I Started Zoloft for Depression and Now I’m Depressed Because My Dick Doesn’t Work
A short fiction story about an orgy gone wrong
I wrote this piece for Confessions, a weekly reading series at KGB. Patrons make anonymous confessions in the “confession booth,” and readers then use a confession as a writing prompt. The confession I chose was “I started Zoloft for depression and now I’m depressed because my dick doesn’t work.”
The workday is winding down, and for the first time in years, so am I. I started taking Zoloft a few weeks ago, and now enough serotonin has built up in my system that I’m no longer constantly on the verge of snapping. For the first two weeks, I felt like I was rolling. It was so weird to move about the world feeling content, agreeable, and only slightly homicidal. When a barista handed me a latte, I said, "Thank you," instead of, "Fuck you, you stupid bitch! I said I wanted it iced!"
I’m much more pleasant to be around, and everyone has taken notice — including Owen, the other gay guy at my job. I really want to be his friend, but our personalities have never seemed to click. He’s very chill and demure, and I’m very intense and on edge. Our conversations usually end with me talking so fast I have to catch my breath, and him saying, "Ok," and walking away. But today, we’re really vibing thanks to my new SSRI! We went to Chipotle together for lunch, and we’ve been sending each other Reels all day.
"Got any plans after work?" I ask him.
"Yeah. This daddy who hosts orgies in the East Village is having something. Said there’s gonna be at least 14 guys there."
"Woah! He has a nice apartment?"
"He has a house! Three stories. I think he works in finance or something."
"Can I see him?"
Owen hands me his phone with an album of the guy’s nudes pulled up. As I scroll, my jaw drops.
"I know, he’s a little chubby," Owen says, "but he’s really funny."
"Dude… do you know who that is?"
"No…" Owen trails off. "Should I?"
"That’s Michael Kors!"
"Woah!" Owen grabs his phone and types "Michael Kors" into Google Images. Sure enough, the gracious orgy host appears a dozen times — although in a three-piece suit rather than a birthday suit.
"Have you hooked up with him?"
"Yeah," Owen says. "Last time he and this Iranian guy Eiffel Towered me."
I’m stunned. And I want in. "Can I come?" I ask.
Owen laughs. "Sure. Why not?"
Wow! Look at me. I’m hanging out with my work friend-crush for the first time, and we’re going to an orgy at Michael Kors’ house. Zoloft is already changing my life. Maybe next it’ll help me land my dream job as a seat filler at the Oscars.
. . .
Owen and I turn off 5th Avenue and approach the non-descript townhouse. He rings the doorbell, and seconds later, the famed designer appears at the door — ironically wearing a Versace robe.
"Hi doll!" he exclaims, kissing Owen on the lips.
"This is my friend Jaxon," Owen introduces me. Not co-worker. Friend! I’m ecstatic.
"Ooooohhh, hello," he says, scantily draping his fingers over my pecs. "You’ll make a lovely addition. Come on in. There’s already 15 guys here."
Michael leads us down the ornate hallway and up the stairs, walking us toward the sounds of moaning and huffing. "So tell me about yourself," he says to me as we walk. "Top? Bottom? Side?"
"Top," I answer. "Total top."
"Mmmm! Can never have too many of those. How big?"
"8 and a half, baby."
I glance over at Owen to see his reaction. His eyes widen, and I can see his buttcheeks pulse through his tight pants. He is pretty cute. If the vibe is right, maybe I’ll even get to fuck him tonight.
Finally, we enter the orgy room. Inside, clusters of men of all colors, shapes, and sizes are going at it like the world is in desperate need of repopulation. The faces I can see are all hot. The booties are supple. The backs are muscular. I’m so turned on I rip my pants down without even undoing my belt. Good thing it’s my laundry day — I’m conveniently in a jock strap because it’s my only clean underwear. Michael grabs my ass and fondles it a bit before he spreads me open and eats me out. I wonder if this is how he greets all his visitors.
I go on the prowl, hungry for my first prospect. Perhaps it would be easier to lead with my schlong. It always attracts attention. I pull down my jockstrap and reveal…
My tiny, flaccid penis.
I’m the definition of a grower, not a shower. My flaccid penis isn’t just limp, it’s microscopic. Maybe one inch, if that. When I get hard, my dick inflates like a balloon, and when I go soft, it deflates down to a husk of its former glory. It’s like a cuckoo clock, popping out and nearly poking you in the eye, then retreating back to its pube-furnished house. Right now, my pubes are so bushy you can barely even see my cock. I look like a reverse eunuch — no dick, just balls. And my balls are huge. Much larger than most guys. I’ve had several partners tell me my balls remind them of that episode of South Park where Randy’s balls are so inflated he can bounce on them.
God damn it. I’d always heard this was a side effect of Zoloft, and ironically, now it’s making me more anxious. I talked myself up as this big-dicked top, and now I fear I’m about to be exposed as a fraud.
A hot, muscular dude covered in tats comes up to me and starts touching me. He reaches down to where my cock is supposed to be and tries to grab it. He misses. He grabs again and tries to jerk me off, but my dick is so soft and tiny he can barely hold it between his thumb and forefinger. I’m very aroused, but nothing is happening. My shoulders sulk. My face falls. The guy still seems interested, but I’m dying of embarrassment, so I walk away.
I move about the room and come across Michael fucking Owen, with another guy huffing poppers and backing his butt up onto Owen’s hard dick. My heart sinks a bit. If Owen sees me anxious and uncomfortable, he’ll think I can’t hang and never invite me to anything again.
"Come on, Mr. 8 and a half," Michael calls to me. "Let’s see it in action."
Fuck! Now I’ve been called out in front of everyone. I close my eyes and imagine I disappear.
"Give it to me baby!" Michael calls again.
I sheepishly approach his backside and begin rubbing my crotch against him, hoping the friction will get some blood flowing down there. But I think it’s doing the opposite. My dick has shrunk even more, to the point it’s almost inverted like a vagina.
"I don’t feel anything," he turns to me and says.
Ugh. I came in here riding such a high, and now I feel like I’m flailing. First impressions are last impressions, and I certainly don’t want to make a bad first impression on Michael Kors.
"You know, I think I’m in more of a bottom mood tonight." I can’t think of any other way to save this. I’m not a very good bottom because I’m typically so anxious my butthole is practically sealed shut. But maybe the Zoloft combined with the overstimulating environment will make me a little bit looser.
"Oh, is that so?" Michael says, smirking. He pulls his dick out of Owen and turns it toward me. Holy shit. It’s even bigger than mine. And it’s so thick he needs two hands to hold it. There aren’t enough poppers in the world to make me loose enough to take that. But I can’t back down now.
"Fuck yeah baby," I say nervously. "Give it to me." I turn around and bend over, making the sign of the cross as he spreads my cheeks apart. I take a deep breath and brace — the opposite of what you’re supposed to do before taking a massive cock. He presses his tip against my hole. My door is closed.
"Here." He hands me some poppers. I take two huge puffs and begin to dissociate completely. He slowly begins to enter my hole. Reflexively, I tense up, continuing to take massive whiffs of poppers, hoping I’ll pass out and be relieved of my duty. The more I huff, the looser I get. I can feel just the tip of his dick inside me, and I’m already panting like I ran a marathon, my body tensing like I’m being drawn and quartered, my veins popping out of my forehead.
"That’s it, boy," Michael says. Then he thrusts himself all the way in, his 9+ inches fully inside my sphincter, pushing my next bowel movement back into my intestines.
"AAAAAAGGHGHH! Oh god! Oh my godddd!!!!"
"Yeah, you like that boy?"
"EEEEAAAAAGGGHHHH!! Fucking FUCK!! Oh my god!!!"
"Mhmmm, that’s right boy."
Michael thinks I’m screaming in ecstasy, but I’m actually screaming in agony. I feel like I’m being tortured at Guantanamo. Unconsciously, I hope that the more I scream, the sooner it will be over.
Unpleasant penetrative sensations aside, I feel something happening inside me. Getting fucked always feels like I’m about to poop, but this time I’m also feeling something bubbling in my gut. That fucking Chipotle. I had completely forgotten about it, but I guess it didn’t sit well. I know I should stop so I can run to the bathroom and avoid any catastrophe, but between the poppers and the pounding, my brain cells are jumbled and I can’t react fast enough. Everything is happening to me and I have no choice but to go with the flow…