn't get a hard on first thing in the morning like I used to, I didn't get a hard on in the shower like I used to, I didn't get a hard on watching sexy movies like I used to, I didn't even get a hard on when I glanced down over the fence to the neighbor's house and spied the college age daughter and her friend sunbathing topless. That had been two years before, just before my wife passed. I'd pulled my cock out, only semi-swollen, whereas just a few years before it would have been pointing at the sky before I pulled it out. It hadn't taken but a couple of strokes at that time and it stiffened right up as I peeped over the fence, imagining playing with their fine young bodies. That it took a while to get hard just didn't register, that it almost instantly wilted once I coated the fence with a couple of sprays of man juice didn't register. I reasoned it all to the stress of losing my wife; that I wasn't 18 anymore, but I could still perform virtually on demand. Right? I mean after all, I could cum when I masturbated other times.
But it wasn't just about cumming, it was about getting more than a little hard. It was about getting hard enough to pleasure my woman, my lover, and when it didn't happen, that's when it was embarrassing.
She'd said she enjoyed herself. I'd gone down on her, several times, easily getting her off numerous times with my tongue. She'd provided the same courtesy to me, sucking me, working me expertly -- only to have my still only semi-hard cock, still not hard enough to slide inside her pussy, pop in her mouth. We'd spent the night together, and I was hopeful, despite the lack of actual fucking. She'd at first said she'd had a great time and 'let's do it again." But as I walked her to her car she stopped, and turned to me. 'Jerry -- that was fun, but it's not what I wanted. I wanted cock, you gave me great tongue, but I need..." She'd not been able to finish, but I finished for her. "Yeah, I know. You need a man, not a limp dick."
That had been a little over a year ago; I'd not talked to her since that less than memorable date. And then we unexpectedly crossed paths. She had a boyfriend, and I still had a limp dick. After a year of feeling sorry about myself -- I finally made an appointment to see the doctor.
I walked downstairs to the pharmacy with my new prescription of Sildenafil. I couldn't look at the young girl who took my prescription order, just handed it across, and noticed the rock on her hand.
Married. Going home and getting laid regularly,
ran through my head. I glanced up, she gave no sign that she knew what the prescription was; she just took it and processed the order. "Your name will be on the board when it's ready. Probably 10 minutes."
"Thanks."
I went and took a seat in the waiting room, just watching the activity behind the pharmacy counter, when I realized who I was looking at. She looked different in her white lab coat, but there was no doubt that I was seeing the woman from the gym. In her lab coat she didn't in the least look sexy, but I'd seen her working out in the mornings, wearing her leotards or spandex shorts, her form fitting workout clothes, and especially the deep vee top that always gave a beautiful view between her largish breasts.
It's not the size;
I'd internally argued as I'd admired them,
it's the exposed flesh of her breasts - that deep vee enticing the eye.
She had to be nearly half my age, she no longer had the rock-hard body of an 18-year-old athlete -- but then, neither did I, which is why I was in the gym. What was she, maybe 35? Perhaps 40? That would make her 20 years younger, but if I'd not had an erection problem, I wouldn't have let that stop me. I know she'd had to have seen me looking at her once or twice while I was on the treadmill, the wall of mirrors made sure of that, but we'd never spoken.
I glanced at the board, the "J.Whit" signifying Jerry Whiteman coming up on the ready board even as I looked. I moved to the counter, a young man appeared and seconds later handed me a bottle of Sildenafil. My negative response to his question of whether I'd ever used this before had him telling me to stand by, that the pharmacist would be by to explain the side effects. I watched the pharmacist, an older Chinese gentleman, as he was speaking to someone else when her statement "Jerry Whiteman?" caused me to look up. She was looking right at me, an enigmatic smile on her face. The attraction was instantaneous; she was even better looking up close than she'd seemed from a distance at the gym.
Her lab coat effectively hid her body from view. Her semi long dishwater blond hair was tied.
