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100 Jack Fritscher

“Naw. My blood’s fine and my sugar’s better.” Robert winked
the way his father always winked. “If you catch my drift.”
“Sounds like,” Floyd pulled his ear, charading, working Robert
toward the door, “like we’ve circled back to sex.”
“Have you noticed that too? How everything sooner or later
always comes back around to sex?”
“You are sure going to have a good time down there on 18th and
Castro,” Floyd said. “That intersection is laying on its back with its
legs in the air just waiting for you.”
“I ain’t done it.” Robert’s face reddened with anger. “I told you
I ain’t done it! I ain’t never done it when it was my will. But when
I’m good and ready, I just might, and I just might be the best at it.”
Something, some thing, in the room ground suddenly to a halt
between them.
“What?”
It could only be one thing. Floyd wished he’d carried a little hand
fan, something petite and operatic from the eighteenth century, to
hide the smirk on his lips.
“I ain’t done it. Not yet.”
“Done what?” Floyd was intent on forcing Robert to say it. I love
it, Floyd thought, all this talk and no action has been the braggadocio
of a male virgin with very blue balls. “Done what?”
“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”
“Robert, I bet no one could ever make you do any thing.”
“My mother always said that.” Robert’s eyes kind of crossed in
his head.
“You haven’t done what?”
“I haven’t had sex. Okay? So laugh.”
“And risk another wrinkle? Never. My God, as it is, look at my
face. If wrinkles hurt, I’d be screaming.”
“I’m serious, goddam it. I haven’t had sex. Not really. Not
ever. Not unless you count the time I didn’t want to, and the time
I thought I had to, but I never count those two times and I never
talk about them.”

©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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