Read Online Instant Love by Jami Attenberg - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jami Attenberg
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YOU ’ RE TELLING the story just fine,” I said. I patted his hand. “Please. Carry on. I’m interested.”
“Do you want some more ice cream?” he said. “Go on, I’ll share it with you.”
I rose and went to the refrigerator again. You didn’t need to tell me twice.
“So the whole time she’s going out with Wolfowitz, Dad’s trying to steal her away. He always says he loved her from the minute he saw her, and he had no intention of taking no for an answer. He would walk with her down the hallway at school and tease her about, I don’t know—her hair, her clothes, general flirty high-school stuff. That was at first. Then he starts saying, ‘That Wolfowitz, he’s no good. He’s got a wandering eye. I saw him sitting with Judy Kanter at lunch, and you know what everyone says about Judy Kanter.’”
Alan had slipped into an impression of his father, neck sunken in toward his shoulders, hands up in the air, torso tensed.
“What did everyone say about Judy Kanter?” I said.
“Dad said she was a real knockout. Big breasts, and this extremely sexy lisp. He knew a couple of guys that got with her senior year.”
I mock-gasped, shocked and dainty. “Judy, Judy,” I said.
“I know!” said Alan. “But she wasn’t that sharp, and say what you will about my mother, she’s sharp,” he said proudly. “Anyway, he was working on her, always talking, keeping Mom on her toes, like he still does today. ‘I was selling,’ he said to me. ‘I was selling her on me.’”
“Sounds familiar,” I said. I sat down next to him and fed him some ice cream. I kissed him on the lips. They tasted cold and minty, but felt soft. I squeezed his generous arm. I kissed him again. “That’s what you Handelmans do.”
“And we do all right,” he said.
ALAN, YOU didn’t have to sell me on anything. You were the warmest man I had ever met, the first man that was unafraid to talk about love, although now I know if men offer it up so easy, they’re not usually sincere. I didn’t care that you were absurdly close to your mother. Or that you frequently went on vacations to Florida without me because they were “family-only” trips. Or that on most weekends, you disappeared into the warm, all-consuming bosom of your parents’ home in Highland Park, far, far away from me. What time I had with you I treasured. I loved it, in fact. Even if it wasn’t real. Even if it was temporary. Even if I wasn’t myself. Because I never got to feel like that again.
HE STARTED unbuttoning my blouse at the kitchen table, kissed my breasts through my bra, then pulled one out and kissed it some more. “It tastes like sugar,” he said, and I moaned. I moved onto his lap and he gripped my ass firmly with his hands, then gave it a good slap. “Uch. You,” he said.
I kissed his forehead, and then his lips. His soft beard felt nice on my chin, like one hundred tiny scratches. “What happened with Wolfowitz?” I said.
“Screw Wolfowitz,” said Alan, and then he took me to bed.
In bed he was like a wolf, all hairy arms and legs, howling at the moon. He pawed at me and held me tight. He held me down, hands on my breasts, and pinched and nuzzled them. He squeezed my hips and ass right before he put his heavy cock in between my legs, and then in me, as deep as he could go. And then he forced me to look at him, not through any words or actions, but through a magnet stare. He locked me, and then I was stuck there, for as long as he liked, in his arms.
This was different for me, this link with another. I had always felt a divide between myself and other men in bed, and it was easy to shut down, look above and around, at anything else but them. (Jesus, he’s got a Grateful Dead poster. But we met at a Pavement show. And, oh my, there’s a tapestry on the wall. Is it too late to ask him to pull out?)
I could disconnect and reconnect at will. I would check out for as long as it took, let my body warm up from their heat.
“Do you want some more ice cream?” he said. “Go on, I’ll share it with you.”
I rose and went to the refrigerator again. You didn’t need to tell me twice.
“So the whole time she’s going out with Wolfowitz, Dad’s trying to steal her away. He always says he loved her from the minute he saw her, and he had no intention of taking no for an answer. He would walk with her down the hallway at school and tease her about, I don’t know—her hair, her clothes, general flirty high-school stuff. That was at first. Then he starts saying, ‘That Wolfowitz, he’s no good. He’s got a wandering eye. I saw him sitting with Judy Kanter at lunch, and you know what everyone says about Judy Kanter.’”
Alan had slipped into an impression of his father, neck sunken in toward his shoulders, hands up in the air, torso tensed.
“What did everyone say about Judy Kanter?” I said.
“Dad said she was a real knockout. Big breasts, and this extremely sexy lisp. He knew a couple of guys that got with her senior year.”
I mock-gasped, shocked and dainty. “Judy, Judy,” I said.
“I know!” said Alan. “But she wasn’t that sharp, and say what you will about my mother, she’s sharp,” he said proudly. “Anyway, he was working on her, always talking, keeping Mom on her toes, like he still does today. ‘I was selling,’ he said to me. ‘I was selling her on me.’”
“Sounds familiar,” I said. I sat down next to him and fed him some ice cream. I kissed him on the lips. They tasted cold and minty, but felt soft. I squeezed his generous arm. I kissed him again. “That’s what you Handelmans do.”
“And we do all right,” he said.
ALAN, YOU didn’t have to sell me on anything. You were the warmest man I had ever met, the first man that was unafraid to talk about love, although now I know if men offer it up so easy, they’re not usually sincere. I didn’t care that you were absurdly close to your mother. Or that you frequently went on vacations to Florida without me because they were “family-only” trips. Or that on most weekends, you disappeared into the warm, all-consuming bosom of your parents’ home in Highland Park, far, far away from me. What time I had with you I treasured. I loved it, in fact. Even if it wasn’t real. Even if it was temporary. Even if I wasn’t myself. Because I never got to feel like that again.
HE STARTED unbuttoning my blouse at the kitchen table, kissed my breasts through my bra, then pulled one out and kissed it some more. “It tastes like sugar,” he said, and I moaned. I moved onto his lap and he gripped my ass firmly with his hands, then gave it a good slap. “Uch. You,” he said.
I kissed his forehead, and then his lips. His soft beard felt nice on my chin, like one hundred tiny scratches. “What happened with Wolfowitz?” I said.
“Screw Wolfowitz,” said Alan, and then he took me to bed.
In bed he was like a wolf, all hairy arms and legs, howling at the moon. He pawed at me and held me tight. He held me down, hands on my breasts, and pinched and nuzzled them. He squeezed my hips and ass right before he put his heavy cock in between my legs, and then in me, as deep as he could go. And then he forced me to look at him, not through any words or actions, but through a magnet stare. He locked me, and then I was stuck there, for as long as he liked, in his arms.
This was different for me, this link with another. I had always felt a divide between myself and other men in bed, and it was easy to shut down, look above and around, at anything else but them. (Jesus, he’s got a Grateful Dead poster. But we met at a Pavement show. And, oh my, there’s a tapestry on the wall. Is it too late to ask him to pull out?)
I could disconnect and reconnect at will. I would check out for as long as it took, let my body warm up from their heat.
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