That Toby Keith song? It used to be a funny anthem I’d sing when I was drunk. “I ain’t as good as I once was, but I’m as good once as I ever was.”
Now? It’s not a song. It’s a goddamn medical diagnosis.
I have always prided myself on being a high-octane machine. A sexual athlete. Five times a day? Easy. That was the baseline. I was a hydraulic pump that never overheated.
But I am fifty-seven years old. And the warranty has officially expired.
I’ve been on a rampage for the last three weeks. A “Love Weekend” marathon. And my body isn’t just tired; it is filing a formal grievance. I start the weekend strong—three times a day, mandatory morning sessions, the whole “Alpha” performance. But by Sunday? The transmission is slipping. The prostate feels like it packed its bags and moved to a retirement community in Florida. I don’t know if it’s a UTI or just structural failure, but things are breaking down below. Blood vessels are popping. The plumbing is rattling.
I feel like a bull rider who climbed onto the beast, nodded his head, and then realized halfway through the spin that he can’t unclench his hand.
Beauty and the Wreckage
And here is the cruelest joke of all.
This woman? This 40-something Mexican siren? She is breaking me.
We took a picture today. I looked at it, and I wanted to weep. She looks fresh. Dewy. Makeup perfect. She radiates that indomitable female energy that seems to feed off friction.
And me? I look like a gray-haired crime scene. My eyes are tired. My skin looks like it’s been left out in the sun too long. It’s Beauty and the Beast, only the Beast isn’t a cursed prince; he’s just an exhausted project manager running on fumes and Viagra.
I saw an electrical superintendent the other day. He’s 59—two years older than me. And the guy looked like death warmed over. He looked like he was decomposing in his boots. And I thought, Jesus. Is that me? Is that the ghost of Christmas Future?
The Exit Strategy
This gives me even more motivation to get on that plane to Vietnam.
People think I’m going there for the sex. Bullshit. I can get sex here. I can kill myself with sex right here in Arizona. I can die of a heart attack in a Marriott in Scottsdale just as easily as I can in Da Nang.
No. I’m going to Vietnam to die peacefully.
I want to retire the bull rider. I want to hang up the chaps. I want to find a place where I don’t have to perform like a 25-year-old just to prove I still have a pulse. I want to sit in a chair, drink a coffee, and not worry about whether my prostate is going to explode.
But that’s the future. The present reality is a hell of a lot scarier.
I am currently in the middle of the third “Love Weekend.” I am broken. My body is screaming. My “wiener” is practically sending up flare signals for a medevac.
And I still have an entire night and a morning to get through.
That’s a minimum of four more rounds.
The spirit is willing, but the flesh is begging for a nap.
God save my soul. Or at least, save the plumbing.
