I depend on memories for a sex life. Ten years ago, not long after my 60th birthday, a belated present appeared in the shape of small lump within my penis. I went to a doctor, who diagnosed Peyronie’s disease – a buildup of plaque in the penis. It was a tiny lump and he didn’t seem concerned. But about three months later, I noticed my penis becoming misshapen when erect. It sort of tilted to the left. Very soon after that, my erection was not strong enough for penetration. I remember being shocked; that part of my body was suddenly disabled.
A specialist put me on a course of tamoxifen and Viagra. When these didn’t work and my erection was still soft, I tried reducing the plaque via a vacuum device. After that failed, the consultant recommended an implant. It’s a balloon-type object inserted into the penis, which I could pump up when I felt the urge. I couldn’t imagine it; nor could my wife. We’d been together about 20 years, and now our sex lives were over. Mine at 60, hers at 50.
The consultant was astonished that I didn’t go for the implant. I told him we found it repulsive, about as non-sexy as you could get. And the Peyronie’s has left me embarrassed about my penis.
Of course, sex is always there. It creeps into my thoughts and, I know, into my wife’s. It spices our dreams. And often, it depresses us both. Now 70 and 60 respectively, we haven’t had sex for over a decade (we don’t do “heavy petting”: I don’t think I could stand the frustration). If there’s any consolation, it’s that our life and love has survived. But god we miss it.
• Each week a reader tells us about their sex life. Want to share yours? Email sex@theguardian.com
