Perfect (17 page)

I can’t really tell—cereal boxes,

crumpled Keystone cans, somehow

make it to the kitchen, where

Chad’s actually studying.

Hey, bro. Thanks for bringing

dinner. Have a brewski.

He gulps a big swig of his own.

I go to the fridge, grab a beer,

sit across the cluttered table

from him, unwrap my sandwich.

He waits for me to say something,

but I’m not sure how to start.

Finally he jumps in.
You look

like you’re bulking up pretty

well. You ready for opening

day? Uncle Jeff said you rocked

during your exhibition game.

I take a giant bite, wash it down

with bitter beer. “I did okay.

But I’ve got to do better to

impress a Stanford scout.

I’m working my ass off.”

Work is a good thing, hence…

He points to books, stacked

tall on the table. Only one

is actually open, however.

Wanna tell me why you’re here?

To the point, which is probably

good. “Well, this is kind of hard

to talk about. Like embarrassing.”

Like maybe it was a mistake

to come. How do I say this?

He looks up from his sandwich,

studies my face, which must

be the color of pomegranates.

What? You got an STD or

something?
He shakes his head.

Fuck it. Just say it. “Not

an STD. I couldn’t get one

if I tried. See, the problem

is, I can’t get it up. Not even

when I really want to. Not

even when my girlfriend

takes her clothes off and

climbs all over me. I’m barely

eighteen, and my dick acts

like it’s eighty. What’s wrong?”

Chad grins.
Dude, you know

about ’roids and nut shrinkage,

right?
At my horrified grimace,

he says,
Too much artificial

testosterone makes the real

deal go away. That’s one

reason why you don’t want

to do too many cycles in a row.

Stop using, things should work

like they’re supposed to again.

Chad, Steroid Expert

Is also my supplier. And not

just mine. He underwrites

his living expenses dealing

illegal substances. Steroids

are just the tipping-off place.

I’m glad there’s a sound

explanation. Still, “So I can’t

have sex until I quit, or what?”

What about all those pro

athletes and their hot women?

Well, I wouldn’t say that

exactly. Haven’t you heard

of Viagra?
He’s got to be

kidding, Viagra is definitely

for eighty-year-old dicks, right?

I Leave Chad’s

With a pretty good beer buzz,

one more round of muscle

enhancers, plus a penis fixer.

Holy crap. But it’s just for

a little while. I also got a lecture

about not combining Viagra

with other drugs. About ’roids

and high blood pressure. About

probable acne, potential liver

or kidney problems, and (this is

a great one!) the remote

possibility of growing

breasts. About steroids

staying in your system for as

long as a year or more after

you quit them. Chad is quite

the lecturer, considering

he’s also the pusher. Guess

he doesn’t want to feel guilty

if I wind up needing a bra.

Personally, I Think

It’s all hype. Well, other than

the penis problem. And I guess

my skin has looked better.

That, at least, can be fixed

without resorting to pill popping.

I have to admit I’m curious

to see if the “little blue pill”

can fix me. If it can make me

some kind of sex superstar.

None of the times I’ve had

sex before were what you

might call memorable. Easy.

Fast. Not much in the way

of intensive foreplay. Nothing

like what you see in movies.

I’m a total amateur. Time

for some real practice, with

a little chemical assistance.

Now if only Cara is up for

it too, like the other night.

A Little Fuzzy

(Foamy?) around the edges,

I decide to wait until I get

home to give her a call.

I manage the icy drive without

incident, park mostly straight,

make my way inside. I’m pretty

much a lightweight drinker,

so the four beers I downed

at Chad’s have blunted my

motivation. Glad I already

ate, because as soon as Aunt

Mo hears me come in, she calls

from the kitchen,
We’re all at

the table. Were you going to

grace us with your presence?

She’s bitchy. I’m fuzzy.

A deadly combination.

“No,” I yell. “I don’t feel

so hot.” Not a lie. Suddenly

bed sounds like a good plan.

Andre

So Hot

Beneath her cool veneer,

she’s steaming. You’d think

she was thirty, not just

sixteen, and I can’t

help

but wonder how she learned

the dance of the cobra.

Sensuous. Dangerous.

Deadly venomous. And

I’m

the snake charmer who

snaps out of a trance

to find the serpent

has tricked him into

tumbling

under her spell. I swore

this wouldn’t happen.

Never believed it was

possible to fall so

hard.

Wish I Could Say

I’ve fallen for the perfect girl,

but that would be

a lie. Or at least a gross exaggeration.

There’s a lot about Jenna to love.

The way she looks,

of course, all curves and frothiness.

Cotton candy. Or cumulus clouds.

And when she turns

her focus on you, brother, you are king

and she is part lady-in-waiting, part

concubine. You want

to put her up on a pedestal, as long

as she’s naked. We have gotten

naked a time or two,

and Lord help me, that girl has shown

me things most grown women

would blush at.

All that stuff goes in the plus column.

In The Minus Column

Loitering beneath the sweet fluff,

the wide-eyed faux

innocence, is something hard. Maybe

even just a little bit scary. A fallen angel,

perhaps. A creature

of the heavens, surviving in earthly shadow.

I don’t see that part of her very often.

Just a bitchlike snap

at someone she might consider competition.

A misplaced remark, revealing under-

belly. But never directed