Flings by Justin Taylor Read Free Book Online Page B

that was because I knew it was going to be a fucking week of my life to get the lost experience points back when slaying the dragon hadn’t even been the goal in the first place. We were only killing him to get his eyes so we could go see some witch who supposedly had been modeled on Baba Yaga. Zachary said I was no fun to play with and I reminded him that the point of the game wasn’t to have fun, and that was the last time I asked him to take an active interest in my work.
    But getting back to our truth session. Because it’s not 1971 or whatever year it’s supposed to be in the Hannah story, we’re having a tough time finding stuff that the other person doesn’t already know. We know each other’s loss-of-virginity episodes and we know each other’s numbers. He knows about my abortion. I know he messed around with guys a few times in college. All very healthy and progressive, I’m sure, but the point is that before we know it we’ve run out of revelations from our pasts and have stumbled into the veritable present.
    So I admit that, yes, I sometimes fake with him. Not often, I’m quick to add, trying to be kind here and pulling it off, I think, though this is admittedly something I’ve been looking for a way to talk about.
    â€œWell, when was the last time?” He isn’t looking at me. He’s at the counter, fixing us fresh drinks. Gin and tonics with zests of lime, because even though we can joke knowingly about “the peculiar institution” and “the War of Northern Aggression” we are still people who live in Philadelphia with their citrus zester. Anyway, I give him the truthful answer about my faking: “Tuesday.”
    â€œI see.” His tone is relaxed. Casual introspection. If he’s hurt he hides it well. Or, also plausible, I’m too drunk to read him.
    â€œYour turn,” I say. It occurs to me that we’re doing our truth session backwards. In the story they have this great night out—it’s the guy’s birthday—and then they get into it the morning after, when they’re sober, after ditching a party and reaffirming their love. But it’s too late to offer this observation, with him already in the middle of talking about Bridget, the girl he dated before me. How it only lasted a few months but was super heavy while it did. I already know all this, I want to say to him. Well, here’s some news. Bridget used to be into some rough stuff—she liked to be choked and held down, tossed around. Your average rape fantasy, it sounds like. And he’s got his hands in the air, palms out, preemptive defense, saying how he didn’t even want to do it at first—refused to role-play the oppressor, was worried he might injure her, etc. But then he learned that simulating violence in a safe space can be a valid way of gaining psychological mastery over trauma. (One wonders what ol’ Bridget’s truth session might have sounded like.) Long story short, he came around.
    I’m wondering, Is this a real story, or is it more like his own roundabout way of asking for—Oh, but I shouldn’t be stupid. Besides, if he wants it, he’s going to have to say so, or else make a move. Not that I’m in a huge hurry to be gagged with my own underwear, but being pinned at the wrists and bent over the coffee table might make for a nice change of pace. What I won’t stand for, however, is this “I’m sending you a signal to make me the offer” shit. Of course, he’s gotten pretty good about asking for what he wants—which, by the way, I credit myself with having taught him because I remember what it was like when we first got together—so maybe this is just the drunken truth slopping out. Speaking of which.
    â€œI gave Evan Stanz a blow job,” I say. Evan is Zachary’s best friend. They grew up together, and both did their undergrad at Wesleyan. Now Evan