Disappearing Acts Read Online Free PDF Page B

I guess you could say that the kind of man I like is just the opposite of these. Which means I like a clean, tall, smart, honest, sensuous, spontaneous, energetic, aggressive man with white teeth who smells good and reads a good book every now and then, who votes and wants to make a contribution to the world instead of holding his hands out. A man who stands for something. Who feels passion for more than just women. And a man who appreciates that my pussy is good but also respects the fact that I have a working brain. And last but not least, a man who knows how to make love.
    I have not run into him lately.
    Every man I’ve ever loved—and there’ve been three and a half—or that I’ve cared substantially about, brought me to these conclusions in a haphazard way, but I’m grateful to all of ’em, because had I not experienced
them,
I wouldn’t have had any.
    When I was sixteen, there was Bookie Cooper, whose skin shone like india ink and whose fingernails were yellow. He had muscles. He fixed the chain on my bike when it broke, then walked me home through the woods the long way and gave me my first kiss. Bookie used to whisper in my ear. He had such a soft voice that I often had to stare at his lips in order to figure out what he was saying. He was the first boy that made me tingle. And he taught me the power of kissing—just how serious it can be. But Bookie got killed. He was crossing the street on his bicycle when an ambulance hit him. For months, I couldn’t believe it. I slept with that orange elephant he’d won for me at the state fair, so I would still feel close to him. I even walked by his house
and waited for him to come out, but another family had moved in, and this white woman with pink sponge rollers in her hair kept peeking through the curtains suspiciously. It took a long time for it to register that Bookie’s absence was permanent. But I can’t lie: I had to teach myself to forget him.
    There was Champagne, the college basketball star who held my hand and stroked my hair while he talked, and forever smelled like British Sterling. Even though I was just a junior in high school, he made me feel like a woman. After my senior prom, with my very first glass of rum and Coke exaggerating everything, he talked me into giving up my virginity, and I did it because I was tired of saying no and figured if I got pregnant at least I’d be out of high school by the time it was born. And it hurt. I was grateful when it was finally over, and couldn’t understand why everybody had made such a big deal about sex if this was supposed to be the thrill of a lifetime. I never did feel electric. But I didn’t care; I still wanted Champagne. Being wrapped inside his strong arms was warm enough for me. As a matter of fact, I used to lie beside him and dream about him. Play every sad, slow song by Aretha and Smokey Robinson I could get my hands on and dig my face in the pillow and cry. Which is how I knew I was in love. We agreed to get married once we both finished college and he was playing in the pros. But what happened? I won a music scholarship to Ohio State, and he went to a Big Ten university in Indiana and never wrote so much as a word, not to mention the fact that his fingers must’ve been stricken with arthritis, because he never called either.
    “To hell with Champagne,” is what I said when I met David, who was bowlegged, walked like Clint Eastwood, drove a Harley-Davidson, and boxed. He was so black he was purple, and I swear I could’ve eaten him alive. Especially after he lifted me up on top of
him and let me move any way I wanted to, as long as I wanted to. And I liked it. Loved it, really. He taught me that there were no limits to passion if you didn’t impose any. So every time I felt like doing it I would dial his number. Tell him I needed to see him. David’s body was my very first addiction. It was so cooperative. And he would take me for long motorcyle rides—in the rain, at night, in freezing