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. he possessed the attitude. Bedside manner? He had none. Gruff and demanding he pushed and pulled me not bothering to admit I hurt.While he was gleefully playing the part of a German Concentration Camp physician, the telephone man came."Where do you want it?" he asked. "Oh shit ... that's gotta hurt!" he exclaimed as he moved to where he could see my exposed injuries."Want what?" I groaned."The phone." I'm getting a phone?" I should pay attention more. The installer went into the salon."Part of the club service," said the club manager as he boarded. He, too, exclaimed at the condition of my groin. "I have been wondering why you and your sister always come to the club to use the phone. The weekend man has been replaced. We'll have you fixed up in a jiffy."The manager conferred with the installer who had just stepped out of the salon, "Something's dead in there," he said.Mr. Schuberg commented, "You should have been here earlier." No, he shouldn't," I said. "We barely survived."Joe. I was sure Karen was keeping up her end of the deal, which made me doubly obligated to my word. Thus, I took the high road and tried to ignore their flirting—and it was all ripping me up. For even the smallest, most innocent nicety about my tie or suit coat seemed like a full-throated, slut scream invitation for me to fuck them silly. Moreover, I knew I could have any one of them in a heartbeat—just for the asking—just for the thinking. You see, even if my mental abilities had no effect of Karen or Denise, my thoughts still seemed to be affecting the women at work, given their newfound, flirtatious natures. It was literal torment. The kind of torment shipwrecked sailors must endure stranded on the open ocean, dying of thirst, surrounded by so much water, day after dehydrated day, but you can’t drink. I was surrounded by a sea of women ready to cure me of my aroused state, but my honor kept me from drinking deep at that well. It was maddening. Even Beatrice the crone—as she’s called.
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