Read Online How Do You Like Your Blue-Eyed Boy? by Barry Graham - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Barry Graham
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balls as I rubbed my cock. After I came, I lay beside her and rubbed my come into her skin, from her stomach to her tits. She whispered, “That’s it. Rub it close to my heart.”
After a few weeks of going to see movies, hanging out in cafes, driving into the mountains, spending hot days and nights fucking in every way you can conceive of that’s legal (and a few ways that aren’t under Arizona law), she suggested that I move into her apartment. I did.
She had never had a job or needed one. Her parents had died and left her a house and a trust fund. She’d sold the house and moved from Santa Barbara to Phoenix, where the cost of living was low enough for her to live on the trust fund.
She had a real problem with my background. She was a pacifist, and couldn’t stand even the idea of violence. The fact that I’d killed people scared her, and it scared her even more that I didn’t have a guilt trip about it. She told me vaguely that she’d seen a lot of violence in her childhood—a family thing she didn’t want to talk about—and that consequently she’d always chosen placid or timid men who’d never even gotten into playground brawls in grade school. She said she couldn’t believe she’d ended up living with a trained killer, a professional. I was shocked when she said that, because I’d never thought of myself that way. But, when I considered it, I couldn’t logically deny that it was true. And it freaked her out when I admitted it and told her that I still wasn’t ashamed of it.
“You can deny it to yourself if you like,” I said to her once. “But I’m not that unusual. There’re lots of people around who seem just like you. But they’ve killed people, and now they’re just trying to make it.”
When Mara was killed and I started the classes, Janine was disgusted. We couldn’t even argue about it, it was all so black and white to her. She said I was training people to be no better than whoever had killed Mara. I told her that kind of sermonizing was the indulgence of a well-fed, overprivileged white girl. She got angry and said that we shouldn’t discuss it any more. And, most of the time, we didn’t.
THREE
It was a Saturday. Sometimes I worked on Saturday afternoons, but never in the mornings. I liked to sleep late. The band met for practice on Sunday mornings, so Saturday was the only day I could do it.
That morning, though, I was awake. I was supposed to have breakfast with Tim. Since I’d stopped working for him, we’d made a point of getting together at least once a week. I got up at nine—Janine was still asleep – dressed, and drove South to Cafe Arte.
Tim didn’t show. I called his house a couple of times, and got his machine. When he was nearly an hour late, I realized he wasn’t coming and I got irritated. I wondered if he’d flaked on me or if something had come up. I called my place to see if he’d left a message. Janine answered and said he hadn’t. Fuck it. I had a bagel and some tea and then left. When I got home I went back to bed and slept until one. When I got up, I got into my sweats and drove to Leininger’s Dojo on 32nd Street to work out. It was just after five when I got home.
“Have you seen the news?” Janine asked me as I walked in the door.
“No. What’s up?”
She came over and hugged me. “Thank God. If you have to hear it, I wanted you to hear it from me.”
“What?’
“Sit down.”
“Quit the drama. What’s going on?”
“This isn’t drama. Sit down.”
I sat on the couch. She sat next to me and held my hand.
“Tim’s dead.”
I just sat there and looked at her. Then I said, “He didn’t show up this morning.”
“I know. I’m so sorry.”
I didn’t know what to do, if I should say something, if I should cry. “What happened to him?”
She hesitated, not wanting me to hear it. “Somebody shot him. He was murdered.”
“By who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do the cops know?”
“I don’t think so.”
“How
After a few weeks of going to see movies, hanging out in cafes, driving into the mountains, spending hot days and nights fucking in every way you can conceive of that’s legal (and a few ways that aren’t under Arizona law), she suggested that I move into her apartment. I did.
She had never had a job or needed one. Her parents had died and left her a house and a trust fund. She’d sold the house and moved from Santa Barbara to Phoenix, where the cost of living was low enough for her to live on the trust fund.
She had a real problem with my background. She was a pacifist, and couldn’t stand even the idea of violence. The fact that I’d killed people scared her, and it scared her even more that I didn’t have a guilt trip about it. She told me vaguely that she’d seen a lot of violence in her childhood—a family thing she didn’t want to talk about—and that consequently she’d always chosen placid or timid men who’d never even gotten into playground brawls in grade school. She said she couldn’t believe she’d ended up living with a trained killer, a professional. I was shocked when she said that, because I’d never thought of myself that way. But, when I considered it, I couldn’t logically deny that it was true. And it freaked her out when I admitted it and told her that I still wasn’t ashamed of it.
“You can deny it to yourself if you like,” I said to her once. “But I’m not that unusual. There’re lots of people around who seem just like you. But they’ve killed people, and now they’re just trying to make it.”
When Mara was killed and I started the classes, Janine was disgusted. We couldn’t even argue about it, it was all so black and white to her. She said I was training people to be no better than whoever had killed Mara. I told her that kind of sermonizing was the indulgence of a well-fed, overprivileged white girl. She got angry and said that we shouldn’t discuss it any more. And, most of the time, we didn’t.
THREE
It was a Saturday. Sometimes I worked on Saturday afternoons, but never in the mornings. I liked to sleep late. The band met for practice on Sunday mornings, so Saturday was the only day I could do it.
That morning, though, I was awake. I was supposed to have breakfast with Tim. Since I’d stopped working for him, we’d made a point of getting together at least once a week. I got up at nine—Janine was still asleep – dressed, and drove South to Cafe Arte.
Tim didn’t show. I called his house a couple of times, and got his machine. When he was nearly an hour late, I realized he wasn’t coming and I got irritated. I wondered if he’d flaked on me or if something had come up. I called my place to see if he’d left a message. Janine answered and said he hadn’t. Fuck it. I had a bagel and some tea and then left. When I got home I went back to bed and slept until one. When I got up, I got into my sweats and drove to Leininger’s Dojo on 32nd Street to work out. It was just after five when I got home.
“Have you seen the news?” Janine asked me as I walked in the door.
“No. What’s up?”
She came over and hugged me. “Thank God. If you have to hear it, I wanted you to hear it from me.”
“What?’
“Sit down.”
“Quit the drama. What’s going on?”
“This isn’t drama. Sit down.”
I sat on the couch. She sat next to me and held my hand.
“Tim’s dead.”
I just sat there and looked at her. Then I said, “He didn’t show up this morning.”
“I know. I’m so sorry.”
I didn’t know what to do, if I should say something, if I should cry. “What happened to him?”
She hesitated, not wanting me to hear it. “Somebody shot him. He was murdered.”
“By who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do the cops know?”
“I don’t think so.”
“How
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