Anatomy of a Boyfriend by Daria Snadowsky Read Free Book Online

can you help me straighten up the living room before I drive you?‖ Wes asks me. ―I don‘t want my mom to wake up and walk in here and go ballistic over the mess.‖

    Great, you’re already talking about taking me home.

    ―Sure! I don‘t need to get back right away, anyway,‖ I say, trying to sound chipper. I grab an empty takeout carton and start flattening it.

    A few minutes later, after we‘ve cleaned the coffee table with the DustBuster and taken out the trash, I pipe up, ―So, it was cool to have us all over and order us dinner.‖

    ―Yeah…I think my parents wish I were more, you know, social, so they do stuff like this a couple times a semester.‖

    ―I‘m glad I got to meet them; they were really nice. I like your house too.‖

    ―Well, I can give you the fifty-cent tour if you‘d like.‖

    I’d pay you a lot more than that if your bedroom is on the tour. ―Yeah, that‘d be great.‖

    On the way to the stairwell I trip over the hallway‘s Persian runner and grunt like an ogre as my knees slam against the floor. I grab his arm so I don‘t fall flat on my face.

    He laughs. ―Traveling by foot isn‘t exactly your strong suit, is it?‖

    ―Yeah. I don‘t know why I‘ve been so clumsy lately,‖ I mutter, trying not to sound like I‘m going to die of embarrassment. I purposely take my time regaining my balance, though, releasing his arm at the last possible second.

    From the outside, Wes‘s house looks like a generic, beige stucco split-level home, but inside, each room is painted in a different pastel color, reminding me of Wes‘s parents‘ sweatsuits.
    There‘s also a really cozy basement furnished with leather couches, Chinese lanterns, and even one of those stereos from the seventies with a turntable and dropdown spindle. What a great make-out room, I think.

    Wes‘s bedroom is on the last leg of our tour. It‘s boyishly messy, with a tangle of papers, sneakers, and computer cables spread out over the powder blue carpet. Posters of Olympic runners hang above his stuffed bookshelves. Dozens of track trophies, plaques, and medals sit atop his dresser. The cutest part—he has Marvin the Martian bedsheets. I don‘t know why, but I immediately wonder how many wet dreams he‘s had on them, and how often he jacks off. I haven‘t tried touching myself since the time Dad almost walked in on me, although I‘ve thought about it.

    ―I really like your room,‖ I say, hoping he can‘t read my mind.

    ―The best is this.‖ He points to the minifridge and fruit bowl underneath his desk. ―I keep various stashes here, like Gatorades and energy bars.‖

    I am expecting him to lead me out of his room and take me home, but instead he breaks off two bananas, throws one to me, and sits down on the floor. So I sit down too, a few feet away from him. After I peel the banana, it occurs to me that eating it normally might resemble performing a blow job. I want to look attractive, not trashy. So I break off bite-sized pieces with my fingers and pop them into my mouth one at a time.

    Wes‘s collie, who‘s been following us the whole time, bounds onto his lap. I‘m not really a pet person, but I figure I better make some kind of nice remark about the animal when I see how it makes Wes‘s eyes light up.

    ―Jessica has to be the most darling dog on Earth,‖ I say, trying not to feel jealous as it crawls all over Wes. ―You‘ve had her since she was a puppy, right?‖

    ―Yeah. She‘ll be eleven soon.‖

    ―It must have been good to have her with you through all your moves, if you were always making new friends.‖

    ―Yeah, she was always there for me. Along with my books and my brother—well, until he went away to college.‖

    ―Oh, is this him?‖ I ask, pointing to a framed photograph on Wes‘s desk.

    ―Yep. That‘s me and Art the Fart in the City. And that‘s the Washington Square Arch behind us.
    My grandparents live a few blocks from there.‖

    ―He looks like