Page 31 of The Last Good Man

But…Hope dies last, and self-doubt is its crazy cousin that never goes away, so we give it a go again.

This time, he loses his boxers, giving me a full view of his manhood. He’s taller than me, not by much, though, and he is sturdy. It's not abadpackage either if you ask me.

I remove my bra to clear his way and welcome him next to me. It just happens that his erection has quietly said goodbye to us––placing 911 calls usually does that–and now we’re back to rekindling the fire.

His touch is no longer smooth and patiently tender, and I can’t blame him, so he tries something different from the get-go, nudging me to my back and tucking his knees between my legs.

I’m a bit reluctant to have him on top of me, especially without an erection, but I’m willing to make an effort. And maybe make it work.

The mostdifficultpart is convincing his length to harden again.

Unfortunately, Thomas is completely out of his game.

His brain is fried, and his awkward moves only match his lack of inspiration.

Embarrassment washes over his face while he tries to move his hand over my body and get himself hard again.

His hand feels like a cold pancake on my chest, and it wouldn’t make a difference if he dragged it down between my legs.

Telling me sweet, dirty words is out of the question too. He’s just grieving the moment he has lost.

Our knees collide as he shifts his position to grab his cock and give it a good rub, and I bite my lip to stop the pain.

“This doesn’t work, does it?” he asks, panting, his voice a dreadful mix of frustration, anger, and clipped breaths as he spectacularly fails to harden his dick.

“We can do it next time. Don’t worry,” I say, gliding a hand over my boobs, pulling upright, and glancing around to locate my bra.

“Sure,” he says, rolling to his back, defeated.

His grim acknowledgment sounds like a breakup, and nothing is out of the questionat this point.

Most men don’t recover from a moment like this. Especially when it’s their first time with a woman.

They’dratherstart fresh with someone else than fight a hangup like this and permanently associate a particular partner with feeling like a failure in bed.

So… I’m doomed.

Not really.

It’s okay for me either way.

His hand covers his groin while I fasten my bra.

“It’s never happened to me,” he says, rubbing his free hand over his face. He looks more relaxed now and even produces an amused smile.

Behind all that, I get a glimpse of a tiny existential crisis. Today, a failed erection. Tomorrow, a knee pain. And before he knows it, he hits another age milestone.

Things that have shined brightly and captivated him––women, financial goals, and random things––no longer hold sway over him.

Perhaps his fears are the beginning of amajorchange.

We all go through that.

I go through that.

I see a therapist for that.

What happened this evening has nothing to do with that, but ithas the power torevive those nasty little balls of angst.

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