Copyright E.V. Daymuir 2011

When Barrie Billingsgate awoke without an erection, the significance was not immediately apparent. The previous night had been a good one. An early session with rugby mates at the White Swan, followed by a dinner party with vast quantities of good wine and an expensive cognac. When they arrived home, he had a great session with Natasha. He gave her a really good seeing to.

A light breeze stirred the curtains allowing intermittent shafts of early morning sunlight to touch and flutter over his face, painting colourful patterns through reluctant eyelids. The cooling breeze provided welcome relief from the humidity and heat of recent nights. It felt good. He felt good. Yesterday’s storm had cleared the air and there was no sign of a hangover. He opened his eyes to focus on the corner of the curtain as it billowed gently into the room. The pattern of tiny summer flowers appeared to sway, as if they too were blowing in the wind. He had never noticed them before. Were the blue flowers delphiniums or forget-me-nots? They could be anything for all he knew; Natasha was the one with an interest in such things. The flowers danced to a silent melody as cognitive thought overcame slumber. What was he doing on Natasha’s side of the bed? Why was he lying on his left side when he always slept on his back? He felt for his penis. His ‘old boy’, as he affectionately referred to it, had been the main focus of his life for as long as he could remember. Stroking the bulbous head as he stirred into consciousness was a comforting reassurance of his manhood but, on this particular morning, for some reason or other, it was under performing. He slid a hand down over a belly, which seemed smaller, softer and smoother than usual.