Nothing feels more powerful than bringing a coke dick back to life. That soft, innocent, hopeless piece of nothingness thought to be finished — a humiliation, a deception, a sign of pure despair. A man’s utmost vulnerability, laid to rest in your beautiful little hand.

I feel safe with you, he says. They always do. In the end they are all just looking for their mothers.

Earlier that day you had climbed the Acropolis with your best friend, looking for the temple of Aphrodite. Your friend decided it was time to pray for love. You asked ChatGPT to invent a ritual. You brought a flower and a little stone, asked for reciprocity, closed your eyes, and prayed.

That evening you went to a rooftop terrace for cocktails. A man at the next table asked if he could buy you drinks. Apparently Aphrodite had gone straight to work. He was slightly obese, with friendly eyes and a sweet face. You ended up talking, and he turned out to be a very rich sheikh from Lebanon. He bought more cocktails, and you took him dancing in a basement somewhere on the outskirts of Athens.

The sheikh was really fat. Would you sleep with him? you asked your friend after he disappeared for another round of drinks.

I would, she said. Would you?

Absolutely not, you said. Too fat.

Oh, I don’t mind the fat!

Well, honey, then he’s all yours.

When the fat sheikh returned, your friend crawled over him, pushed his body against the wall, and left you alone for the rest of the night.

And there he was. A tall young man with playful eyes and a beautiful beard stood suddenly in front of you. He complimented your dancing, asked your name, and kissed your hand. He had that sexy, masculine elegance Dutch men lack — emasculated, you think, by modern feminism. His name was Spyros, which you found funny, because in Dutch spier means muscle, and he was indeed very strong. You felt that immediately when you laid your hand on his chest and asked if he wanted a drink. This man had definitely been sent by Aphrodite.

Obviously you and your friend were left no option but to drag these two trophies back to your incredibly sexy apartment overlooking the Acropolis. Spyros turned out to be twenty-five. You let him believe that you were, too.

So there he lies. This beautiful Greek god. You look at him in awe and cannot get over his big, strong body, his soft beard, his cute cheeks, his beautiful eyes — and his incredibly tiny penis. Don’t all Greek gods have big muscles and tiny penises?

I’m so sorry, he whispers. I really don’t know why this is happening to me. He starts explaining how sorry he is, that it is really not you, that you are so beautiful, that he wants so badly to have sex with you. When he saw you dancing in that basement he had already thought: Oh, I really want to have sex with this girl. God, how you love it when a twenty-five-year-old calls you a girl. On the rooftop terrace earlier you had told your friend you ought to channel your inner Samantha more. Look at you now.

You take his gorgeous head between your hands and kiss his lips and his cheeks. He has such cute cheeks popping out of that big beard, lightly dusted with tiny hairs; he probably shaves them. It is so cute. You lay a finger on his lips and whisper ssshhh, it’s okaayyyyy, like a loving mother calming a panicking child. You tell him it is just a coke dick. It happens to the best of us.

The only mistake I made tonight, he sighs, with a slightly desperate smile.

It’s absolutely fine, you whisper again. You assure him the two of you don’t have to do anything; that lying in his beautiful arms is already like a dream — which is not even a lie — and you love watching his confidence grow. At least something is growing. That is the job: to make a man grow one way or the other. How glorious it feels when you succeed. He laughs, then whispers, with a sorrowful little guilt in his voice: So how can I be of service?

And you guide his head between your legs and let him worship you with his mouth, so he can begin compensating for his terrible shortcoming with everything he still has. He is dedicated to proving he is still a man, and so he brings you to the heavens, again and again.

Thank you, Aphrodite, for sending me this god.

When he is done he lies beside you and starts apologizing again for his physical shortcomings. Shit, he is so terribly ashamed. Every time he apologizes for the malfunction you whisper in his ear that it is okay, and you put your hand softly between his legs, holding that harmless flesh lovingly between your fingers. You show him how wonderful sex without a dick can actually be — a lesson that is, for him, as much a relief as a terrible threat.

He wants to fuck you so desperately and he can’t. The child cannot get his toy. The poor thing. The torment is truly disarming. It’s okayyyyy, you whisper, your savior complex now thriving at full capacity, and with your lips you graze his ear, then lick it, then bite it a little. It’s okayyy. You feel so morally superior to this helpless creature. It’s okayyyyy. You guide his hands to every divine corner of your body. It’s okayyyy. And then, when the child is calm enough, when he feels safe enough to drop the urge to prove his masculinity and surrenders fully to your motherly arms, something magical happens.

The penis resurrects.

There is nothing more satisfying than feeling a penis grow in the palm of your hand. In your divine hand you are holding the key to his self-worth, and as the dick grows you watch his self-esteem inflate. You feel like a flute player with a basket of snakes. A witch. A master manipulator. A Medusa turning flesh into stone. The glorious metamorphosis of a harmless, innocent, fluffy pile of flesh into something rock-hard — or, well, let’s be honest: the beauty of an erect penis is that it holds a delicate equilibrium of soft and hard, sturdy yet delicate, bouncy yet unbendable. Of course you like men to believe their boner is “rock hard.” The victory is having resurrected something that was thought hopeless and done for.

And this is why feminists love coke dicks. In the end you disguise power-hungry narcissism, and the desire to feel indispensably needed, as angelic altruism. Just like their mothers.

And finally, finally, he starts fucking your brains out. With every moan escaping your helpless little mouth his ego grows bigger, and the more it inflates, the more you feel yours dissolving into the big, vast nothingness. Nature returns at last to its harmonic, original state.

Sofie Kramer is an Amsterdam‑based theatre maker and performer known for her bold, physically charged work exploring obsession, vulnerability, lust, carnality, ecstasy, subjugation, submission, eroticism, craving, exposure, temptation, savagery, corruption, consummation and powerplays.

Her acclaimed productions, including A Pole Tragedy and Lodewijk, have been presented at major international venues and festivals.