sags. Amnesia is bad enough. But erectile dysfunction?
Kill me now. I might as well be dead.
Brandon
At the end of the long, frustrating week, I’m finally released from the hospital. The doctors have told me I have a classic case of retrograde amnesia—a common side effect of the traumatic brain injury I sustained from the accident I can’t remember. While it likely won’t be permanent, they cannot determine how long it’ll last. It could be weeks. Months. Even years. What’s important is that I stimulate myself with people and things from the past. My biggest concern: will they stimulate my cock? I haven’t even been able to wank myself off. My libido, thanks to the amnesia, is in limbo.
My house is a sprawling glass and concrete contemporary that sits high atop a private road in the Hollywood Hills. The views from the ubiquitous floor-to-ceiling windows are spectacular; I’m able to see all the way from the Pacific Ocean to downtown LA. They also overlook a spacious backyard, which boasts an Olympic-sized pool and a guesthouse. A three-car garage is attached to the main house and lined up inside it are a sleek black Lamborghini, a vintage green Jag, and a monster red Hummer. To say I’m awed by my wealth would be an understatement.
I roam the expansive one-story house, taking in my surroundings and hoping something will stimulate my memory while Katrina goes to the kitchen to make lunch. It’s decorated with slick, oversized Italian furniture, mixing rich woods with leather. Photos of me are everywhere. Many of them sexy poses, with my chiseled chest exposed. A large framed picture hanging on a wall captures my attention. It’s a blow-up of a recent cover of People Magazine. The headline: “Brandon Taylor: Sexiest Man Alive!” With my perfectly mussed up ebony hair, those piercing violet eyes, that cocky smile, and my strong stubble-lined jaw, I look pretty damn hot, if I must say so myself. A troubling thought flashes into my head. Yikes. Maybe I’m gay. That’s why I can’t get it up for Katrina. Nah. None of those good-looking docs at the hospital did a thing for me. And I can’t remember doing it with another guy. The unsettling thought goes away.
Katrina returns with a tray of gourmet sandwiches along with two flutes of champagne. Today, she’s clad in tight-ass jeans, a turtleneck halter, and sky-high mules that make her look like a total Amazon. Her bountiful boobs stay as still as mountains as she saunters my way.
“Your doctor says you need to eat and rest to get your strength back,” she says, setting the tray on the coffee table.
I can’t argue with her. At the reminder of my ordeal, I inwardly shudder. According to Katrina and my doctors, I was almost People Magazine’s “Sexiest Man Dead!” I’m still weak and have lost some weight. Maybe a little R&R will help restore my memory. And potency. The cock is like a muscle, right? I remember reading somewhere that muscles have memory. Well, score one for me. I’ve remembered something. But why won’t my cock do the same?
Katrina reaches for the two flutes of champagne and hands one to me. “To us,” she toasts, holding up her glass. I clink mine against it. The ping resounds in my ears.
“I only drink Cristal,” my companion says as she lifts the crystal glass to her lips. They look much fuller than they did a couple of days ago. I follow her actions and take a sip of the chilled bubbly. The cool sparkling liquid sails down my throat and triggers another memory. I’d rather be drinking a beer.
“Katrina, do we have any beer? A Heineken by chance?”
She rolls her feline green eyes. “Darling, beer is a four-letter word reserved for peasants. We’re royalty. How can you not love the world’s finest champagne?”
Stuck with the champagne, I take a seat on the oversized u-shaped couch. Setting her flute back down on the tray, my fiancée follows me, except she straddles my long legs and sits on my lap. Her toned arms fold around my neck. Her tits skim my chest, and through my cotton T-shirt, I can feel her plastic-hard nipples. I have no desire to touch them or see what lies beneath her top. The scent of her cloying floral perfume wafts in the air and nauseates me.
“Does it feel good to be home?” she purrs before nuzzling my neck. Goosebumps pop along my skin, but that’s all that’s rising. Her mouth moves to