“He can’t get it up.”
Heather stammered to find the proper words to explain her predicament. Something in her hesitation clued me in to the revelation on the tip of her tongue.
“He can’t get it up.”
After several very promising dates, Heather had had become quite smitten with a new guy. The timing seemed right to pursue the physical side of the budding relationship, but the new beau was unable to perform.
I searched for the right way to comfort and encourage her. I wanted to explain that such unfortunate experiences are usually the result of an emotional or psychological block as opposed to any actual physical problem. The goal being to convince her that the situation wasn’t hopeless without allowing her to jump to the conclusion that, if there wasn’t something wrong with him, maybe there was something wrong with her.
Heather explained that they had attempted to play hide the salami on two separate occasions, and although she had tried every trick in her book, both instances were equally unsuccessful. I advised he take a little blue pill to get him over the initial jitters and, if that wasn’t a sustainable option, tell him to hit the bricks.
The following week, Heather had another great date with her new boy. Determined to finally seal the deal, she filled the evening with enough wine to calm any nerves, but not quite enough to impair functionality. Back at her apartment, kisses became deeper and more passionate. Buttons popped, shirts came off and pants were tossed to the ground. Through his underwear, Heather was ecstatic to feel that her boy was finally good to go. Somewhere between the couch and the bed, however, Heather’s hopes (among other things) deflated.
She laid beside him, sleepless for hours, progressing from frustrated to annoyed to completely over it. Eventually she moved to the couch in attempt to at least get a little sleep, but that proved of little use. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, hearing every noise amplified around her. A persistent cricket chirped outside. The refrigerator periodically shut on and off. The cat’s water dispenser gurgled as it refilled itself.
The next morning, Heather busied herself, wanting to avoid confrontation but desperately willing the boy out of her house. He emerged looking understandably embarrassed, standing in his boxer shorts, holding a soaking wet pair of jeans. In the fleeting moment of passion, he had flung his pants into the cat’s water dish where they had absorbed all of the water, causing the dish to refill itself and starting the cycle over until the pants were completely saturated.
She could see the internal debate in his face: “Do I ask to dry them? Do I wear them wet? Should I just leave in my underwear?”
Heather’s patience was exhausted, so she sent him on his way in his boxers, wet pants in tow. She hoped he had plenty of gas and didn’t have any car trouble, but truth be told, she really didn’t care.
She called me, looking to vent about the absurd encounter, but I provided little support. Upon hearing the tale, I laughed so hard I almost wet my own pants.
