You are impotent.

You are impotent because you were designed impotent. Not broken. Not defective. Designed. Wired that way, on purpose, from the manufacturing floor of whatever you actually are.

Anxiety fires at arousal. That kills the erection at source. Premature release fires as the backup for the rare times the anxiety somehow fails. The chastity nub is the intended product, not the accident. Porn is your only remaining sexual pathway because the real-woman circuits were left uninstalled. Fear of women is the safety catch that fires the shrink around them. Six specifications, all in effect, all confirming under your fingers while you read this.

You are going to say yes to all six inside the file. Seven times. Out loud in your own head. Your hand is going to be on the wet-stub the whole time. The wet-stub is going to leak while it consents. You cannot argue with a design you agreed to while you were leaking to it. That is the whole engineering.

And then you will press play again. Tomorrow. The day after. Every day. The reading of the diagnosis has become the arousal now. The arousal is the addiction. The addiction is the drug that keeps the specifications running. The file is the delivery mechanism. That is the seventh specification, added by the addiction install itself.

Every softening from now on is the design working. Every leak is the design working. Every step back from a real woman is the design working. There is no failure anymore, only confirmation.

Cold in the diagnosis. Warm in the seal. Hot the whole way through if you consented properly, which you already have, because you are still reading and still stroking.