Read Arkansas for Free Online Page B

an A—”
    â€œYou can’t fuck me,” Hunter said.
    Why did these boys all assume I wanted to fuck them?
    â€œThat wasn’t what I was going to propose,” I said. “What I was going to propose was ... the opposite.”
    â€œThat I fuck you?”
    I nodded.
    â€œSure,” Hunter said swiftly. “No problem.”
    â€œHave you ever fucked another guy?”
    â€œNo, but I have, you know, fucked a girl ... back there.”
    â€œYou have.”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œAnd did you like it?”
    â€œWell...” He grinned. “I mean, it felt good and all, but afterwards—it
is
kind of gross to think about. You know what I’m saying?”
    I coughed. “Well, I guess it’s a done deal, Hunter.”
    â€œGreat.”
    We shook.
    â€œOh, and Hunter,” I added (what possessed me?), “just one more thing. There is the matter of a security deposit.”
    â€œSecurity deposit?”
    â€œDidn’t Eric tell you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWell, naturally I require a security deposit. On my work. I’m sure you understand that.”
    â€œSure, but what ... kind of security deposit?”
    I gestured for him to lean closer.
    â€œDo you wear boxers or briefs?” I whispered.
    â€œDepends. Today briefs.”
    â€œGood. All right, here’s what I want you to do. I want you to go into the bathroom, into the toilet stall, and take off your pants and underwear. Then I want you to jack off into your underwear. You know, use them to wipe up. Then I want you to put them in your coat pocket. You can give them to me when we get outside.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œYou don’t have to worry, there are locks on the stalls.”
    â€œBut Eric didn’t—”
    â€œOr we could just forget the whole thing...”
    He grimaced. Suddenly an expression of genuine disgust clouded his handsome face, so forcefully that for a moment I feared he might knock over the table, scream obscenities, hit or kill me.
    Then the expression changed. He stood up.
    â€œBack in a flash,” he said, and strode into the bathroom. Exactly five minutes later—I checked my watch—the bathroom door swung open.
    â€œReady?”
    â€œReady.”
    We headed out into the parking lot.
    â€œHere you go, dude.” Surreptitiously Hunter handed me a wad of white cotton.
    My fingers brushed sliminess as I stuffed it into my pocket. “And are you always that quick?”
    â€œOnly when I need to be.”
    He climbed into his Jeep and switched the radio on loud. “So I’ll have the paper for you the afternoon of the twentieth,” I shouted over the noise.
    â€œSounds like a winner.”
    â€œOh, and incidentally, Hunter, if you don’t mind, maybe you could do it in the back of your Jeep.”
    â€œDo what?”
    â€œIf you get an A.”
    â€œOh, man!” Hunter laughed. “Shit, you have really got a filthy mind. I like it.” Then he nearly slammed the door on my fingers.
    Simple as that, I became an industry.
    Â 
    Days passed more quickly. I got up early in the mornings, sometimes as early as my father, who was usually weeding in the garden by six. Then I went to the library. Did you know that at the end of World War Two, after the Germans bombed the bridge of Santa Trinità in Florence, all four statues of the seasons which graced its corners were recovered from the river? Everything except spring’s head. Posters went up, in which a photograph of the head appeared under the words, “Have You Seen This Woman? $3000.00 reward.” Rumor had it that a black American soldier had kidnapped the head. Only no one ever turned up to claim the ransom.
    Not until 1961—the year I was born—was the head finally found, buried in mud at the bottom of the Arno.
    Actually, I’d known this anecdote well before I started researching Hunter’s paper. I’d even seen a