I Treated Hundreds Of Men For Erectile Dysfunction. Most Of Them Told Me A Version Of The Same Thing.

“... as my heart pounded in my chest, I realised something: this job was never just going to be about d***s.”

The morning of my first appointment, I showed up late. Typical. My daily Uber took forever to arrive. I’d sold my car to fund a short film, so rideshare drivers were now my unofficial coworkers. I used to joke that I had a chauffeur, which made the seven-minute ride to work feel a little more glamorous than it was.

Every ride was a micro-adventure with a new stranger, and honestly, I needed the distraction from my grief after my father’s recent death. The passivity of riding in a car, maybe the quiet or a song that would play, always stirred feelings. I’d rather talk to randos than process my emotions.

So, I arrived late: flustered, apologetic, and full of shame. It didn’t matter that this job sounded more like a punchline than a profession. I still wanted to take it seriously. Even a dick fixer has standards. Especially when you’re the only dick fixer on staff.

The Clinic where I would be working specialised in something called shockwave therapy: targeted sound waves that are supposed to improve blood flow and, theoretically, fix erectile dysfunction without pills or surgery.

I wasn’t a doctor or a nurse. I’d gotten certified to use a machine that looked like a space gun in one very long day in Tucson, in a ballroom full of urologists from around the country who pay their mortgages by treating dick dilemmas. My official title was Extracorporeal Shockwave Therapy Technician. Unofficially, I was about to become extremely well acquainted with a lot of strangers’ dicks.

The Clinic owner looked up from the desk as I entered and said, “He’s already in the room. And… you might know him.”

Apparently, he was semi-famous. They said the patient’s name, and I immediately recognised it. Perfect. Let’s add pressure to the pile, shall we?

Heart pounding, I tossed my purse behind the front desk and headed toward the treatment room. I walked down the hallway that separated the entrance to the room from the actual treatment area. From there, I saw two large feet dangling off the edge of the table, patterned dress socks stretched over long, hairy legs.

Socks say a lot about a man. He either picked them with intention or threw on the first clean pair he found. My clients all had sock stories. Weirdly, they became my first impression. My personal intake form for the kind of man I would spend six sessions with.

My eyes followed the socks up the legs to the paper drape barely covering the man’s crotch. Tom, let’s call him that, lay flat on his back scrolling through his phone like this appointment was a........

© HuffPost