Ode to the Men of Erectile Dysfunction Commercials

Hail to you, gray-haired gentleman on that summer porch. Let us put down our fishing magazines and nod sternly to your valor. You have met her eyes, there on the wicker davenport with a curtain of lush hemlock and hard ash behind you, and between your eyes and hers has trickled the elicit recognition that you will now make love.

Now we understand. It was you who, under cover of night, supervised the hired crews and their specialized equipment, a Terex 95-foot boom crane, in order to place the two clawfoot tubs just so, overlooking the canyon. It was you who approached her, the saucepan of your square jaw with a curving bratwurst of a smile, saying, “Come to the porch. Bring your robe.”

The evidence before us in indisputable, and we have ordered the scribes to begin penning record of your formidable deeds.

No other valley will be blocked to you. No glandular failure will be your undoing. Conquerer! you’ll sing in the shower, as she, draped in the camisole you bought her, spreads jam on toast for two. Vamanos, friend.

Your hairline. The fineness of your tastes in ten-inch water-treated planks and in women. These things sound like a gong of the esteem that radiates from you, bathing us in the sumptuousness of your essence. Especially do your shoulders do this, silhouetted as they are against the setting sun, just above the mesa. They are like mesas themselves, though one rises, on the arm that drapes from the tub to meet her arm draping from her tub like the willing twin cable of a suspension bridge, the engineering principals of which you could surely explain later as you move aside of the wet spot you have made. She will press her breasts into your chest and drape her arm like a hose through the garden of your chest hair. Yes, you could explain many things. You could explain caisson’s disease, which men died from during the building of the Brooklyn Bridge. Never would you arise from any trench with job done only to die.

You could explain your love for her, as well, more than you could explain the scrolling, asterisk’ed fine print appearing now at the bottom of the screen. Though really your love cannot be explained by any type of words, because your love for her is more like an image, a corporate entity, like this fine gleaming logo, around which silver pin-pricks of light race after, or toward, each other, tracing the perimeters of the first and last block letters, like mad dogs around a track.