Chapter 2: The Profile

March 17, 2020

Bob woke at 2:47 a.m. with the taste of Jameson still on his tongue and the echo of Mary’s dying promise in his ears.

The house was dead quiet except for the refrigerator’s low hum and the rain that had followed him home from the urologist’s office. He padded barefoot to the kitchen, poured another two fingers into the same coffee mug, and carried it to the living room recliner like a man walking to the gallows who had decided the rope might as well be silk.

The laptop waited on the coffee table, lid half open, Screen glowing like a dare.

He sat. Opened FetLife. Stared at the blank “About Me” box under the username Captain64.

For two years, the profile had been nothing but a single photo: him at sixty-eight, silver hair, leather vest cracked with age, eyes that had seen too much and still wanted more. No text. No friends. No posts. A ghost account for a ghost man.

Tonight the cursor pulsed like a heartbeat.

He typed.

72-year-old widower. Radical prostatectomy 2013. No erections, no semen, no apologies. Still 100% Dominant. Still very much in charge. I can still come—hard, full-body, shaking. When I do, what leaves me is warm, clear, and comes from the bladder. The doctors call it climacturia. I call it the only currency I have left. I mark what’s mine with it. If that disgusts you, move on. If it makes you wet, kneel, and write.