"I wouldn't trust him either, honey bunch. I just keep him around 'cause he does have some clean friends in high places. Plus, I need to have a man in the firm. There are still too many shit heads out there that think a woman is only for cooking and you-know-what. If I have to boot Arthur, I'll just get another pair of long pants to take his place."
Dean folded his own long pants over the back of a chair, careful not to lose his pocket change. His mind was less on Ethel Rosewater than other matters. Ethel pulled him down on the bed. "Let's get busy," she said.
Only David Dean had some difficulty "getting busy." No, Dean had a lot of difficulty getting busy. In fact, he couldn't get busy at all. The majority of his body was moderately awash with passion and Ethel was as warm and soft as ever. But one vital part of his anatomy expressed no interest in the proceedings. Ethel, her usual sympathetic self, reached for her cigarettes and began to get dressed after what she deemed sufficient time to put up with the unsuccessful performance.
"They say it happens every once in a while, especially when you're getting old," she said. If this was meant as a joke, Dean did-n't find it very funny.
"Thanks for your kind thoughts," he said, sarcastically. "You know, this is a man's worst nightmare. You could show a little compassion."
"Hey," she said, slapping him on the backside, "I'll give you a few more evenings to try before I turn you in for a younger model. If you want to discuss sympathy, think about poor me, pining away for a hot time and getting nada."
He was home by 9:00, shattered masculinity and all.