The Evil B.B. Chow & Other Stories Read Free

“Don’t ask me that kind of shit.”
    â€œIt’s small, isn’t it? How small? Uncooked hot-dog small?”
    â€œWhat it is, the thing that really freaked me out, he’s got no hair on his body. Not even under his arms. Just this smooth little, like, pelt. And he doesn’t know how to caress.I thought, you know, he’s a surgeon. He’ll have these delicate fingers. But he’s more of a groper. Like being groped by a twelve-year-old.”
    Marco makes a despicable yum-yum noise.
    There’s a note on my desk informing me that Phil, the publisher, wants to meet at four to grill me about the Summer of Fun issue (“Not fun enough!”), our new sex columnist (“She looks like a terrier!”), and
occasions for synergy
, a phrase he acquired recently and now chants through the long cappuccino afternoons. When he’s done with me, he’ll shtup his personal assistant, Mandy, perhaps in his actual office.
    Here’s what has me baffled: the sex was good. I can’t quite explain this to Marco. But somehow, the fact that B.B. Chow can’t really kiss or fuck or even fondle, the fact that he makes me feel like Xena, Warrior Princess, these things
turn me on
. It’s like the bar is set so low with this guy, we can’t help but get over. Which we do. We get over. Twice. Despite all the flubs, the sighing misfires, what comes through is how enraptured the guy is, enraptured by
me
.
    And how, just before he left in the morning, stripped of his tux, back in medical scrubs and swaying in the door frame like a eucalyptus leaf, he says this thing to me: “Will you be my girlfriend?” without a lick of irony—with, instead, a look of utmost and moist vulnerability, as if hislife depended on the answer.
    I don’t know what to say. I mean, we’ve spent the night together, had sex, orgasmed more or less simultaneously. What does that make us? Steadies? I’m not saying I don’t understand what he’s asking for. It’s just such a weird feeling to be on the receiving end of this kind of need. I feel like I should be able to turn to some impartial referee and say,
Flag him, flag him, that’s gender preemption!
    W E ’ VE BOTH GOT these intense schedules. But somehow, rather than slowing the tempo, everything speeds up, launches us into that delirious, two-gear existence, work to bed, bed to work, the narrowing of the social field, the cultivation of baby talk, the entire goopy works. B.B. calls me from the hospital to tell me how much he misses me. He ends every conversation with the same question: “When can I see you?”
    This is not to say that I don’t have my moments of doubt. The first time I visit B.B. at his apartment, for instance, I spot a photo on his bookcase. A petite blonde, her hair gathered into a ponytail where the roots turn dark. She’s wearing a leotard top and cradling a white puppy in her arms.
    â€œWho’s this pretty lady?” I call out.
    B.B. comes rushing out of the kitchen with a bottle of wine in one hand and a corkscrew in the other. He sees meexamining the photo and looks stricken. “That was a mistake. I apologize.” He marches right over and shoves the photo behind his bound copy of
Prenatal Renal Failure
.
    â€œYou don’t have to do that,” I say. “That woman is a part of your life.”
    â€œNot anymore. She’s my ex.”
    â€œOkay. She’s your ex,” I say. “Does that mean you’re not allowed to tell me anything about her?”
    â€œShe was an awful cook.”
    â€œWhere does she live?”
    â€œI don’t know,” he says brusquely. “Prince Street, I think.”
    â€œIn the North End? That’s right near my friend Marco. He’s on Salem.”
    B.B. shakes his head vehemently. “She means nothing to me. Nothing. You’re my girlfriend now.” He drops the corkscrew, backs me against the