Page 18 of Oops! I Married a Rock Star
Max gives a questioning grunt.
I drop my forehead into my hand. Of course they’re going to milk this.
“Does ‘your penis is broken’ mean what I think it means?” Killian asks.
Is it too late to take a vow of celibacy? That might be better than what’s about to come.
“Overused,” Max says. “Under-protected.”
Cole shakes his head. “I get tired thinking about all the shenanigans you get into with women.”
I scoff, faking nonchalance. “You need to work on your stamina.”
“My stamina is fantastic, thank you very much. No complaints so far.” He bends his head over his plate. “Unlike some people…”
There are stifled guffaws around the table. “Maybe you should see this B chick again. Maybe her magic can cure you. What kind of name is that anyway? Short for Beatrice?” Killian says.
“It stands for Bad. She wanted to be bad back in New York.”
“I’ve heard about leaving one’s heart in San Francisco, but you really didn’t have to leave your dick in New York.” Cole laughs.
Fucking Cole. Of course he thinks it’s hilarious. He’s annoyed that I’m so popular with women. Apparently, bringing them to the band’s mansion in Dallas disturbs his fiancée. Dunno why it matters, because he and Teri basically live in their own separate place anyway.
Max’s grunt draws our attention. “Should see a doc. Broken penis syndrome could be serious.” He speaks with such solemnity, it’s impossible to tell if he’s serious or fucking with me.
Killian and Cole press their lips together.
Assholes. “I appreciate the concern—not—but my dick works fine.”
When I fantasize about B or touch her thong—which I still keep in my pants—I get hard instantly. It’s like some kind of priapic security blanket. But lately, when I’m with another woman, it starts to deflate. And I can’t exactly hold on to B’s thong and fuck somebody else at the same time. It would be weird. And feel really disrespectful to B.
But the guys are looking at me like I have a permanent, incurable case of erectile dysfunction. Fuckers.
“It was just her,” I add testily, gesturing at the door. “Nobody can get it up around a woman that annoying.”
“I don’t know. You’ve been with women more grating and irritating than her,” Killian points out.
“Yeah,” Cole says. “You never care about anything except how hot they are. Long hair, big tits. That’s your type.”
“Like Ashley,” Max says in his meanest voice. He hates her for what she did. Basically, he blames her for my behavior. But I’d say she merely shined a light on my naïveté. She made me accept that no matter what anyone says, the kind of love people wax poetic about simply doesn’t exist. In fact, we long for it precisely because it doesn’t exist. It’s like wanting to eat pizza every day and maintain a six-pack. Not possible…but a nice fantasy.
“Why not track down Ms. Bad from New York and see?” Cole says. “Maybe she’s just the woman you need. Some magic estrogen to boost your flagging testosterone.”
“Romance novelists call that magic vagina,” Killian adds. He probably pick
ed that up from his wife, who writes those books.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought before. Not making that mistake again,” I say.
* * *
After the Brandie incident, I try a few more times with other girls but eventually give up. No need to frustrate myself. Cole’s probably right. My dick’s just a little tired. Nothing a small break won’t fix.
The guys look at me like I’ve been body-swapped by an alien, but as long as I hold up my end in the band by drumming well, they have nothing to complain about.
Just plenty of time to give me shit, while I wonder what I’m going to do about my current predicament because a Viagra thong isn’t a real solution. And I don’t even know if seeing Ms. Bad would resolve my problem in the way I’d approve of, which would be having my dick back to normal, with or without her around.
Chapter Eight
