Bloody River Blues

that make her boyfriend hump her harder?
    “. . . two concerns. The act of intercourse. And second, siring children . . . Now, a man . . .”
    She probably made love to her boyfriend four, fivetimes a week. She probably had shuddering orgasms, she probably took him into her mouth . . .
    “. . . two types of erections. Reflexogenic and psychogenic. Reflexogenic are caused by some stimuli to the genitals, the penis, of course, primarily, but also to the prostate or bladder. You don’t need your brain to participate in order to have this kind of erection.”
    Ping. Sweat sprang to Buffett’s skin.
    The Terror was having a ball.
    Buffett’s armpits itched. He felt sweat appearing where it never had before—his cheek, his ears, the backs of his hands. Jesus God Almighty, his wrists were sweating! As if the moisture were crawling out of his flawed body, escaping.
    “You wake up in the morning with an erection, that’s reflexogenic. Psychogenic is the type of erection in response to fantasies, visual stimuli—thoughts that turn us on.”
    Weiser paused to ask, “Are you okay?”
    “Hot in here.”
    She stood up and opened the window. She turned her back to him, and the silk skirt was taut against her butt. He saw the outline of her panties.
    Donnie swallowed.
    She sat down again. Lit a cigarette, drew on it deeply three times, then crushed it out.
    “I’ll give you an exam. We’ll find out if your lesion is upper-motor neuron or lower-motor neuron. If it’s upper, you’ll be able to have reflexogenic erections . . .”
    What is she talking about?
    “If it’s lower-motor neuron, that will mean your sexual activity will be what we call areflexic . . .”
    “Psychogenic?” Buffett tried to concentrate. He hated words like that, big words, Doctor words. The Terror ate them up. They gave the Terror strength—ha, a hard-on! It stirred and stepped over his pain, the phantom pain, the betraying pain, and slid into his gut. Then the Terror moved through his chest. Buffett clenched his teeth and tightened his stomach muscles to keep it from oozing into his heart, where he knew it would kill him.
    He kept his eyes locked on to hers and he pulled at the jump rope hard. Arm wrestling with the Terror.
    “There are four possibilities. You could be complete or incomplete reflex, or complete or incomplete areflex. The most severe is complete areflex—that means no reflex activity and no brain involvement.”
    Here is Donnie Buffett, six feet away from a beautiful woman, with sparkling green eyes, talking to him about hard dicks . . . He glances down at the small, motionless bump at his groin and feels the Terror dig an inch closer to his heart.
    “Usually, in the case of gunshots, the lesion isn’t complete. In the case of areflexic patients with incomplete lesions, three-fourths of them have intercourse, and more than half have ejaculations and orgasms.”
    But I’m not going to be one of them. A girl in a tight leather skirt talks to me about coming and I can’t feel a thing . . .
    “It may not be necessary—it probably won’t be—but you might want to consider a prosthetic.”
    Buffett thought that meant artificial leg.
    “. . . There are a couple different kinds of penile implants.”
    The Terror was really up for this, carousing, squirming, swimming on its fucking back. The sweat poured. Buffett swallowed.
    “Now, on the question of siring children, spinal injury generally results in a decreased sperm count, but many people without SCI have problems conceiving, and there are a number of techniques . . .”
    A son? What about a son?
    And, that was it—bang, the Terror got him.
    Donnie Buffett shook like an antelope in a lion’s jaws.
    Her eyes were narrowing a little, squinting, as he wiped the sweat off his face. “Donnie—”
    He looked at her and swallowed. “I’m sorry.” He tapped his shoulder. “I’ve still got a hell of a lot of pain. You know, where I got shot here. It’s really a bitch sometimes.”
    “Do you want something for it?”
    “No, I just get these twinges. Makes me sweat like a pig. Keep going.” A smile. “Please.”
    He could say that only because he was dead. The Terror’s fangs had shredded his heart. He was gone. He was as polite as a corpse at the wake.
    She continued for a few minutes then offered some conclusion. Something cheerful, something snappy. He nodded and had no idea what she had said. She said she was sorry she had to