Boyfriend by Lisa Blaushild

BOMB 10 Fall 1984

Home of the Bill T. Jones / Arnie Zane Company


​David Craven 001

David Craven, In Fear of Glamourous Women, 1984. Courtesy of Siegel Contemporary Art and Sable Castelli Gallery.

I close my eyes and imagine his phone: long, black, cordless.

He says it doesn’t turn him off that mine is pink and attached to a wall in the kitchen.

I wait for him to call me. I know it’s him when I say “Hello” and there’s heavy breathing.

I’m in the living room, he says. Now I’m walking upstairs. Now I’m in the bedroom.

What would you like me to do to you? he whispers.

At the same time I can defrost the refrigerator, clean the oven, cut out coupons from the back of House & Garden.

You get me so hard, he says. Touch yourself.

I’m coming, he moans.

The sound of water running. A toilet flushes.

Then we each smoke a cigarette in silence.

If he falls asleep I slam the receiver several times against the dishwasher.

That was great, he says. How was it for you?

Sometimes he takes a drive in the country and calls me from his car.

He’s also called me from the men’s room at Area, a Quality Inn in Toledo, Ohio, and a phone booth at the corner of 45th Street and Eighth Avenue.

Why don’t we ever meet your boyfriend? friends ask me.

Once I thought I saw him on the street. He looked the other way. I ducked into a shop.

Four Stories by Roberta Allen
​Keiko Bonk 001
Related
Marcy by Domenick Ammirati

Around this time I became a frequent visitor to a sex-ad bulletin board. Real-life meetups were the focal point. 

Mary Gaitskill by Matthew Sharpe

The first thing of Mary Gaitskill’s I ever read was a short statement she made at the back of The Best American Short Stories, 1993 about her story “The Girl on the Plane,” in which a man tells a woman in the airplane seat next to his that he once participated in a gang rape.

William Tester’s ‘Head’ by David Ryan

William Tester’s new story collection Head reads like a loose thread you keep pulling from your shirt with the sinking sense you’ll never be able to fix what you’re undoing—all the while keenly aware that you cannot, for your life, stop unraveling.

Originally published in

BOMB 10, Fall 1984
Read the issue