I’ve been feeling a bit like Jake Barnes lately—but not exactly like the tragic, doomed version Hemingway gave us in The Sun Also Rises. More like a 21st century, late-stage Gen-X edition: a guy who survives the war, gets patched up, and then tries to live with a body that no longer behaves the way he remembers.

My equipment still works. I’m not impotent, not broken, not incapable. But I’m also not exactly the same.

The plumbing has gone dry, and the part of me that once thought I could have another kid someday has been forced into permanent retirement.

Truth is, it’s painful down there. Erections come with a wince, and the phantom orgasm comes with an ache that lingers for days. My body feels like a once-dependable race car that isn’t firing on all cylinders anymore and doesn’t handle the way it’s always handled. Suddenly I’m a high-performance driver stuck with a lemon.

So when someone makes a pass at me now—even if it’s just flirtatious banter—I freeze for a second. Not because I don’t feel attracted or flattered, but because there’s that flicker of insecurity: How do I explain all this? How do I even feel about all this?

I’m not Jake Barnes, permanently cut off from intimacy. But I’m also not my pre-surgery self, the one who took sex for granted—even though it’s been a few years since I’ve quoted Barry White in the bedroom.

What I’m learning is that manhood doesn’t have to be defined by fluids or biomechanics or even the familiar ease of pleasure.

Maybe I’ll find it somewhere in the honesty, the emotional vulnerability, and the willingness to be brave in ways Hemingway was too embarrassed to write about. Jake suffered in silence; I’d be a fool to do the same.

I’m still capable of desire. Still capable of wanting a romantic connection with a woman. The rest, I guess, is just part of the story of living long enough to keep becoming someone new.

Richard La Rosa ~ (11/30/2025)