THAT MAN 7 Page 4

  “C’mon, Burns. Give it up!”

  Nope, nothing. Not even a single drop of pre-cum. My rebel cock wasn’t listening. I’d lost control.

  The pain was agonizing; the throb insufferable. I groaned and began to panic, my racing heart only making things worse. Then, I remembered my old man’s wise words. What goes up must come down.

  Trying impossibly to ignore my sorry-ass state, I closed my eyes, breathing in and out of my nose, hoping, praying things would return to normal.

  It must have been close to dawn when sleep finally claimed me.

  Not for long.

  Chapter 6

  Blake

  The funeral chapel was packed. Not a seat was left vacant.

  Sitting in the front row next to my tiger, who looked more like a black panther in her sober ebony dress and the black veil shrouding her face, I turned around and surveyed the crowd of people who had come to mourn my loss. I could barely make eye contact with anyone because my loss was so great and incomprehensible. And so humiliating. I had lost my lifelong best friend in a grisly battle. My partner in sex and crime. Mr. Burns. The pompous actor, Sam Heughan, had challenged me to a duel—a sword fight—and whoever won, got to keep my wife. I foolishly accepted, knowing damn well Jen would never leave me. But I had a point to prove and an ego to defend. And now I regretted my decision dearly. I underestimated him. He was fierce. He was fast. With one swift swipe of his blade, the swashbuckler had gone for my cock and as I cried out in pain, crumbling to my knees, I put my sword to his heart. The end.

  Sadness pricking the back of my eyes, I took in all the familiar, misty-eyed faces. In the front row, sitting beside me and Jen, were my parents and my grandma with her husband Luigi. He happened to be my longtime tailor and regularly altered the trousers of my suits to give them extra crotch room—fabric that now bagged between my thighs. Impulsively, I scrunched the excess fabric, feeling nothing but my worthless sack of nuts beneath it. The void between my legs pained me terribly and I had to fight back the tears that threatened to fall.

  Seated nearby were my older sister Marcy, my buddy Jaime and his wife Gloria, Jen’s best friend Libby, her twin brother Chaz, and his fiancé Jeffrey. The only family members missing were Jen’s parents, who were away on an Alaskan cruise, and my sister’s seven-year-old twin boys, who didn’t know about my personal tragedy. With her ugly divorce finally behind her, she felt they’d had enough trauma to deal with and didn’t want them to have nightmares about losing their willies.

  Behind them sat my colleagues, including my secretary Mrs. Cho and my loyal top affiliate manager Vera Nichols and her husband Steve. Knowing what was missing from my life, macho Steve, who still had his pecker, kept his head bowed down.

  They were surrounded by some of the stars from our network lineup, including action star Brandon Taylor and tattooed porn stars, Pussy and Swell. Gathered in the back were all the women I used to screw . . . my O.K. Corral as many used to refer them because all their names started with “K.” The blond bombshell twins Kristie and Kirstie, Kaycee, Kristen . . . to name a few. Though I’d abandoned them all to settle down for Jen, melancholy clouded their eyes. Yup, they all remembered what it was like to get a taste of Mr. Burns. Only one of my exes, if you wished to call her that, was conspicuously missing. The bat crazy psycho bitch . . . Katrina Moore. On this very sad day, that’s all I had to be thankful for. Mr. Burns was gone! I couldn’t look down at my crotch lest I burst into a guttural sob. I’d cried enough, but maybe enough wasn’t enough. They say real men don’t cry, but now there was no reason to hold the tears back. I’d lost my manhood.

  My watering eyes shifted back to the front of the sanctuary. Standing on the podium were two familiar faces. That of my rabbi and Reverend Dooby. They had both officiated our marriage. Rabbi Silverstein looked stoic while Reverend Dooby looked more stoned than ever. I think he was feeling a Zen connection to my missing dick.

  Then suddenly, I began to lose it as my gaze traveled to the small pine box to the right of them, sitting on a pedestal surrounded by myriad vases of white flowers. About a foot long and six inches wide, it was Mr. Burns’s casket. His final resting place. Struggling to breathe, I swallowed past the painful lump in my throat, grateful that it wasn’t an open casket service. I couldn’t bear to look at him again. All shriveled up unless rigor mortis had set in and he was still as stiff and big as he’d once been. Honestly, I didn’t want to know.

  Rabbi Silverstein began. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to mourn a most upright standing member of our community . . . Mr. Burns, the former best friend of our congregant Blake Burns, whose life was tragically cut too short.”

  My heart clenched painfully in my chest. Indeed, Mr. Burns was the best and most loyal friend a man could have. Over all these years, he’d never let me down—no pun intended—and not even in death. Even as I was castrated, he stood tall and brave, never flinching at the tragic fate that awaited him. A true soldier. One chop and he was gone. On the verge of tears, I was glad Jen took my icy hand. The warmth of hers was comforting though it couldn’t bring back my beloved Mr. Burns.

  “I’ll miss him as much as you will, my darling,” she whispered in my ear with a gentle squeeze. I squeezed her hand back, acknowledging her words. And then a horrific reality hit me . . . nothing, without Mr. Burns, would ever be the same. I could never pee in public again without shame. Shower or undress in a communal locker room. Wank myself off under my desk. And way, way worse, I could never get head again. Or get laid. The days of fucking my brains out were over. A terrifying thought shot through me. Would Jen leave me? Find another man with a big dick to give her the ecstasy I used to give her? I shuddered, bathed in cold sweat. Though she vowed to be faithful to me no matter what life handed us, I couldn’t be sure. Nausea climbed up my chest, clinging to my membranes like poison ivy. Puking was one sickening breath away.

  The rabbi continued, praising my dick’s size, prowess, and endurance. He recalled my bris right after I was born and how I’d made it so impossibly hard for the moil to circumcise me. Trying to stall him as he attempted to cut the foreskin, I peed all over his treacherous hands, then pooped and wailed non-stop for over a week. Dabbing their eyes, my grieving parents nodded nostalgically. The attendees chuckled nervously.

  And then one by one, Rabbi Silverstein called mourners up to the podium to share their stories and sing his praises. The most moving tribute of all was Grandma’s. Eliciting a laugh out of the crowd as only she could, she praised my God-given shmekel. “A schlong like no other schlongs. Just like his Grandpa’s, may he rest in peace.” Then uncontrollably, the tiny woman burst into sobs. “Oy! My poor Blakela! And now he’ll never be able to give his poor bubbe any kindela . . . not even one little Blakela! Such tsoris!”

  Weeping, she let our rabbi help her back to her seat as a new cruel reality stabbed me like a knife to my heart. As if I wasn’t suffering enough, without Mr. Burns, I could never give my wife the baby she coveted. I heard her sniffling and knew she was thinking the same horrible thing. No little Blakelas. I entwined my fingers with hers, my mind at war with my heavy heart.

  What had I done to deserve this awful fate? Okay, I wasn’t always the best kid . . . I indulged in mean pranks . . . I cheated in college . . . I was a player and screwed a lot of women, but ever since I’d been with Jen, I’d always done the right thing—if you don’t count Operation Dickwick in which I’d eliminated her douchebag dentist fiancé. But that was for the best anyway. Bottom line . . . I was giving, faithful, and loving. An exemplary citizen and a good man. Hell, I’d even valiantly saved my wife’s life! Why me?

  Then unexpectedly, as I became inundated with self-pity, a commotion burst out in the back of the room.

  “You can’t barge in here!” barked a gruff male voice. A security guard.

  “Just watch me!” shrilled a familiar female voice, dripping with malice.

  Every head whipped around, and I gasped.

  Holy Moses! It
was Katrina, dressed to kill in head-to-toe Armani and accompanied by her insidious Botoxed mother Enid. A toxic mixture of venom and vengeance poured from their eyes as they defiantly marched down the center aisle in their stilettos, not stopping as they reached into their monstrous designer bags. I blinked and then my heart leapt to my throat. They were brandishing machine guns! On my next strangled breath, they each fired into the crowd, the deafening, rapid succession of bullets flying everywhere. Terrified screams filled the air, and the sanctuary became pure chaos with everyone ducking for cover or running to the nearest emergency exit.

  Katrina’s murderous eyes met mine. “Blake, you fuckface, you’re going to pay! Say goodbye to more than your traitorous cock!”

  What was the crazy pyscho bitch saying? Before I could put two and two together, another round of bullets was fired. An endless, sickening Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

  A long, pained moan and then I felt a puddle of warm liquid saturating my jacket.

  I felt numb. Had I been shot?

  I looked down, and my jaw fell to the floor as I let out a silent scream.

  Oh my God! It wasn’t my blood . . . but Jen’s! Arterial blood, bright red with oxygen. Drenching my white shirt as well.

  My tiger’s eyes rolled back as she gasped an agonal breath and collapsed against me. I caught her in my arms as she slithered down my body, limp and lifeless.

  She was dead.

  Chapter 7

  Jennifer

  “Noooooo!”

  Blake’s terrifying scream roused me from my slumber. After all the sex we’d had, I’d fallen fast asleep and could have stayed in bed all day. I bolted upright, feeling the soreness between my legs.

  “Blake, what’s wrong?”

  Blake was sitting up too. His face was pasty. A grayish white. Sweat beads clustered on his forehead.

  “I had the worst nightmare!”

  I rubbed his shoulder. “Tell me about it.”

  Over the next few minutes, I heard all about Blake’s frightening dream. The loss of his penis. Katrina. The lethal gunshots. “It’s just a crazy nightmare,” I reassured him. “Let me kiss your dick and make it all better.”

  Blake shook his head, glancing down at the duvet. The thick bulge punching the Egyptian cotton fabric didn’t escape my sight.

  “Jen, I still have a major boner from last night.”

  “That’s happened before.”

  “But not like this. Feel.” He took my hand and slid it under the covers. Holy moly! My husband wasn’t kidding. It was an erection of major proportions, curled against his abdomen.

  “And it hurts like fuck!”

  I tried to assuage him. “It’s probably some extreme morning wood. If you pee and take a shower, I’m sure it’ll go away.”

  Fifteen minutes later, after I made up the bed (something I still did despite Blake’s wealth and daily housekeeper) and combed my walk-in closet for today’s work outfit, Blake emerged from the ensuite bathroom. A thick towel was wrapped around his waist and he looked forlorn. I couldn’t miss the gigantic bump that was threatening to tear through the terrycloth. His desperate gaze met mine.

  “Jen, I tried everything! My dick was so stiff I couldn’t even pee in the toilet! And then, I tried to wank myself off in the shower, but that didn’t work either.” A long pause. “Baby, I’m scared!”

  I heard the terror in his voice. He’d not sounded this terrified since the time Katrina had drugged him at his former fuck pad . . . and he couldn’t get it up. And now, he ironically couldn’t get it down. I glanced one more time at his bulge. Eeks! Had it gotten bigger?

  “Relax, Blake. Let me do some online research.”

  He plopped down on the bed, his eyes cast down at his erection, looking dejected, and murmured, “Fine.”

  Shrugging on the shirt he’d worn last night, I grabbed my iPhone from the night table and typed “Erection that won’t go down” into the Google search bar. Pages of entries came up. I opened the first one.

  “Ice the penis,” I read aloud and flinging the phone onto the bed, dashed to the fridge. Retrieving some ice cubes from the dispenser and wrapping them in a dishcloth, I hurried back to Blake. Undoing his towel, I gently rubbed the encased cubes up and down his majorly engorged dick. Blake hissed, the sharp sound more like one that emanated from pain than from pleasure. I continued my machinations for another few minutes. Shit. No reaction. Well, except for it turning a shade of purple and the vein beneath it thickening. My husband’s colossal dick was still curled up like a serpent! “C’mon, go down,” I coaxed silently, icing it some more.

  Then, finally! Progress! It uncurled slowly from his taut flat stomach . . . but now it was pointing at me like a ten-inch torpedo! Ready to attack! Frantically, I iced it again, running the ice pack up and down his long, thick, rigid shaft, picking up my pace in utter frustration. Blake’s erection didn’t budge an inch. Not even a tiny millimeter.

  “Baby, why isn’t it going down?” he croaked, his voice shaky.

  “Let me do some more research.” Tentatively, setting the icepack on the bed, I picked up my cell phone and learned that Blake had a rare syndrome. It had a name.

  “A petrified woody?” he stammered.

  “No, priapism.”

  “Priapism?”

  “It’s exactly what you have. When your penis won’t deflate.”

  “Jesus. What does it say I should do?”

  I read more of the WebMD article.

  “It suggests taking a warm bath.”

  “But I just took a long hot shower and it did shit. What else?”

  “Ride your exercise bike. Or go for a jog.”

  “Jen, are you fucking kidding me? I can’t do either! It’s way too big and hurts too goddamn much!”

  Silently, I speed-read more of the article. With each word, fear crept into my bloodstream. Nothing was working, and Blake had suffered this prolonged erection for more than four hours. Scrolling down further, I gulped. A prolonged erection could damage the penis and lead to permanent erectile dysfunction! Blake read the fear on my face, his complexion paling.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “N-nothing,” I stuttered, keeping my findings to myself and grateful that Blake wasn’t breathing over my shoulder and reading what I’d discovered. “I think we should call your sister.”

  “My sister?” Blake gasped. “She’s an OB-GYN. She specializes in pussies, not weenies.”

  “But maybe she knows someone who does.”

  Moments later, Blake was on his cell phone with his sister. He put the call on speaker.

  “Blake, what’s up?” Marcy asked, her voice clipped.

  The irony of her words wasn’t lost on me as my husband glanced down at his enormous bulge.

  “I’ve got a problem. A big one.”

  “Can it wait? I’m running out the door. I have to be at Cedars for a C-section in a half hour.”

  “No, it can’t wait.”

  “Okay, just tell me what it is quickly.” Impatience laced her voice.

  “Um . . . uh . . . well . . .”

  Blake couldn’t get the words out and was wasting precious time. I jumped in, grabbing the phone.

  “Hi, Marcy. It’s me, Jen.” The slightest of pauses. “Blake’s got an erection that won’t go down, and he’s in a lot of pain.”

  There was no hesitation on her end.

  “Priapism. Jen, that’s not good. He needs to see a doctor right away.”

  Blake was already pacing around the room like a madman looking for his doctor’s phone number. Opening and slamming shut drawers. Turning everything upside down. Throwing a pile of bills up in the air, he yelled, “Fuck. Where the hell did I put it?”

  My husband wasn’t thinking straight. His condition was messing with his brain. Being the hypochondriac he was, the number was likely stored on his cell phone and he could speed dial Dr. Klein. I hastily thanked Marcy, wishing her luck with the cesarean, and ended the call. It wasn’t even seven a.m. I handed
the phone back to Blake.

  “Here. I’m sure Dr. Klein is in your list of contacts.” Wasting no time, he scrolled through his long list and then hit call. His cell still on speaker, I heard the doctor’s office phone ring and ring. Finally, on the fifth ring, it went to voicemail.

  “You have reached the office of Dr. Marvin Klein. Our regular office hours are 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., Monday through Friday. If you have a medical emergency, please hang up and dial 911. For all other matters, please leave a message at the sound of the beep and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.”

  Blake jabbed the end call button before the beep sounded and tossed the phone onto the bed. “Fuck. Shit. Fuck!”

  Tenderly, I put my hand on his arm. “Baby, let’s go to the emergency room.”

  “I can’t; there’s no time. I have my father’s Board meeting this morning, and I absolutely have to be there. Board members have flown in from all over the world and he’s counting on my PowerPoint presentation to wow them.”

  My turn to curse. “What are you going to do?”

  Blake grimaced, part in pain, part in despair. “The bigger question is what am I going to wear?”

  My brows rose to my forehead. What to wear was never a dilemma for Blake. My clotheshorse husband had a walk-in closet the size of a vault filled with a gazillion suits, ties, shirts, and shoes. All of them color-coded for easy access. His fashion sense was impeccable.

  His panicked eyes shot down to his crotch and then back to me. “Jen, I’ll never be able to zip up a fly over this monstrosity.”

  “Maybe you can wear a coat over your suit and hide it.”

  “All my coats are in storage and who the hell would wear a heavy cashmere coat in the middle of August?”

  He had a point. “What about your Burberry raincoat? You can pretend you heard it’s going to rain.”

  “Fat chance. The sun’s already shining and it hasn’t rained in LA for nine months. And besides it’s at the dry cleaner.”