Stealing Viagra
 Former basketball great Connie Hawkins likes to say, “The older I get, the better I used to be.” Sexually speaking, I might be inclined to repeat the Hawk’s line. At 37, I’m hardly the teenage Vesuvius I once was. Hell, who is? I’ve chosen to compensate psychologically.
Such as telling myself I’m wiser. Far less egocentric. A more creative lover. Open to experimenting. So when the chance to test-drive the whoopee wonder drug arose, I struck like the Pink Panther.
When my Uncle Leo was visiting from Pittsburgh, I came upon his shaving kit alongside the sink basin. Atop travel-sized toothpaste and dental floss lay an orange-labeled container. Viagra. Holy hat rack, I thought. My 70-plus-year-old unc is still gettin’ busy? The bottle was nearly empty, so I helped myself to but a few. Still, the sensation was akin to hitting Lotto. No cyberdocs. No clinic visit. No midnight runs to Mexican pharmacias. Did I moralize over the thought of better lovemaking through chemicals? Not at all. I see it as a competitive-edge question. It’s why my refrigerator shelves hold more supplements and vitamins than actual food. And if the erection is truly “the last gasp of modern manhood,” as post-feminist social critic Camille Paglia notes, why should men in their autumn years -- Hef’s gen -- get to horde it? Why can’t (relative) youth be served? I’ve tried the alternatives. Yohimbe, the sole sex abettor in the Physicians’ Desk Reference, provided negligible results. Even worse, it left a crimson calling card on the business side of my Calvins. My window of opportunity opened soon enough after a grueling 12-hour flight from the Caribbean. My comely partner of a dozen years met me at the airport. I had made a point of buying all the West Indian sex fetishes and cool tribal art I could afford, which thrilled her to no end. We downed a number of cocktails, then headed home. I’d also taken sleeping pills before boarding the plane, so I knew there wouldn’t be much fire down below. Yet opportunity was knocking. I stole away to my duffel. Maybe a half-hour hence, the 50-milligram dose came on with the force of a freight-laden Southern Pacific. Jet lag or no, my kundalini had reawakened and elevated to impressively robust proportions.
Damn, what a rush to feel 18 again. Not that Pfizer’s runaway train needs more hype, but I swear my size 7¼ had taken to heart the kicker to the South Park movie: bigger, longer, uncut. Eventually, we retreated to a bath of oils and the flicker of candles. The mood was downright sublime. “You’re so affectionate tonight,” my girl observed. Like going from a ’50s drive-in to an imax, the larger, almost transcendental dimension to the sex lasted at least an hour -- coincidentally, as long as my member stood at attention. To be fair, though, the fact that we hadn’t spent much time coupling of late probably contributed to my ultra lovey-doveyness.
So was it me or the Viagra? I wholeheartedly believe my uncle’s little helper played a leading role. Above all, beyond the physical gratification and the immense pride-stoking, the denouement yielded a more subtle windfall: Not one thought of performance anxiety ever crossed my transom.
Aye, there’s the rub. Viagra as stress-relieving tool.
Sam Fields 
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