it... maybe three times."
I thought about this and my mind boggled. Herb claims to be forty-three, but thanks to our ivy-induced ESP, I know he's forty-eight. His wife left him in search of greener pastures (and stiffer penises) half a lifetime ago. If he's only had successful sexual relations three times since then, that means he's gotten laid once every time Neptune circles the sun. Dear, dear, dear.
"There's a good medical reason for this," said he, with great earnestness. "From the age of ten to the age of fifteen - my sexually formative years - I was a paperboy, and - "
"Being a paperboy made you impotent?" I asked.
"Would you be quiet a minute?"
I mimed running a zipper shut across my lips and settled back in my chair. I like a good story as well as anyone; I just haven't seen many at Zenith House.
"I had a three-speed Raleigh bike," Herb said. "At first it was all right, and then one day while it was parked behind the school, some asshole came along and knocked off the seat." Herb paused dramatically. "That asshole ruined my life."
Do tell, I thought.
"Although," continued Herb, "my cheapskate father must also bear part of the blame."
Plenty of blame to go around, thought I. Everyone gets a helping but you.
"I heard that," he said sharply.
"I'm sure you did," said I. "Just go on with your story."
"The bike was obviously ruined, but would that cheapskate get me a new one?"
"No," I said. "Instead of a new bike, the cheapskate got you a new seat."
"That's right," said Herb., by this point too deep into his own narrative to realize I was stealing all of his best lines right out of his head. The truth is, Herb has been telling himself this story for a lot of years. For him, My Dad Wrecked My Sex Life is right up there with The Democrats Ruined the Economy and Let's Fry the Addicts and End America's Drug Problem. "Only the bike-store didn't have a Raleigh seat, and could my father wait for one? Oh no. I had papers to deliver. Also, the no-brand seat the guy showed him was ten bucks cheaper than the replacement Raleigh seat in the catalogue. Of course it was also a lot smaller. In fact, it was a pygmy bicycle seat. This little vinyl-covered triangle that shoved right up... well... "
"Up there," I said, wanting to be helpful (also wanting to get back to work at some point before July Fourth).
"That's right," he said. "Up there. For almost five years I rode all over Danbury, Connecticut with that goddamn pygmy bicycle seat pushing up into the most delicate region of a young boy's body. And look at me now." Herb raised his arms and then dropped them, as if to indicate what a pitiful, wasted creature he has become. Which is quite funny, when you consider the size of him. "These days my idea of a meaningful physical experience with a woman is going down to The Landing Strip, where I might stuff a five dollar bill into some girl's g-string."
"Herb," I said. "Do you get a hardon when you do that?"
He drew himself up, and I saw an interesting thing: Herb had a pretty damned good one right then. Hubba, hubba!
"That's a damned personal question, Sandra," said he in a grave and heavy tone of voice. "Pretty gosh-damn personal."
"Do you get a hardon when you masturbate?"
"Let me tell you a little secret," he said. "There are basketball players who can shoot it from downtown all over the court, nothing but net until practice is over and the buzzer goes off. Then every toss is a brick."
"Herb," said I, "let me tell you a little secret. The bicycle seat story has been around since bicycles were invented. Before that it was the mumps, or maybe a cross-eyed look from the village witch. And I don't need telepathy to know the answer to the questions I've been asking. I've got eyes." And I dropped them to the area just below his belt. By then it looked like he had a pretty good-sized socket wrench hidden down there.
"Doesn't last," said he, and right then he looked so sad that I felt sad. Men are fragile creatures, when you get right down to it, the real animals in the glass menagerie. "Once the action starts, Mr. Johnson likes life a lot better in the rear echelon. Where nobody stands at attention and nobody salutes."
"You're caught in a Catch-22," said