Read Online The Girl on the Fridge: Stories by Etgar Keret - Free Book Online Page B

“Don’t stop. I’m coming,” they’d say as they lay there motionless, eyes glazed. I knew they were lying, and it made me so mad I could’ve strangled them. “If you don’t mean it, don’t say it.” I’d yell that a few times, but what was the use? It was depressing. Beyond depressing.
    But then it came to me, what was fucking everything up. The problem was I was micromanaging. Once I figured that out, I started telling them more general things like “Act like you’re really enjoying it,” and when the feeling they were faking it started to bother me, I’d just say, “Enjoy it.” It was terrific. Beyond terrific. They’d scream. They’d dig their nails into my back. They’d say, “You’re the best.” Can you picture it? Models, flight attendants, weather girls, in my bed, telling me I’m great.
    Except that then, knowing they were there just because I said so started to bug me. It hit me out of the blue, like lightning. I was walking past Reiness Street, right where it hits Gordon. My mother was still standing there with that apologetic look on her face exactly where I left her, and I suddenly understood: this wasn’t the real thing, it never would be. Because none of those girls really appreciates me. None of them wants me for who I really am. And if they’re not with me for who I am, then fuck it. Right then, I decided to stop and to hit on girls the regular way.
    Boy did that suck. It was a flop, a fiasco, beyond terrible. Girls I used to fuck right in the street, right up against a mailbox, suddenly refused to give me their numbers. They started saying things like my breath stinks or I’m not their type or they have a boyfriend. It was grim. It was beyond grim. But I wanted a real relationship so bad that, even though the temptation to go back to fucking like I used to was enormous, I resisted.
    After three months of torment, I saw the girl from the cider ads in the middle of Ibn Gvirol. I went up and tried to start a conversation, I told her a joke, I picked up a bouquet and ran after her with flowers in my hand, but she didn’t even stop. Waiting for her in the lot beside the mall was this sporty little Mazda driven by another model, a guy model, the one from the potato chip ad. She was about to get into his car and drive away. I didn’t know what to do, and without even realizing it, I yelled “Freeze!” She stopped in her tracks. Everyone did. I looked around at all the people frozen there like that, at her, as beautiful as she was in the commercials. I didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, I couldn’t, I just couldn’t let her go. On the other, if she was going to be with me, I wanted it to be for who I am, because of my inner self, not because I ordered her to be. And then it came, the solution. Like an epiphany. I held her hand, looked into her eyes, and said, “Love me for who I am, for who I truly am.” Then I took her back to my apartment and fucked her like a freak. She screamed and dug her nails into my back and said, “Do it, oh yes, do it to me.” And she loved me, she loved me so much. Just for being me.

Alternative
    Suddenly, an alternative presented itself. An alternative that had always existed in theory but, for her at least, had always been out of reach. She remembered very well how, only six months ago, she had looked down from her balcony. And the thing that had stiffened her neck mumbled to her through her throat, “I don’t understand how people do that to themselves.” She just didn’t understand. But now she does. Not that she has to do it, but the alternative exists. Like a driver’s license, like a visa to the United States. Something she can take advantage of, or not.
    There was a time when she wouldn’t do that for guys— suck them off , go down on them , give head , blow them —it’s interesting how all those names they invented for it sound so disgusting. Maybe it was the names that repulsed her. But not anymore. Not that she thought it