Confessions of a Gay Curmudgeon
Andy V. Ambrose © 2019
All Rights Reserved
My erections aren’t what they used to
Well, Dr. S told me to write about the
first thing that comes into my mind, so it’s what I’m doing. “Don’t think. Just
write,” he said. “Stop censoring yourself, Viktor. This will help you in your
therapy too, Viktor.”
Okay, okay. If that’s what the shrink
ordered, let’s see if this works. We’re supposed to listen to our shrinks,
right? That’s their job, right? They know how to get us out of whatever fucking
funk we’re in, right?
So here we go. I’m writing about the
first thing that comes to my mind and it’s my erections. Here it is, a lovely
Saturday afternoon, sun shining, snow melting, spring a’coming, a perfect time
to enjoy life. And what am I doing? Sulking in my apartment obsessing about my
Hell of a problem to have on a day like
today, isn’t it? Shit, be honest, Viktor. You’re supposed to be honest with
this writing thing, aren’t you? That was Dr. S’s other directive, wasn’t it?
Honesty. He was full of directives last session, wasn’t he? Oh well, maybe I
need some directives.
So where was I? Oh yes. Gorgeous day,
shitty mood, focusing on my cock when I should be enjoying life.
Oh, come on. It’s not just about my
cock. I know that. After all, I did my share of screwing around when I was
younger. Not that I was the biggest stud around in my heyday, but during those
few glorious weeks my sex life got going, I learned how to have a good time.
Yes, I did! But then I met Gio and fell in love. And he fell in love with me.
And we had twelve years of bliss—more or less—until he left me last year.
And I’ve been floundering ever since.
Floundering? Ha! Flopping around is more like it. So I’ve been seeing Dr.
S—ahem, Dr. Singsirinavin—I’ve been seeing him to help me out of this
predicament. Seems like a nice enough guy, serious, quiet, with a scrawny body
and a bit of an accent, though I’ll be damned if I know from where exactly.
These shrinks never tell you anything about themselves, do they? I’ve been
seeing Dr. S for a year already, and you would think by now I’d have an idea,
but I don’t. To tell the truth, I don’t have much of an idea about anything,
including whether he’s helping me.
But I’m trying. Goddamn it, I’m trying,
you’ve got to give me that. Didn’t put all my eggs in one basket, either. Went
to my primary-care guy too, to complain about my cock. Dr. Agnostulopolini.
Different accent, different mystery country. Had to change doctors when my
cheapo company switched insurances and I had to find someone new. He doesn’t
know anything about me and doesn’t seem to care, either. Every time I ask a
question, the side of his face twitches like he’s having a stroke. “Doctor,” I
said last time, “my libido seems to have disappeared.”
“You know, it does fall off with age,”
he says. Translation: you’re getting old.
“But not this suddenly, Doctor. Could it
be the new blood pressure medicine you prescribed?” Translation: Fuck you.
Don’t give me that you’re-getting-old shit. I’m fifty. That’s not old.
“This medicine shouldn’t cause a
drop-off in libido.” Translation: I’m the doctor. I know what I’m talking
“But then what could be causing it?”
Translation: Fuck you. I’m the patient. It’s my libido.
And on and on. Dr. A suggested other
medications, maybe talking to Dr. S about an anti-depressant. Sure, pump me
full of chemicals. Is that all the medicos care about? They want me docile and
uncomplaining. As long as my numbers on their medical charts look good, they
think they’re a success. No matter what I think.
Well, fuck them. It’s my life, and I’ll
screw it up the way I want to. Not according to the way they think I should do
Oh, I have to stop complaining and get
myself out of this funk. No one else is going to do it for me, least of all the
good doctors. I know that. It’s my life, and I better get it going again before
it’s too late! But how? How, fucking how?