The clinic was an unobtrusive white stucco structure surrounded by gnarled oak trees on an obscure back road. There were several cars parked in front, but it gave the overall appearance of being unoccupied. The smell of late summer was in the air, with just a hint of fall breezes— my favorite time of year. I was getting on in years and had just started retirement a few short months earlier.

My wife continued to work to secure her retirement, having entered the workforce only after my two girls had gained their independence. Able to retire early thanks to “downsizing,” I was finally beginning to enjoy what I had missed over the past thirty-five years of unforgiving commitment. There was one nagging problem, however, that had led me to this unobtrusive structure and triggered the “butterflies” that had been fluttering in my gut for the past several days.

My wife, Doris, is, and always has been, the love of my life. During the course of our lifetime of experiences together, we had enjoyed many of the simple pleasures that put my soul to rest. Yet, during the preceding five years, much to the chagrin of my beloved, my sexual appetite had waned and sputtered into non-existence.

We had played with Viagra and various other non-intrusive therapies with little or no success, and I had resigned myself to accept the termination of my sexual desires along with the onset of aging. My Doris had not, and although I try to pleasure her to the best of my ability, she remains unsatisfied and frustrated. All the explanations, gifts, and promises in the world would not deter her need for fulfillment, and, with no other recourse, I responded to the recommendation of her gynecologist to visit this small clinic where an experimental therapy was being offered.

Walking up the small gravel walkway, I allowed the anxieties to pass as foolishness and adjusted my attitude to accept whatever may come. I was greeted at the door by a busty blonde with a clipboard and a white cotton miniskirt that exposed the better part of her hefty thighs. She was munching her gum like an overweight cow and could barely speak without slurping or slobbering.

“Mr. Williams,” she slurped in a most unbecoming way, “The Dr. has been waiting for you - why don’t you head into the exam place behind me and shuck your rags? There’s a house coat on the hanger in the john.” She unceremoniously wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and I damn near turned for the door, wondering what kind of therapy was in store for me.

Stepping into the small and tidy room, I spied a nice, comfortable sofa, a small exam table, and a couple of plain medical cabinets along with a small alcove where the “john” sat unceremoniously, partially obscured behind a free-standing curtain. Disrobing with doubts, I slid into the harsh paper fabric of the “house coat,” which was nothing more than a standard-issue, open-from-the-rear hospital gown. I tried to make myself comfortable on the plastic-coated sofa, which was a difficult task as any exposed skin immediately stuck and made unflattering noises when I tried to move about.

Like a dream from an erotic movie, the Dr. entered, with a clipboard and a small stethoscope dangling from her flawless neck. Tall, tanned, raven-haired, and leggy, she strolled over to me with a smile that would melt butter, and her fragile right hand extended. I made unflattering noises as I rose to acknowledge her greeting and found my face reddening in embarrassment.

“Mr. Williams, thank you for coming,” she cooed with a soft alto voice that immediately put me at ease. “You can call me Eve if you’d like; mind if I call you Jim?”

“Uh, no...” I stammered.

She paused for a moment, quickly scanning her clipboard and withdrawing a pen from her lab coat, which barely concealed her low-cut summer dress and the two firm orbs that firmly rose from beneath. “Do you have heart problems, allergies to any known medications, or unusual voiding habits?”

I kept shaking my head no, as my gaze fell to the slender hips and sensual legs that tapered down to her tiny, well-manicured feet.

“Good, here are five hundred of your dollars for your participation; now let’s take a look at our unresponsive little friend, shall we?”

Despite the rapid and unexpected events, I slowly rose to my feet as she lifted the gown and took my wrinkled willie into her creamy, soft hands. She quietly studied my lifeless appendage in a gentle, professional manner, while I tried to think of football or the neighbor’s dog that had taken a liking to defecating in my wife’s favorite flower bed...

“Looks must be quite deceiving in your case, Jim; it looks like you’re supporting a fine piece of equipment here. Could you bend over so I can check your prostate - you know the procedure.”

Again, I nodded and leaned over, grasping the arm of the sofa as she donned a condom on the first two fingers of her right hand. She smiled as she applied Vaseline onto the condom, and I spread my legs nervously while trying to relax. Her fingers quickly found the weathered orifice and slipped in quickly, immediately surging towards my prostate. For the first time in months, I felt my willie jump involuntarily.

Her fingers expertly caressed the engorged gland gently, and within just a few brief moments, a small stream of semen oozed from my wilted appendage and dripped onto the floor. I was now totally embarrassed as my mind clamored for a fantasy to get lost in. Her ungloved hand circled my willie, and with gentle pressure, she began pumping life into the previously lifeless flesh.