Viagra wasn’t around in the mid-’90s to save me from embarrassment. Until that fateful night in a public park, erectile dysfunction might as well have been the name of a student punk band.
It wasn’t on my radar as I engaged in some frenzied fumbling with a young woman, beneath the cover of an English oak tree, desperately hoping that our upcoming 27 seconds of pleasure, roughly, wouldn’t be spotted by a nosy dog walker.
And then, the earth moved. A bomb went off.
No, that’s not a euphemism. An actual bomb went off several miles away, as the
