From Bedroom Hero to Zero
I’ve spent years writing about overcoming sexual performance anxiety. Here’s what happened when the problem returned.
The Mandate is a newsletter about topics that men don’t like to talk about. It’s written by Olympic Medalist and frequent Men’s Health contributor Jason Rogers. You can follow Jason on Twitter here. If you were forwarded this email, you can subscribe below.
The realization that my penis had stopped working was not my most welcome discovery in 2022. The scenario was as follows. My wife and I had settled into bed for some physical intimacy, and at the moment when my body normally kicks into gear, my engine began to stall. At first, I internally studied the situation with a sense of curiosity; however, my childlike interrogation gave way to a muted sense of panic. The door to sensuality, previously open, suddenly snapped shut.
In the weeks that followed, the same thing happened several more times. Soon, I found myself making up excuses not to have sex or subtly avoiding situations where the mood might be right. Long before I entered the bedroom, I would worry about my potential inability to “perform.” The anticipatory excitement I normally felt for sex disappeared. All I felt was the numbing weight of dread.
But let me back up…
Three years ago, I wrote a piece for Men’s Health magazine about the many years I struggled with sexual performance anxiety and ED. That period spanned from my mid-teens to my early thirties, most of which I was competing as an Olympic fencer. And, yes, I am painfully aware that these two parallel plot points reek of the kind of symbolic irony that only a bad Hollywood screenwriter could think up.
Finally, I gathered the courage to confront my issue rather than continue allowing it to linger in the shadows. That decision alone made a big difference and officially commenced my recovery journey. But my healing occurred at the speed a tree grows. I tried all kinds of things, but what ultimately made the biggest difference was opening up to my dad about my problem, spending several years in therapy, and learning how to navigate through difficult moments in the bedroom rather than emotionally (and sometimes physically) fleeing the scene.
By the time I met my wife eight years ago, I was in a much better place sexually speaking. Our relationship moved quickly, and soon we were marching steadily toward a life together. However, I still experienced ups and downs. We would go through periods of having mind-blowing sex. But then I would have an off night, and sometimes that sexual stumble could lead me into a rut. When that happened, we would weather sexless weeks, occasionally months. My wife was always incredibly supportive but also not completely immune to experiencing her own emotional struggles in response. Still, she was patient and kind, and eventually, we would find our way back.
Then about five years ago, a doctor discovered that I had a small benign tumor on my pituitary gland that was altering my hormones to abnormal levels. After starting a new prescription, I immediately noticed improvements in the bedroom. We had already been enjoying a rich sex life despite the periods of drought. But the medication lifted a cloud from over my head. The lingering fear (what if it happens again?) that hid in the back of my mind finally dissipated. The pain of old had subsided. In fact, I rarely thought about it much at all.
Fast forward to five months ago. After numerous blood tests and MRIs, it appeared that my hormone levels had stabilized, and my tumor had shrunk (but not disappeared). My doctor felt confident that I could slow down and then eventually stop the medication. I was open to the idea and began to wean off the meds. All the while, my doctor monitored the results, and everything appeared to be A-OK. However, I began to notice that my body was starting to feel more sluggish in the bedroom. Then I had the fateful night I mentioned above, and suddenly all those uncomfortable feelings of uncertainty came rushing back.
Adding to my confusion was the fact that my current doctor said that he did not think that the recent resurgence of my issues was related to my hormone levels. He offered this diagnosis in a kind and non-judgmental manner. However, past doctors have delivered similar opinions in a way that made me feel like what they really wanted to say was: “look, dude, this whole thing’s psychological, so just stop shooting yourself in the foot.” The hormone diagnosis had been my vindication. So, to have it taken away plunged me right back into the fog.
So, that’s where I am right now. I’ve gone back on my medication mostly to steady the ship as I work things out. (It has definitely helped). Thankfully, I’m in a tremendously supportive relationship, which is an important part of the equation. I am also blessed with the resources to be able to address this issue in therapy. Plus, I have spent so many years working on this that I’ve got plenty of psychological tricks up my sleeve. Above all, beneath the daily worries, I can feel a grain of certitude that this too shall pass.
But that has not stopped me from feeling a sense of embarrassment and shame. At this point, I’ve written and shared a lot on this topic beyond that first Men’s Health article, including additional articles, a couple of extensive Reddit AMAs, a half dozen podcast interviews, and countless emails with men struggling with the same thing. Nowhere in any of that did I imply that I have it all figured out. I would often make a point to say that I still struggled on occasion (because any guy that says he has never experienced issues is probably lying through his teeth). But the implication was that I had the answers. I had the key.
Still, I began noticing a kind of unfamiliar vanity as my work made its way into the zeitgeist. Shortly after my original article appeared, an experienced writer at Mel Magazine wrote a profile exploring my efforts to confront the taboo related to sexual difficulty among men. When it was published, I could objectively see that he did a fine job telling my story and conveying my intentions. But I also felt somewhat distraught after reading the piece because I thought the title (“Olympic Fencer Jason Rogers’ Biggest Battle Yet: Defeating Erectile Dysfunction”) and general tone were ambiguous about whether or not I had left the issue behind.
When the writer asked me if there were any factual inaccuracies, I gave him some valid feedback about one description of fencing, which he changed. Then, I raised my complaint about the tonal issue. I was already treading into murky water because this was more a question of style rather than fact. At first, I thought about asking him to change it by noting that the ending felt unclear (does he still struggle with the issue, or doesn’t he?). But then some kind of dark force injected me with the gumption to suggest that I rewrite the end of his piece myself.
Oh boy. It certainly hurts to share that little gem because I really did (and do) feel silly about that moment. Thankfully, the writer graciously disarmed the situation. I also returned to my senses quickly enough to back off and apologize for egregiously overstepping my bounds (that part of the article remains unchanged). But the incident revealed a deep tension I felt about my work. I had forced myself to become comfortable talking publicly about struggling with the sexual dysfunction I experienced in the past. But I was uncomfortable with people thinking that I might be struggling with that same issue right now.
But there was another layer of complexity. Despite considering myself to be an intensely logical person, I have always entertained various forms of magical thinking. Like many athletes, I embraced certain trivial superstitions during my career. However, as my anxiety grew worse, I began to engage in a sort of if/then thinking that was more pernicious in nature. I would, for example, worry that failing to perform a series of exercises in a certain order could lead to a terrible injury down the road. When I retired from fencing and began therapy, those thought patterns subsided. But they left a groove in my brain that subtlely tilted me towards the phobia of speaking good news out loud for fear that it would cause that very thing to slip through my hands like grains of sand.
As a result, when I was considering writing my original Men’s Health piece about moving past my bedroom issues, there was a part of me that feared tempting the universe (and all its mysterious ways). So, when I experienced the fateful night I mentioned in the intro, I logically knew that the events were unrelated. But I could not help but feel that I had caused the other shoe to drop. From there, the situation waded ever further into the meta. Counterintuitively, my first instinct was to dive in and unpack the whole event in writing (as I’m doing right now). However, because I had returned to a state of not having things figured out, I wondered: should I tempt the universe by writing about it even more?
Fortunately, a source of inspiration arrived at exactly the right time. I came across an article written by Brad Stulberg, the co-author of a book called Peak Performance. Several years ago, Stulberg began an intense battle with OCD that involved frequent suicidal thoughts. Yes, that’s right: The guy who literally wrote the book on optimal mindset found himself in such a dark place that he was literally fighting for his life. Stulberg was hesitant to write about these troubles because of how they reflected on his reputation and career. But, more importantly, he also was deeply concerned that sharing his story might cause his OCD to return with a vengeance. Thankfully, a mental health professional counseled him to ignore that fear because “a big part of peak performance is playing through the pain.”
Although there are many exceptions to this general principle, the performance metaphor struck a chord with me. (I mean, I was an athlete for nearly two decades, so please cut me some slack). However, as I thought about it more, I realized that it also revealed yet another problematic idea that was influencing how I continue to approach sex. The word “performance” is inextricably linked to the act because we believe that we must physically and emotionally rise to the occasion. Women absolutely experience shame around sex for a variety of reasons. However, men tend to root their shame in the notion that if they do not get an erection, cannot orgasm, or orgasm too fast, they have failed.
Much of this is culturally conditioned. This is by no means an exhaustive list, but men often compare themselves to their friends’ tales of sexual conquest, which are often exaggerated to make the teller seem immune to pressure. They also absorb certain narratives and sexual scripts from mainstream porn, which suggest that normal penis function involves transforming it into a skin-covered battering ram. But these comparison points are like bad habits: easy to criticize, hard to kick.
When this kind of thinking interferes with sex, it’s bad for all parties. But it’s especially bad for partners who are left out in the cold as the guy spirals and then shuts down. As I type the next few sentences, I want to make it clear that I am talking to myself as much as I am trying to get the point across to you. When you take an exclusively performative and penetrative view of sex, you are playing Russian Roulette with your (and your partner’s) sexual wellbeing. And yet, it is so difficult not to do that. I have delivered this point almost word for word in podcast interviews. But, on a practical level, I still have not fully embraced the idea that sexual intimacy between partners is primarily about emotional connection, not a physiological result.
So, as you can see, there are Boogie Men hiding in my own thinking, and I still have lots of work to do. But I look for inspiration in others — like Stulberg — and the many other creative souls I encounter on a daily basis who have made use of their problems and personal contradictions by turning them into art. I guess if there is any single thing that I continue to repeat to myself on a daily basis, it is this: although some primordial instinct is always screaming at me to shield my darkest parts, I know I need to give them light. So this is me, limping slightly, confidence shaken, but doggedly determined to get back out on the field.
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From Bedroom Hero to Zero
Thanks for the vulnerable share, brother.
One offering here in case it's helpful. Have you come across Betty Martin's 3-minute game? http://bettymartin.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/08/Booklet-Letter-Size.pdf
She recommends playing with non-sexual touch (because our sexual conditioning is so deep it's too easy to fall back into patterns). I've found it really helpful in providing a sense of psychological safety in the bedroom, because it gives me a way to practice asking for what I need/want (to receive), to trust that my partner can do the same (to give), and to get embodied experience trusting that each of us can set boundaries that will be respected. It's a nice way to build physical intimacy and connection without the pressure to perform. Done with a partner you love and are sexually attracted to, it also can set a nice foundation for building toward more physical intimacy.
The other strategy I like (if you partner is at all into sensual/energetic touch, from Jaiya Sa's Erotic Blueprints) is providing that type of touch ("to give" in Betty's framing above) for her pleasure... without any need to center/prioritize your own. Anyway, sharing here in case others may enjoy these practices. Sending solidarity and gratitude for your sharing out loud.