My penis stopped working regularly back in 2008, when I was 40 years old.
I poked, prodded and pleaded. I would give him pep talks and compliment him on his manscaping, but nothing worked. He would just lie there, in some sort of daze, staring at the floor.
My wife at the time became despondent. Our nights were starting to be a repeat of me saying, “It’s not you, it’s me,” or her adamant arguments that I was no longer attracted to her. I hated the guilt she was feeling and I hated feeling inadequate.
Desperate for a resolution, I asked my doctor for a prescription for ED meds. I did not, however, tell my wife I was doing this. I hid the pills away under my nightstand. I was pretty excited, though, to see what these things could do.
The first experience was amazing. My beleaguered little soldier showed up that night at full attention. It was fantastic. My wife was happy. I was happy.
“See?” I said. “It’s not you.”
Years went by and prescriptions were refilled. I kept the secret of my miracle erection hidden. But why?
According to a 2020 study by Dr. Fox Pharmacy, a third of men between ages 40 and 60 don’t tell their partners that they’re taking ED medication. The reasons are pretty much what you’d expect: personal embarrassment, damaged pride and not wanting a partner to feel inadequate.
Even after my eventual divorce and subsequent marriage to my second wife, my little pill bottle remained hidden beneath my nightstand.
I kept meaning to bring it up, especially when we first started dating, but it turns out there’s never a good time to tell somebody that without a medical boost, your penis does a pretty fantastic impression of a dead fish.
We married and our great sex life continued, thanks in large part to those miracle pills.
Do I want to tell my wife? Honestly, I don’t know. We’ve now been together for over a decade, and I’ve perpetuated this charade for so long that I’m afraid to tell her that I’ve been broken since before we even met and that 90 percent of the sex we’ve had has been artificially enhanced.
I’m afraid we’ll lose the “spontaneity” we seem to have. I don’t want to respond to her asking for sex by saying, “Sure thing, just give this an hour to kick in. While we wait, let’s watch an episode of Dexter.”
So until I am either discovered as a fraud or muster the courage to tell her, I will continue the ruse. I will always be first to the mailbox when I’m expecting my package, hide it in my coat as I walk into the house, and dispense its contents into my hidden nightstand pill bottle like a sexually frustrated ninja.
I will continue to ask my wife well in advance if she wants to participate in any bedroom shenanigans, so I can make sure I’m prepared.
“Wanna fool around tonight?” I ask.
“Sure,” she replies.
With the green light given, I shoot her a wink, turn around and sneak back to the bedroom. I silently retrieve a pill and nest it deep in my pants pocket, where it will remain until it's almost bedtime.
Returning to my computer, I pull up a bookmarked website, log in and check the “refill prescription” checkbox.
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