Page 8 of Cursing My Cheating Husband

And yet… still dead down there. No response at all?!? Still?!?

Grinding against me, Gwen stopped hiding the impatience in her eyes. “A break for a drink doesn’t seem to have helped much, does it?”

“Getting there!” Damn. I’d heard my pitch go up on that one.

I felt a desperate urge for a quick moment to myself. That’s all I needed, just to get out of my head for a second. That would snap me out of whatever the hell this was.

I gestured at the beer I’d just finished off.

“Quick piss, and then I am ready to go.” I disentangled from her and hustled into the bathroom before I could get too clear a look at the slow-boiling anger rising in her eyes.

* * *

The minute I got the door locked, I dropped my boxer briefs and gave an accusing glare at my flaccid cock. It was just hanging there. Soft. Lifeless. And totally screwing me over!

I hung my head, studying my crotch miserably. “What’s going on, buddy? You’ve never done this before.” Oh god, did I actually say that out loud?

I wrapped my hand around myself and started stroking, trying to coax a response. Just a little manual encouragement while thinking dirty thoughts, and I’d be good to go.

But as the seconds agonizingly crawled into solid minutes of effort… I’d felt harder noodles.

Fine. New strategy.

I opened the hidden photos folder on my phone, where I collected every nude that was ever sexted to me. So an immense database at this point. Image after image of the most gorgeous women I had ever come across (and on, and in), legs spread, or on their hands and knees, or bent over, making every sexy pose under the sun for me.

As I rapidly swiped through the images, my masturbatory imagination took me vividly back in time to each actual encounter. The inspired cocksucking technique of Redhead Bartender. The awed gasps that Blonde With Glasses had released when she first laid eyes on my dick. The perkiness of Needy Secretary’s breasts.

And yet, even though I was giving my cock the most surefire strokes it knew, while flooding my brain with images of all the hottest women I’d had in my life—there was nothing happening. Nothing!

If anything, my dick was getting smaller in mortification, shriveling away into itself.

WHAT WAS HAPPENING? What did I do? This couldn’t be happening to me. This didn’t happen to me!

I twinged in pain as I gave my dick too hard of a tug. “Come on, buddy,” I whined. How could he break down on me?

Gwen picked that exact moment to begin furiously banging on the door. “Are you wasting my time tonight?”

I caught my reflection in the mirror. Nude, hunched over, underwear around my feet, hair messy and plastered to my forehead. I had worked up a sweat trying to jerk myself to the occasion, but my dick was looking so defeated and shrunken I barely recognized it. There was a wild, desperate, vulnerable look in my eyes.

Oh my god.

I looked like the most dickless loser who’d ever walked the face of the earth.

Gwen continued to call through the door. “If you’re not up to it tonight, I know Jeremy will be! Are you still going to be hiding in there when he gets here?”

And it was then that I had to face the most brutal truth of my twenty-nine years to date: I would not be able to perform with Gwen tonight. There was no hope. It wasn’t happening.

How could I escape from this with any dignity left? Was my only recourse to fully crawl out the window and forget I ever met Gwen? If my pants and car keys weren’t out in the living room with her, that would have been my choice.

The thought of her, or anyone, seeing me looking like this was too much to bear. This was the most debasing moment of my life, and I didn’t know how I’d ever show my face again if anyone ever saw me like this.

CHAPTER 5

CALLIE

My body heaved with the force of my crying.

But this time, I was crying with laughter.