Mangled Meat by Edward Lee

over the lubricated knob as though his glans were a bomb-release trigger. “Jake, it sure doesn’t feel to me like you have any problem.” She whispered more hotly, her breath sultry and sweet from the drink. “This is one big hard cock I’ve got here in my hand! Let me take care of it for you. I want to do something for you, you know...for earlier.”
    His chest felt so tight he could barely breathe. “In a minute, I’ll lose it...”
    “Yeah?” She didn’t sound convinced. She brought her thumb and forefinger together, and slid the ring slowly up and down, the pre-come pouring now. There was so much anyone would have thought his penis had been drenched in baby oil. “Relax, you’re just nervous. Look, the barmaid’s going back for ice!”
    Flood didn’t even bother to look.
    “I know you’re gonna come, I know you are,” she insisted. “Get it. Come all over my hand...”
    Flood kept his eyes closed. This was another oddity—his erections never lasted this long, save for last night during the beating. But there was no beating here, no violence, just perfect, unselfish lust. Perhaps his affliction was wearing off after so many years. Oh, God, I can only hope... If the Devil was sitting on the next stool, Flood knew he’d sell his soul just to come.
    Her strokes quickened. Flood filled his mind with images of her: her hairless pussy in his face, his cock sliding between the consummate tits. He imagined the taste of her as his tongue spun circles over the clitoral nugget. He could imagine her own tongue cradling the back of each testicle like a spoon cradling an egg.
    “Get it, get it. Let it all come out...”
    Then the image ruptured. It wasn’t his cock anymore on the verge of eruption. It was some other man’s. And it was Felicity’s hand, not Carol’s, and Felicity’s voice maintaining the secret whisper, “Get it, get it, shoot it...”
    Flood’s erection died in her hand to total limpness.
    She pulled her hand out, perplexed. After some silence, she said, “What happened? Was I doing it wrong?”
    “No,” his voice crunched like gravel being walked on. He regained his breath, humiliated. “What did you say earlier—your rates, I mean. Was it five hundred for an hour?”
    “Yeah, but...I can’t charge you anything for that. I wouldn’t feel right.”
    At least she’s got some real character in there somewhere, he thought. “No, I mean now.” He glanced to make sure the barmaid was out of earshot. “I’ll give you five hundred right now, just to listen to me. I just want to talk.”
    Before she could agree, he slipped five bills from his wallet and handed them to her beneath the counter.
    “Wow, I—”
    It was a lark, Flood knew. But what the hell? The only person he’d ever talked to about this was Dr. Untermann. Back in Seattle, and Seattle was a long way away.
    “I want to tell you about this problem I have,” he began.
    “Okay. Sometimes it’s good to talk about a problem with someone you don’t know, and someone you’ll probably never see again. It feels better afterwards, and sometimes a different perspective helps. An anonymous one. You can talk without worrying about what the other person might think of you.”
    “Yes,” Flood said. “I’m hoping so, anyway. And I’ll try not to bore you.” Then he began: “I have a sexual dysfunction which my psychiatrist charmingly refers to as a thematic-erotic inversion with ejaculatory incompetence and sequent erectile failure. How’s that for a diagnosis?”
    “It’s a mouthful, all right.” She popped a shrimp in her mouth, then whispered, “But they have stuff for that now.” Then she held up her wrist purse. “If you need a Viagra, I’ve got ‘em.”
    “It doesn’t work, none of that does.” He tapped his temple. “It’s all psychological. It’s like a toggle-switch in my brain. When I’m with woman, and it gets past a certain point, that sexual switch gets turned off, by a single image, a single