In the woman's room, Jayne found himself getting very perturbed.

The over-sexed woman kept trying to kiss him.

Diligently he would turn his head time and again, ducking and bobbing trying to keep his mouth away from her lips.

I may not have to pay her, he thought as he pulled back once again. That don't make her anybody special, though.

Frustrated, she gave up and zealously began undressing him instead. Oh, she was a bold one, sexy as all hell, and obviously very experienced. The blonde...What was her name anyway? he asked himself. Patty? Sally? Shelley? YEAH! That was it: Shelley.

Shelley eagerly dove her nimble hands into his pants and hunted for her hidden treasure. Finding his cock, she purred seductively and grabbed a hold, firmly working him.

Only, his John Thomas was not cooperating.

Undaunted, she yanked his pants down and dropped to her knees. She practically swallowed him whole in her attempt to arouse him. Her tongue was definitely talented, but it was having no effect either.

After trying for several long minutes she gave up with a sigh, sat back on her heels and looked up at him.

"I've never had this happen before," she explained, perplexed.

Jayne snapped his replied, "Me neither!"

"Well, I've never had any complaints before," came her quick retort. Softening her tone, she went on to suggest a solution. "If you'd like, we could go see an acquaintance. He is--"

The frustrated Merc cut her off, "I ain't sly...got no time for a 3-fer either."

Smiling slightly at his defensive tone, she continued, "As intriguing and arousing a picture that your interpretation has presented, I was not proposing such. You have mistaken my intention. This man is very well-connected and has practically unlimited access to many, shall we say 'unorthodox' and usually illegal, medications. Perhaps there is something that might assist us in making this more satisfying for us both?"

He sneered at her. People and their gorram 'solve anything' drugs, he thought irritated at the suggestion. He didn't need any drugs...

"Of course, it could be because it is not ME that you desire to bed. If that is indeed the case, I suggest you go find this 'River'."

At Jayne's shocked-speechless look that clearly meant 'What the hell are you talking about and how do you know about HER?' Shelley clarified her statement.

"You called me that a few moments ago. You kept saying 'River, no' and 'River, please'. I thought it was an endearment and that you were not sure what you wanted from me. I can clearly see, now, that this was not the case. Go find River. It is her you--"

Horrified at his mistake and sick of the whole situation here in the suddenly oppressively hot room, Jayne snatched up his pants and hurriedly left...desperately trying to button them.

In the elevator, he almost gagged. He reeked of Shelley's cloying perfume, and it was making him nauseous. When the door finally opened, Jayne sprinted to his room, stripped off the offensive clothing, and tossed them in the trash. Still smelling it on his skin, he jumped into the shower.

Relaxing somewhat, the big man tried to reason out the problem. Shelley had been everything he normally looked for in a bed parter. And the woman had skills, he had to admit...so he couldn't lay the blame at her feet.

He had finished quite a bit of whiskey earlier in the bar with Mal and Jester. Yes, that could have been a factor: too much alcohol.

He was tired after the brawl, and hadn't slept well in days. Another perfectly good explanation: exhaustion.

Of course there was the heart-to-heart with Mal and Zoe, dealing with a recalcitrant River, getting a lecture from the Shepherd, and then seeing Jester again after so long. Another valid reason: guilt.

He had not been asked to play a single game of ball with the crew since he started hiding from--no, since he secluded himself in his bunk in search of peace. There had been no weights with Book since before the man's warning. He had also not been needed to go with the Captain and his First Mate on any of the most recent runs. Excellent scapegoat: depression.

Check, check, and check twice again. Text-book situations that would explain Jayne's...impotence.

It certainly was not that Shelley did not smell like apples; that she wasn't as graceful as a ballerina with the softest of skin. It wasn't because the bold woman's advances were not of the hesitant, but innocently-eager, kind instead. Is was not that the buxom woman's breasts were not the right size, and it wasn't because the sexily clad siren did not wear ill-fitting hand-me-down clothing. It couldn't be that a willing and lucid Shelley was not a little off her nut; and was simply not because she didn't speak in confusingly elaborate, or vaguely short, sentences. It just couldn't be possible that the beautiful blonde was inadequate because she did not have hair that was long, dark and lusciously full, tempting his hands to touch it at every opportunity. And it was definitely not because her green eyes did not shine with merriment and total acceptance of him...were not thickly lashed and enormously expressive pools of the richest brown that he found himself willing to drown in.

It just was not possible that Jayne couldn't get it up because Shelley was not River.

"River," the agonizing man whispered softly as he lay his forehead against the cool tile of the shower stall, trying to allow the tepid water to wash away his frustration.

As if to prove to him just how wrong he was in his explanations and denials, his John Thomas was at full attention now--simply after the mere mention of her name.

"Gorramit!" Jayne cursed in anguish, and he fiercely punched the wall with his fist.