Being put off one's stroke, in the most literal of senses

Nein danke.

As the years advance, for many of us the concept of physical intimacy becomes very much a solo effort; when one's partner has availed herself to the martial bed after a hard day spent watching the "Coronation Street" televisual strand, it is inevitable that deep sleep will ensue on her part. Obviously it should be terribly undignified, not to mention downright rude, to prod a narcoleptic partner with one's tumescence (especially if such an intrusion carries the very real threat of an inadvertent Dutch oven), so one is left very much to one's own devices.

However, all is not lost; with a few clicks and a few flicks, sexual nirvana can be achieved with relatively little effort. One of the marvels of the white heat of the modern technological age is the ready availability of enabling material to get one in the right frame of mind, visual Viagra if you will. So, one settles down with what seems like a particularly appealing vignette, works oneself up to cruising speed... and then something at once strange and unsettling occurs. One finds oneself losing the will to continue, due to the perceived ugliness of the male performer.

This is strange to me, being of 100% bona-fide heterosexual proclivities; however, even if the vignette features three astonishingly attractive ladies performing all manner of stimulating acts, it all comes to naught if the gentleman involved in the rumpus resembles a silverback gorilla.  Or Alex McLeish.

One's olfactory synapses can almost detect all manner of deeply obnoxious and unpleasant smells of the kind issued by hairy, overweight wrestlers in a bout, even if one should have to travel 3,000 miles and 30 years into the past to actually arrive at the scene of the action. Why one should be distracted in such a manner, when one really does not seek to assess the aesthetic appeal of the male performer, is beyond me; however, once the rubicon is crossed in this way, I inevitably find myself readjusting my dress, clearing out my web cache, and searching the internet for images of the Focke-Wulf Ta 152 instead of blowing my biscuits.

One obvious suggestion is to contain oneself to viewing scenes involving solely lady performers; however, one finds it difficult to place oneself in the seat of the action in these circumstances, and therefore there is a profound sense of disengagement. Plus, they look as if they could well do without my involvement. One feels like a voyeur, in fact. And that should never do.

Have others fallen foul of this unfortunate phenomenon?