Five or six years ago, I tried to talk with my Doctor about sex.  My annual “wellness exam”.  He’s not real good with sex stuff – probably because I don’t usually ask the common questions but this day I gave him a familiar one.  I told him that my erections were not what they used to be.  He, of course, suggested I get some pills. If my doctor’s office is like yours, there is an alter set up in the waiting room with all kinds of drug literature and a television playing above it running drug commercials.  You may have also noticed a constant stream of drug salespersons pulling their little wheeled luggage carts full of money through the waiting area. So, the offer of a prescription was no surprise.  Even so,  I thought, “What the hell.  I won’t be narrow-minded about this.  I’ll try it.” 

He wrote a prescription for ten of them before he put on a fresh rubber glove and invited me to bend over.  The prostate exam is the only time I can honestly wish that, for this one tender moment, I were gay.  Instead, I’m thinking, “Relax!  Relax!   Don’t tense up!  Don’t tense up!”  He always finds the prostate but it ain’t easy. I make him work for it.  

That evening G and I were in town for dinner and we dropped by the drugstore to pick up my prescription – looking forward to later that evening when we could see what the hell, if anything, was going to happen.  Would I get this enormous, beautiful steel-hard penis that would evoke both our admirations?  Or not?   

I quickly looked at my options.  I could pay the unexpected large sum of money for them or I could ask the clerk to hold up the line while I scoured the store for G and got her input after going through the inevitable conversation – “$600?”  “Yeah.”  “$600?”  “Yeah.” “For how many pills?”  “Ten…ten pills” “Are you sure you heard it right?”  “Yeah, $600.”  “For ten pills?”  “Yeah.  What do you think?”  “$600 for ten pills?”  

She browsed around the store while I waited at the prescription counter watching myself and my fellow standers-in-line fidgiting on the security television screen suspended above us.  Finally I am summoned to the counter, state my name, birthdate and the name of the prescribing doctor, withdrew my credit card from my wallet and was prepared to conclude the purchase quickly, silently and efficiently for the benefit of those waiting in the now expanded line of anxious faces behind me when the young woman behind the counter said,  “OK, that comes to $600 plus tax. Credit or debit?”  I can imagine the expression on my face because I was expecting maybe…$30.00 or, best case, a $5.00 co-pay.  G and I are “comfortable” but not wealthy enough to spend $600-plus tax on hard-on pills without at least discussing it beforehand. But she was out in the store somewhere, the credit card was in the slot and there was a line of impatient people behind me.

So, I bit the bullet, said, “OK”, swiped the card, signed the little screen with the provided stylus and walked away with my little bag of pharmaceutical gold.  

When I found G, I whispered, “I just bought $600 worth of hard-on pills!”  She laughed and said, “$600?”  “Yeah.”  “$600?”  “Yeah.” “For how many pills?”  “Ten…ten pills” “Are you sure you heard it right?”  “Yeah, $600.”  “For ten pills?”  “Well, I didn’t know it was going to cost that much and and there were people in line and I didn’t know where you were so I bought them.  I’ll tell you about it in the car.”   

We had a good laugh on the way home and, I think, used them well.  They did make a little difference, most noticeable the morning after taking them. That was nice because we are both very sexually responsive in the morning.  Morning sex is different from evening sex. So, we enjoyed the pills sort of like we enjoyed shaving the bush…it was fun to try but we don’t need them.  I think I have one left.  I’m going to take it one night soon without telling G and see of she notices anything different.  

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