Arkansas Read Free Page B

Tracy Chapman’s voice), seemed to me typical UCLA. And yet there were incongruous touches. For one thing, the posters did not depict acid rock musicians or figures from the world of sports. Instead Eric had thumbtacked the Sistine Chapel ceiling onto his ceiling. Over his bed hung the
Last Judgment.
Caspar David Friedrich’s
Wanderer in a Sea of Mist
stared into the back of the door.
    â€œHave you spent much time in Europe?” I hazarded.
    â€œYeah, last summer. I went to Italy, France, Amsterdam.”
    â€œYou must have liked Amsterdam.”
    â€œI basically don’t remember Amsterdam.”
    I laughed. “And Italy?”
    â€œMan! Rome was amazing! Rome really blew me away!” Licking the joint, he sealed it, then picked up a lighter from the floor.
    â€œThe last time I went to Florence I tried to find the hotel where Forster stayed,” I said. “I only mention it because I see you’re reading A
Room with a View.”
    Eric lit the joint. “Come on down here,” he said, slapping the other side of the bed like someone’s behind.
    â€œI’d better take off my shoes.”
    â€œYeah, Dave, I’d have to agree that would be a good idea.”
    He was mocking me, but agreeably, and, flushing, I did what I was told. Down among the sheets the world smelled both fruity and smoky.
    Eric toked, passed me the joint. Lying back, he stretched his arms over his head.
    â€œ
Two weeks in a Virginia jail ”
Tracy Chapman sang,
“for my lover, for my lover.”
And on the next line, Eric joined in: “
Twenty-thousand-dollar bail, for my lover, for my lover...
”
    â€œYou’ve got a nice voice,” I said when he’d finished the song.
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œMe, I’m tone-deaf. I get it from my dad.”
    â€œYour dad seems like a decent guy.”
    â€œHe is. I liked your parents too. Have they left yet, by the way?”
    â€œFinally.” He breathed out bitter fumes. “I mean, my parents, they’re nice and all, but after a few days—you know what I mean?”
    â€œSure.”
    Propping myself on one elbow, I looked at him. His eyes were getting red. In silence, I watched the way his swollen lips seemed to narrow around the joint, like some strange species of fish; the way his stomach distended and relaxed, distended and relaxed; the meshing of his lashes, when he closed his eyes.
    â€œThis is good pot,” I said after a while.
    Eric had his feet crossed at the ankles. From beneath his T-shirt’s hem, the drawstring of his sweatpants peeked out like a little noose.
    I forget what we talked about next. Maybe Michelangelo. Conversation blurred and became inchoate, and only sharpened again when Eric looked at me, and said, “So do you want to give me a blow job?”
    I opened my eyes as wide as my stoned state permitted. “A blow job?”
    â€œYeah. Like in your book. You know, when Eliot’s sitting at his desk and Philip sucks him off.”
    â€œOh, you remember that scene.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œAnd what makes you think I’d want to give you a blow job?”
    â€œWell, the way I see it, you’re gay and I’m sexy. So why not?”
    â€œBut you have to want it, too. Do you?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œHow much? A lot?”
    â€œEnough.”
    â€œAre you hard now?”
    â€œYeah, I guess.”
    â€˜You guess?”
    I reached over and grabbed his crotch. “Yeah, I guess so too.”
    â€œWell, go ahead.” Eric crossed his arms behind his head. Untying the little noose of the drawstring, I pulled back his sweatpants and underwear. Like his handshake, his cock was long and silky. It rested upon a pile of lustrous black pubic hair rather like a sausage on top of a plate of black beans: I apologize for this odd culinary metaphor, but it was what entered my mind at the time. And Eric was laughing.
    â€œWhat’s so