I look at women forlornly – they’re amazing. I was diagnosed with testicular cancer 23 years ago, when I was 31, and both balls were removed. I had been in a relationship for six months, but it ended soon after and there’s been no one since. I was treated with a hormone replacement therapy which caused relentless erections; lonely and horny is a miserable combination. I started watching pornography because it was safe and there was no fear of humiliation, but it only reinforced my sense of isolation.
The treatment was withdrawn because of its side-effects – obesity, aggression, sexual rampancy – and since being put on a “safer” type of testosterone, I’ve been impotent. I began visiting escort girls for a kiss and a cuddle, lying with them in my arms. I’d call a chatline and have fake phone sex, pretending to orgasm at the appropriate point in the charade. I’ve fantasised about fantasies, acted out roles of virile masculinity, wretchedly impersonated a man. Recently I began making politely inept passes at gorgeous girls, emboldened by inevitable dismissal; another sham pantomime.
I have nothing else to declare – I’m a sexual nonentity. I began counselling in January and wish I had been referred 20 years ago. The anguish never stops, so I’ve learned to repress dangerous emotions. I admire women abstractly but occasionally one slips through my defences and destroys me; I’ll find her incredibly attractive, want her desperately, but have no outlet for the powerful feelings that surge up within me. I weep uncontrollably when I imagine being with her, sweet desire unleashing all the shame, rage and despair inside me.
• Each week, a reader tells us about their sex life. Want to share yours? Email sex@theguardian.com
