The Last Collection Read Online Free Page A

what?”
    â€œYou lied to me about being a fag.”
    â€œI’m not a fag, goddamn it! I have no reason to lie to you,” Kerner said angrily. He stood up and grabbed the little chair. “And what the hell do I have to sit in this crazy little thing for?” Kerner threw the chair aside. “It’s for a midget!”
    â€œIf you don’t like the chair, you can always lie down on the cot.”
    â€œI’ll sit on it,” Kerner said.
    â€œAs you wish,” the doctor replied. “Just, please, no more lies, Mr. Kerner.”
    â€œI didn’t lie. I’m not queer or impotent. Those are not problems of mine. Mine is . . .”
    â€œYes? Yes, what? Tell me! Get it out already. Let’s hear it! Yours is . . .?
    â€œI don’t know what’s the matter with me. I just can’t seem to start talking about it . . . it’s sort of . . . humiliating. Maybe you could ask me something else?”
    The doctor pressed a button and sank almost out of sight again. “You’re getting me very angry, Mr. Kerner.”
    â€œI’m sorry. Believe me, I’m trying. I can’t help it.”
    â€œYou’d better help it because it doesn’t pay to get me angry. Now I’m going to ask you a few more pointed scientific questions relating to what your problem may be. If we fail to get anywhere with these, we’ll have to take another approach.”
    Kerner shivered, afraid to think what that other approach might be.
    Why? Why? Kerner wondered, why did he come here? Why did he have to be so unfortunate to have a sickness so unique and so bizarre that it seemed beyond cure? He felt all alone, helpless. He wanted to cry.
    The doctor was now pressing a series of switches. The sound of thunder suddenly burst out of hidden speakers, and a strong wind coursed through the room as though a large fan had been turned on somewhere. The rain continued to fall on the lagoon and Kerner was now rapidly getting drenched from the sheets of rain that were being swept across the room by the hidden wind-making machine.
    Kerner got up and, dragging the couch with him, moved several feet to the side and sat down.
    The doctor came into view again. Kerner fixed him with an angry look.
    â€œYou know,” the doctor said, “I think I know what’s bothering you.”
    â€œYou do?”
    â€œYes,” said the doctor. “One of the most common problems that my male patients seem to have is penis anxiety.”
    Kerner waited.
    â€œIn effect, they feel that the size of their tool is inadequate. . . . Now is that it?”
    â€œNo,” Kerner said. “No, I don’t want to talk about anything like that. That’s not a problem of mine.”
    â€œGood. I’m actually sick and tired of hearing about the problems guys think they have with their petzels. Every second guy starts off like, ‘Uh, Doctor . . . it’s about my organ,’ or, ‘Doctor, it concerns my genital member,’ or, ‘Doctor, it sort of has to do with my whatchamacallit.’ Then they all proceed to tell me that it used to be a lot bigger but that somehow when they weren’t looking it shrank.”
    â€œNo, I don’t have a problem with my thing,” Kerner said, self-satisfied.
    â€œWith your what!” the doctor shouted incredulously.
    â€œWith my thing.”
    â€œWhat thing? C’mon out with it. Say it!”
    â€œSay what?” Kerner asked, confused.
    â€œYou know what I mean. Give your thing a name. Don’t be ashamed to call it what it is. It’s not dirty. We’re in the midst of a sexual revolution, man! Don’t be embarrassed. Now call it something appropriate.”
    â€œYou mean, like prick?” Kerner asked.
    â€œRight. Very good. Now we’re getting somewhere. What else?”
    â€œCock?”
    â€œGood, good. What else?”
    â€œRod?”
    â€œYes, yes.