I remember, almost, the reason for it happening.

V had put on a little weight. Not a lot but there were, surely, ‘love-handles’. Add to that, my parents (and that’s just too difficult to explain coherently) and it meant that my performance was, ahem, less than perfect.

In fact, it was embarrassing. It didn’t last more than a minute or two and, once gone, it never came back. Oh yeah, I made all sorts of excuses both to V and myself. I did actually think it was a combination of my age and the smoking for so many years. But, I was also aware that it could be just psychological. It was the fat – the ‘love-handles’ that did it.

So then there was Derek. Tall, dark, handsome. The first guy I dated. We realised on the second date that, quite possibly, there was nothing. But I went to his house, we talked, we went to bed.

I was worried. What if the problem hadn’t gone away. I didn’t know. I am Top; performance is everything and, you know, it’s kind of noticeable. It’s one thing for which I can see women have the advantage. They can, if they wish, fake it. I certainly can’t.

I was right to be worried – or because I was worried that caused it all. I couldn’t be sure. True, without clothes the shape was wrong; a little to much in places that shouldn’t be. It didn’t do anything for me.

He said it was OK. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t for me. I left his house with a sinking feeling. What if this was going to happen all the time? What if it was the smoking and the age? What if all that was left was desire?

And, at the end of the day, no partner was going to be satisfied with ‘half a man’, which is how it felt.

No, I needed some sort of magic to put it right.

Something that, maybe, I should have done a few years ago, had to be done. I found a place and made an appointment. It was going to cost me €100 just for the consultation but, hey, we’re talking about the rest of my life, a new partner – it was going to be worth it, I was sure.

I didn’t have a problem talking about it – just as I don’t have a problem writing about it here. I have a problem that needs to be fixed. I explained that, in spite of the fact that it could be the age and the smoking, I felt that, actually, it was just in my head – the first sign of NOT perfect meant a sudden deflation and THE END. I explained that I was Top and that performance was everything. She understood.

She suggested 4. I said, jokingly, that it gave me 4 opportunities to get over this thing in my head and that I would have to be careful when and where I used them. She said she would make it 8. I was happier. She said that if it wasn’t solved after 8 then I would need to go to a specialist.

I went to the chemist, handed over the prescription and paid nearly €100 for 8 of the tiny things.

They, would, she warned me, take about an hour to work. Then they would last for about 3 hours. They might make me feel ‘deflated’ in myself (but not where it mattered) (or, at least, I think that’s what she meant).

I divided them, since there were four in each foil. One, I put in my bag and the other in the drawer by my bed. I cut one from the four in the drawer. I would keep that one with me……just in case something unexpected happened.

Then there was Trevor. Not my type. Noooo. Definitely not my type. But, with the the little miracles in my bedside drawer, I had no problem. I was over the moon. He had fat in the wrong places, and extremely hairy chest, was not beautiful and yet, given all those things I COULD perform!

To be honest, I was somewhat amazed. There, I said to myself, it was all in my head. I just KNEW it.

And then there was Gordon. OK, he has a fantastic body but it’s not perfect. He has a little extra weight but only a little………but not that far from V. Even though I thought, you may remember, that there was going to be nothing, I took one of the little miracles, tucked in the front pocket of my jeans, just in case.

And then there was something and, again, the miracle remained in it’s foil. OK, I thought. Problem solved. €200 down the drain, you might say but, for me, €¬200 well spent. Just knowing the little miracle was there seemed to be enough. Without it and I might never have got here. And this was what it was for…..for Gordon….who might be ‘the one’.

But still, I’m not complacent about this and realise it may not quite be all solved. Henry proved that – but, maybe because it was all rushed and because I had forgotten about the miracles or maybe because he had a little too much extra…..don’t know.

And that, of course, gets me worried about the next time I see Gordon. But I shall take one along, just in case and, hopefully, I will prove once again that just having them to hand is the only miracle I need.

I still have eight chances, eight miracles…….I’m really hoping I never need any of them, as you can probably imagine.

This morning Gordon texted. I asked him what the first song was. It was this one below. I texted back that, of course, for me, you can