Pro-sex. Pro-porn. Pro-knowing the difference.

Transition / Danny Wylde

Written by Danny Wylde for his blog Trve West Coast Fiction.  Originally published on November 21, 2013. 

 Danny Wylde


I’ve learned to process most everything through fucking. The thought that sex is no longer possible is akin to dread. It is loss of pleasure, love, livelihood, and my ability to cope. While it was once just a part of me, sex has become my sense of self. To take that away is as close as I’ve felt to death.
***I cried on the way to the hospital. It was the third time I ended up there on account of my erection. I’d considered myself drug-free for the latter half of my life. But I’d spent my entire twenties consuming erectile dysfunction pharmaceuticals. Over the past two years, on a more-than-frequent basis.It was normal by default. To be a male porn star meant that you swallowed pills or shot up your dick.

I didn’t think of it as fake. I’d found my process of arousal and allowed a sense of sincerity into much of my work. But the fear of failure always loomed. The work-flow of modern porn did not allow for the unpredictability of human performance. My psyche didn’t allow for it either. I’d wrapped up my identity in the ability to fuck anyone under most any condition.

The choice came to either fuck like a god until I couldn’t fuck at all, or to bring my sex back down to earth. An emergency room doctor had my attention once he’d opened a hole in my penis and let it bleed out. “You keep doing this and you’re not going to be able to get an erection, period.” There was something in his voice. It suggested that I’d already gone too far.”What the fuck am I going to do?” I said out loud while driving home. It was meant for something greater than myself – a god I didn’t believe in.
***A girl texted me that night. She thought that I was still at work. Her message was obscene in a way that might normally put me in her bed within the hour.We’d fucked in movies and gone out twice the week prior. “I normally hate people like you,” we said together. But we’d connected on something like emotional vulnerability, aesthetics, and whatever chemical addiction we had to each other.

I told her half the truth: the doctor’s orders that I couldn’t be aroused for several days. That I couldn’t have sex for more than a week. My genitals were bruised and sore. They looked beaten with a hammer.

For whatever reason, she agreed to wait. We went from phone calls apart to nights together, our bodies fully clothed. I wanted to feel loved before it became clear that I couldn’t please her the way I used to. Before my impotence was forced out into the open.

I nearly failed on the night of my disclosure. My body wanted hers but couldn’t find a way to show it. She allowed me to penetrate her otherwise – with a needle. Then she did the same to me. I jerked off while she pierced my chest, and my cock engorged for the first time since I’d quit porn.

I flipped her over and she ripped the needles out while we fucked. My blood dripped on her skin and it became an act of love.Mostly, I claim to believe in nothing. Then I find moments where I can’t help but think, “This was meant to happen.”

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