Lickety Split Sex Column: Impotent Things Part 2: Darkness On The Corner Of First And Herman

Story by John Herman 

| Published Mar 30, 2010

It had been four days since I changed clothes. I stank of stale booze and humid crotch but, mostly, impotency.

Impotency — my disease, the curse betwixt my thighs. I had been reduced to something of a useless pseudo-man, an incapable boob huffing spray paint in a drab alleyway with the black guy who plays the washboard in front of Duffy's. Darkness on the corner of First and Herman.

"Oooooyowza HA HA HA!" said the washboard man as he removed the grimy, paint-filled tube sock from his snout. "Mmm, satisfied as fuck, Juan."

"It's John," I reminded him. "And yes, you're right, this spray paint is of exceptional quality. Though I'm afraid your ever-desirous sneezer has sponged up the last of our Opulent Orange."

I tossed the empty can into the gutter. Washboard man watched as the aluminum cylinder rolled away from us before coming to a stop in a shallow pothole.

"Mmm, divine," he grunted, smearing the orange varnish off his muzzle with the sleeve of his coat.

And then he was gone, hurriedly folding up his lawn chair and resuming his customary post on O Street.

"I wasn't done talking to you!" I yelled after him. "Who am I supposed to talk to now?"

"Go home, John," he replied.

"I have no home, Washboard Man."

That wasn't really the case. My apartment was just mere blocks away, toasty warm and longing for ol' John's return. But living as a street rat, like Aladdin, making sketchy back-alley exchanges with Lincoln's homeless and sleeping at the Sunken Gardens made more sense to me than more traditional, domesticated living. No longer was I suited for the lifestyle of the fertile man. Reproduction did not seem to be a common ambition for those leading lives of homelessness.

I was alone. I'd lost my only friend, my spray paint connection, and the consoling soundscape of sultry washboard rhythms. With a sigh and a brain abuzz with inhalants, I walked on, my eyes on the lookout for the next alley, the next homeless percussionist with enough Opulent Orange to smother the reality of my impotency.

I had fallen a long ways. Once a proud, semi-respected sex columnist, I now stood beneath the freezing drizzle on the corner of 14th and P streets--a shattered soul with faulty balls, diseased by the ruthless hands of God.

My phone rang.

"Is this Hahn German?" inquired a cool voice on the other end.

"Maybe," I bleated into the receiver. "Who's asking?"

"This is Doctor of Sperm, Ronnie Foster. I've heard your story, Hahn. And I think I can help you."