I Survived a Near-Fatal Car Crash, But It Gave Me a Problem with Premature Ejaculation

Most men won’t talk about finishing too fast, even though studies show about 20 to 30 precent of sexually active men report experiencing premature ejaculation at some point in their lives. Michael*, a bespoke woodworker in Philadelphia, didn’t show signs in adolescence—it only started after a car crash at twenty-two left him with scars, a broken hip, and orgasms that came too soon. For the newest installment in our series on the Secret Lives of Men, we talked to Michael about how learning to slow down not only saved his sex life but also transformed the way he approaches love, honesty, and intimacy.

*Names and identifying details of the subjects have been changed to protect their anonymity.

I was twenty-two when I pulled my car across six lanes of traffic in Delaware. I should’ve made a right, circled around, and waited for the light. Instead, I aimed straight for the median, a shortcut I’d taken a dozen reckless times before.

Headlights came at me fast. Then the slam: metal folding into metal, my body flung sideways, glass exploding. I wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. If I had been, I believe the door would have cut me in half.

The next thing I knew, I was in the back of an ambulance, tasting sharp grit and blood. “There’s glass on my tongue,” I told the EMTs, half choking. Then nothing.

Five days vanished. When I opened my eyes again, I was in intensive care with a tube shoved down my throat. Disoriented and desperate, I tore it out myself. Only later did I learn what had happened—that my aorta had torn, an injury that kills most people within three minutes, and that my lung had collapsed around it, stopping me from bleeding out.

I walked away with scars and a broken hip. But the real damage, the thing that would shape the rest of my life, was invisible. I had lost control of my own body, and sex—the place where control once felt natural—would become the arena where I had to earn it back.

I learned that the hard way when I tried to be intimate again.

The first time I kissed someone after the accident, I came in my pants. No penetration, no buildup, just the heat of her lips on mine, and I was gone. My face burned; I tried to laugh it off, like I’d just tripped on a sidewalk crack. She gave a polite smile, kind enough not to make it worse, but the moment was already wrecked. I went home sticky, ashamed, and wondering if sex would ever feel normal again.

Before the crash, sex was simple. I was a late starter—eighteen, long after my friends had their stories—and by twenty-two, I was still new to it all, only a few years into figuring myself out. But I’d found enough footing to trust my body. I had rhythm, control. Until the accident rewired everything.

After the crash, anticipation alone could undo me. A kiss, a thought, even a certain kind of pressure in my gut. It felt like my wiring had been scrambled.

When I saw a urologist, the only answer was to prescribe me Zoloft. “It’ll take the edge off your sex drive,” he said, as if the problem was simply wanting too much. That wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to know why I was suddenly detonating at the first spark. Nobody could explain it.

At first, I panicked. I’d pull away mid-makeout, or blurt a nervous confession before things went too far, like an apology in advance. But slowly, I realized there was another option: to stop rushing.

I let kissing stretch out until my partner was the one tugging me closer. I lingered with my mouth on collarbones, my hands drifting down thighs, until arousal built like a low, steady fire instead of a match flare. And if I still finished too soon, I didn’t roll away in shame. I cleaned up and kept going. My refractory period was short, and staying with their pleasure steadied me.

Foreplay wasn’t a hurdle anymore; it was the symphony. Slowing down gave me control, not over my orgasm but over the experience itself. I couldn’t stop myself from finishing too soon, but I could master everything around it. Her pleasure became the measure of mine: the brushing of lips on a shoulder, the long pause before a hand moved lower, the ache of wanting held a beat longer.

I learned to tease, to pause, to edge. Pinning wrists above her head and dragging my mouth slowly down her stomach. Whispering that I wasn’t going inside yet. Letting the anticipation climb until she trembled.

Without setting out to be one, my partners sometimes described me as a “pleasure dom.” Control wasn’t about being rough; it was about pacing. Drawing things out until release felt inevitable, and then holding it just a little longer.

Years later, marriage tested those lessons. In my thirties, I fell in love and married a lovely woman familiar with my story—the scars carved down my torso, the busted hip, the way my body sometimes betrayed me. At first, I explained myself every time, as if reading from a script. But over time, I realized that I didn’t have to wear my shame, and that honesty didn’t have to be a disclaimer. It could be the bedrock of intimacy. To move slowly with someone meant being truthful in small ways, not just about sex but about fears, wants, and limits.

We built a good marriage, but good isn’t always enough. Love can sour from stillness. Eventually, we slowed all the way down—we stopped. The divorce wasn’t bitter. Today, she’s still one of my closest friends.

After the split, I flung myself back into the world. Dating apps like Tinder, Raya, and Feeld sparked flares of intimacy that lasted weeks or months.. Feeld especially felt different; people were blunt about what they wanted, no need to hide their kinks or their comforts.

What I’ve learned, at fifty, as a bespoke woodworker who spends his days shaping raw material into something useful, is that the same principles apply to love and sex. Don’t cover the flaws. Don’t pretend the joints aren’t there. Be honest about what the material is and move slowly to bring out its strength.

Rushing rarely helps. If the energy isn’t reciprocated, I don’t chase. If jealousy shows up, I don’t shove it down; I sit with it, trace its edges, see what it’s trying to tell me. When something feels right, I don’t lunge for it; I let it build. Slowing down doesn’t mean settling for less. It means more of what matters, more of what lasts.

That practice has given me a full life: lovers who became friends, friends who became confidants, and enough intimacy to keep me endlessly curious.

Premature ejaculation isn’t rare. Mine arrived after trauma, but plenty of men face it for other reasons. What matters isn’t the cause, it’s what you do with it. Here’s the truth I’ve come to: Slow down. That’s how you take control back—not by clenching or panicking, but by shifting the spotlight. The longer you hold back, the more she unravels, and the more you realize women don’t just feel desire in the climax, they feel it in the wait.

Own what happens. Be honest with yourself first, then with her. Don’t apologize for your body. If you finish quickly, don’t disappear into shame—stay. Keep going. Use your mouth, your hands. Give her the kind of attention that makes time bend. Make pleasure something with rhythm, with breath, something that builds until she can’t help but come apart beneath you.

When I was twenty-two, I tried to take a shortcut across six lanes of traffic, and it nearly killed me. In sex, in love, in life, shortcuts don’t work. Slow down. Tell the truth. Stay present. That’s where the good stuff is.