Edward Lee - Mangled Meat

The bar sprawled before a long, massive swimming pool, before an even more massive pink hotel that looked more like a castle. The elegant edifice threw a football-field sized shadow onto the beach.

No customers at the bar, nor at any of the umbrella’d tables on the bar’s flank. This “worked” for Flood, indeed, for at any moment his arousal would be plain to see. An attractive fiftyish woman polished a glass and smiled at them.

“Tequila Moonrise, and whatever my friend’s having,” Carol said. Flood ordered a Beck’s draft.

“And I told you, this is on me,” Carol insisted. “I can’t afford to eat here, but I can always swing a few drinks.”

“I’d be more than happy to p—”

“Hush!”

The drinks arrived. A menu shaped like a scallop shell was placed before them, then the barmaid curtly walked away.

“Wow. Lobster Fritters,” Flood commented of the menu. Twenty-two bucks for four.

“They’re great but way overpriced. One time I had them, though, and they’re delicious. A j—” She stalled. “A client got them for me.”

She was going to say a john, Flood realized. “Let’s get some. I’m buying. I’m buying everything.”

“Jake, come on, I said this was my treat.”

“Won’t hear of it. And besides—” He looked at her and nearly rolled his eyes in awe. “Where on earth are you carrying money, anyway? I know it’s not stashed in that top.”

She giggled again, raised her other hand, which brandished a minuscule fleshtone wrist-purse. She zipped it open and slipped him a business card. “If you’re not interested now, maybe you will be later. But just so you know, I’m a grand for all night, and that’s anything you want, as many times as you can get off. Five hundred for an hour, and two for a blow. But for you, half off.”

Flood looked at the card. Because she’d mentioned Therese after Leon’s reference to her, he expected the card to be identical to the one Leon had given him, but instead, this one read: SUN ANGELS TOUR GUIDES - HENRY PHIPPS, MNGR. He remembered the Phipps’ name…

Leon’s competition…

The side of her calf touched his. She chatted her background, which sounded typical and very non-harrowing. It was small-talk, it was meaningless, and Flood knew that given her profession, he was meaningless. He was to her what a potential network buyer was to Flood. Once they said “no, thanks,” they were reduced to insignificance. But none of this mattered. She was doing her job with artistry, making him feel at ease and covertly stimulating him with her cheery voice, her giggles, her eye gestures and body language. Flood was enjoying her company, and she hadn’t been lying. There was never any pressure. “Those were delicious,” she said of the lobster fritters. Flood had also ordered satay, fresh-water shrimp skewers, and lastly, oysters on the half-shell.

“Oh, I love raw oysters. You read my mind!” A hot hand opened on his thigh when she whispered, “And it’s true what they say. They really do make me horny!”

Flood smiled. I’m sure they do. She’s working me, all right…and I don’t care.

His breath thinned when he watched her eat, daintily holding up the shell, the tip of her tongue slipping around the oyster. Then she sucked it all right into her mouth.

Oh, God…

And now her gestures became less covert: her hand smoothing over his thigh, her legs rubbing his more directly. “Relax,” she whispered next. “She’s way over there, and can’t see under the bar anyway…”

“What?” Flood began, then gritted his teeth. He tensed when her fingers slipped under his shirt and worked their way into the waistband of his trunks. His balls drew up at once, and even before her hand was on it, his penis shot fully hard. His first social instinct was to pull her hand out— Someone might see!— but why care?

“Relax, relax.” Her whisper was like hot liquid. “There’s no one here. Let me play with it…”

She knew how to play. Her fingers slipped all around, so lightly at first his nerves barely registered the tactility, then with a smooth firmness. Each beat of Flood’s heart forced more blood upward, to the extent that his already erect penis seemed to lengthen, by force.

“What do you think?” she whispered.

He could barely talk. “I-can’t. You don’t understand—it-it won’t work. I-I-I can never come. I can never keep it up…”

Her hand gripped the shaft like a flight-stick, the pad of her thumb twirling 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.”