I Treated Hundreds Of Men For Erectile Dysfunction. Most Of Them Told Me A Version Of The Same Thing.

The morning of my first appointment, I showed up late. Typical. My daily Uber took forever to arrive. I’d sold my car to fund a short film, so rideshare drivers were now my unofficial coworkers. I used to joke that I had a chauffeur, which made the seven-minute ride to work feel a little more glamorous than it was. 

Every ride was a micro-adventure with a new stranger, and honestly, I needed the distraction from my grief after my father’s recent death. The passivity of riding in a car, maybe the quiet or a song that would play, always stirred feelings. I’d rather talk to randos than process my emotions. 

So, I arrived late: flustered, apologetic, and full of shame. It didn’t matter that this job sounded more like a p...