I’ll say it straight out: I have no bones about using Viagra to get a boner. My male ego ain’t fragile enough to pass up a good thing. And, when you no longer needed a doctor’s visit or a script and could order it online like you would some 6 inch thong from Under Gear (both come from India), I became a proud, full-fledged member of the Big V Generation overnight. I must say the magic blue pill has done good by me. Chew on it (it works faster that way), and 45 minutes later (you can almost set your watch by it) Mr. Peter is up and ready for action. In fact, V has added a whole new meaning to being a top. It’s fucking in the third dimension.
Recall that scene in “Cat on A Hot Tin Roof” when closet-case Paul Newman says to Burl Ives that he drinks until he feels that click in his head? Well, that’s the same with Big V. You take it, waiting for that warm twitch in your dick; only, the first sign you know it’s working is that click in your head.
I remember a well educated Ph.D’ed up-to-his-ass fuck buddy of mine when I lived in New York who worked for Pfizer telling me how the company had used its male employees as guinea pigs of sorts. Seems this high blood pressure med they had developed had this unforeseen but very interesting side effect, and so they decided to distribute the stuff to their staffs to see what happened. All I can say, we screwed for hours. That med became Viagra.
Now, I got a good reason for turning to pharms. I’m not 22, 32, 42 – let’s stop there, O.K? But what the fuck’s the problem with these twenty somethings or thirty somethings who come on to me at Slammers, drop their pants and still can’t get their wiener stiff even after five minutes of my award winning blow job? (Hell, when I was in my twenties and thirties, I was playing with myself three or four times a day if I could. Give me a rainy Saturday afternoon and a hot issue of Sports Illustrated and I was in jerk-off heaven.) I know, I know, some of ‘em come into a sex venue high on smack or alcohol, but then what’s the point of dropping the $$ in the first place? (Maybe they just want to get fucked perpetually all night.)
By the same token, I think it’s crazy that at sex clubs you have to be instantly or already hard yourself to snag the guy. Sure, you may have Big V or Big C (Cialis) simmering in your loins, but you still need the stimulation. I mean, isn’t the guy supposed to get you hard, not you be hard to get the guy? Or am I missing something here?
I’m also convinced that the reason a lot of hot, humpy, built-like-brick shithouse guys go bottom after they turn 40 is because it’s just easier. You don’t have to worry about Mr. Peter or “performing.” Just spread those cheeks and get off from the other direction. Hell, most guys I’ve fucked the shit out of aren’t even hard when they shoot. Amazing.
So what do I think is the reason for this shortage of hard-ons among a growing number of us gay guys – regardless of age – and our need to turn to pharms to make it happen? (Hell, have you noticed even porn stars are having problems staying hard and they pop Big V like M and M’s or get a needle in the dick?) One of my educated buddies think it’s because of all the various meds we’re pouring down the drain getting into our water supply and fucking up men’s hormone levels. Me? Excluding the meth heads who, even if they’re 19, can’t get it up, it’s my firm belief we, straight guys and gay guys alike, have become desensitized to sex. Sex and skin are all over the place. My female college students dress like streetwalkers, buff bodies are all over TV, and there’s even a billboard for Manhunt.net on Interstate 95 in Lauderdale. No wonder guys came out of the limp dick closet by the millions and made V Pfizer’s best seller ever. It takes more and more to get us hot – straight or gay. And when it comes to us homos, you have to agree there was something to be said for the good old days when gay life was only whispered about, not debated in state houses.
Awhile back, my long term partner who’s 10 years older than me, after being content for decades with a platonic relationship (which is why I’m a pig), decided he wanted to resurrect our sex life. OK, I said, no problem; it beat putting money down at the sex clubs. But when his Pee Wee wouldn’t react to my alluring advances, he desperately asked if I knew how he could get some Viagra. Not letting on that I get at least a dozen spam messages a day from pharms trying to hustle the stuff now that I’m such an established customer, I innocently said I would Google the web.
He checked the mailbox three times a day like a kid waiting for Santa to slide down the chimney. Finally, IT came. He asked me to sign for the envelope postmarked India because he didn’t want to show his face to the mailman. But when it came time to pop the pill (I know this sounds nuts), he stopped cold in his tracks. All the contra-indications that those announcers on the commercials rattled off on the sound track while the visual showed some couple exchanging lascivious smiles suddenly engulfed his brain. “I can’t. I can’t do it. What if …,” he stammered. Was he worried about that erection “lasting more than four hours?” Frankly, I think that’s a ploy to push the shit. We should be so lucky.
So there the pills sit, forlorn and abandoned, in a dark desk drawer. I would have to have the luck of being married to the one guy in the whole U.S. of A., straight, gay, or into canine creatures, who ordered Viagra and never took it!
Tomorrow: Help for the Flaccid: A Guide To Those Magic Love Pills