The Late Bloomer Read Free Page A

gorgeous women, probably dreaming for a not-so-bad-looking, Ivy League–educated guy, swarm around me in their little skirts and tight tops and bodies to die for. I just watch them.
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.
They’re all around me! Not only can’t I catch them, but I am not so sure I want to.
    It’s easy to understand my shame, my fear of sex and walls of self-denial, when you consider the fundamental mechanics of human reproductive biology that I am lacking. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this male-female mating game. A healthy person, with a sex drive and perfectly functional genitals, doesn’t have to ponder such things, I believe. I bet their genes have them acting on sexual autopilot. I’d imagine that, for them, sex is as easy and uncomplicated as the whole process is confounding for me. Women have it even better than men. While our penises must perform a hydraulic feat just to get an erection, a woman only needs to lubricate—and that can be done artificially. There’s a lot of pressure on guys to perform, especially guys like me who aren’t comfortable with sex. High-tech fertility technologies notwithstanding, a sufficiently hard penis is the first step in asexual reproductive process that keeps our genes in circulation. As an impotent man, what do I have to offer?
    I am disabled, an outsider. I am a backup goalie, sitting on the bench, watching the game being played by others with more strength and talent. I don’t belong. I am probably the only guy at Drew’s party who hasn’t even desired to have sex in almost four years, although I soon stop calculating the length of the dry spell to avoid falling into an even deeper sexual depression.
    In one sense, though, I do fit in. Like at least half the guys here, I am an actor—only I’m acting as if I have not a single neurosis, not an ounce of insecurity about my fear of getting intimate with a woman, about my subdued sex drive and, most of all, about my lame slag of penile tissue.
    â€”
    Finally. About time, Drew.
    There you are, over there by the bar, ordering a drink. Oh, those cute dimples, that porcelain skin. And that smile, so gleaming, so white and pure and womanly. You’re puffing on a Marlboro. After seeing what they have done to my dad, I hate cancer sticks, but I’m willing to make an exception for Drew Barrymore. Only you could make sucking on a lung tumor delivery device an act of sexual seductiveness.
    I absolutely, positively must approach her. The validity of my manhood depends on it. If I don’t go over to her right now and say hello and flirt and hit on her, then, well, I deserve to be the celibate freak that is this “Ken Baker from
People
magazine.”
    I am Man; Drew is Woman. This is a test of my manhood, and I must pass it.
    But I will only fail, as always.
    Stop it right there. Control your thoughts. Don’t think. Zen Ken. Remember? Just like you did with hockey: Let it happen. Especially don’t think about how afraid you are of women, of failure; instead, think about those quotes on courage that you’ve tacked up on your bedroom wall:
    â€œYou must do the thing you think you cannot do.”
    â€” ELEANOR ROOSEVELT
    â€œCourage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear—not absence of fear.”
    â€” MARK TWAIN
    â€œDon’t be afraid to take a big step if one is indicated.”
    â€” DAVID LLOYD GEORGE
    Empowered, I walk over to Drew.
    Nonchalant. Devil-may-care swagger. A take-her-or-leave-her gaze.
    Chest out. Shoulders back. Stomach clenched tight. Marlboro rugged. Confident. Just what the girls want. Be the man.
I can do this.
    â€œKen?” Drew says, tapping my shoulder. “Hey, there.”
    â€œOh, hey, Drew. I didn’t recognize you with your hair up like that.”
    â€œYeah . . . well. Do you like it?”
    â€œUh-huh. Definitely. It’s . . . it’s very cute.”
    â€œI’m