Boy Toy by Lyga Barry

Author:Lyga, Barry [Lyga, Barry]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Published: 2009-01-05T08:00:00+00:00

I learned every curve, nook, and niche of her body, every inch of smooth skin, every bump and turn.

I learned what to touch, when to touch it, how to touch it, and for how long. I learned; I watched.

I never, ever stopped thrilling to the sight each time I saw her naked. Every time, it was new. Never boring. Never old.

She taught me how to make love and she taught me how to fuck and she taught me the difference. We ended up doing more of the latter than the former.

One time, in the panting aftermath of our afternoon session, she lay on the bed in unconscious imitation of that Playmate from Zik's Playboy an eternity ago.

"What are your numbers?" I asked her.

She looked at me sleepily over her shoulder. "My what?"

"Your numbers." I gestured at her chest, her waist.

"Oh." She laughed. "Why do you care all of a sudden?"

"Numbers are important."

"Come on, Josh."

"Numbers are important."

She relented at the seriousness in my expression. She took my hand and made me touch breast, waist, hip, as she recited "Thirty-four, twenty-six, thirty-five."

"Are those good numbers?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "Well, I like to think so! What do you think?" And she sprawled out on the bed, unashamed, completely open to me.

"I like them," I conceded. "But what do they mean?"

She explained the measurements to me, the way bra and cup sizes worked, the way women's clothes were measured differently then men's. Satisfied at last, I drifted off to sleep in her arms, catching an hour nap before the alarm woke us up in time to change the sheets, make the bed, and get dressed before George got home.

"Are you OK, Josh?" she asked me as we put fresh sheets on the bed. I was being quieter than usual, I guess.

"Yeah."

"Are you all right with what we're doing?"

Her eyes and her voice were filled with concern.

"Yes. I'm fine with it."

"Because if you want to stop—"

"No. I don't want to stop."

I couldn't tell her the truth: that I felt terrible for what I was doing. Guilty for making her do what I wanted. Guilty for making her do it my way. Guilty for making her cheat on her husband. Every time I saw George, every time his eyes lit up at the sight of me and he slapped me on the back and said, "How's it going, champ?" I felt like a part of me had died.

I hated myself for being too weak to stop it.

"You know, Josh, what we're doing is fine when two people love each other. Do you love me, Josh?"

And of course I had no choice. Not in terms of what to say—no choice but to love her. How could I do anything but? It was impossible.

"Yes. I do."

She came to me and hugged me, our bodies still slightly sticky with sweat. She was a few inches taller than I, and my head nestled—perfectly, as if designed that way, she always said—in the hollow of her throat, just above her breasts.

She kissed the top of my head, just like Mom.

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