The Same River Twice Read Online Free Page B

explained the complex labyrinth of her plumbing. From its nook she retrieved her clitoris and demonstrated the proper action for maximum pleasure. She counseled me on the rising barometer of orgasm and cued me to a steady drilling until the dam broke. I received a cursory lecture on the soft crest where buttock met leg, the inner thigh, and lastly the anus. I balked, believing this too advanced. With time, she assured me, even that arena would be old hat.
    Two hours later I was a sweaty scholar eager to matriculate. Jahi rolled on her back and aimed her heels at the ceiling while I wriggled down the graduation aisle. Propping my weight on knees and elbows allowed her some maneuvering room. The prescribed circular motion reminded me of sharpening a knife on an oily whetstone: apply pressure on the upstroke and ease away, alternating sides for a balanced edge.
    To forestall ejaculation, she had suggested I concentrate on baseball. I thought about Cincinnati’s Big Red Machine, squirmed my hips correctly, and remembered how the manager always hopped over the sprinkled white baseline to avoid bad luck. The summer I turned twelve, VISTA bused a load of hill boys to Crosley Field for a game. In the parking lot I was astounded to see a black kid, the first I’d ever seen. He was my size and wore clothes identical to mine—jeans and T-shirt. I stared at him so hard that I walked into a streetlight, which didn’t exist in the hills either. The VISTA man made me sit beside him the whole game.
    Suddenly Jahi was squirming like an epileptic, thrashing her legs and ripping my back. Convinced I’d made a mistake, I slowed the rhythm to a bullpen warm-up. The manager’s hand signals blurred to gibberish and she began screaming.
    â€œFuck me, you white motherfucker!”
    Appalled, I pistoned my hips until the dugout began moving across the floor. I went to my fastball right down the old piperino. Hum, baby, hum. I fiddled and diddled, kicked and delivered.
    â€œGive it to me,” she grunted.
    â€œI am, I am!”
    â€œTalk dirty.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œTalk dirty!”
    â€œWell, hell,” I said. “You’re a horse’s ass.”
    She clicked into automatic pilot, writhing and moaning, cursing and shrieking. “You like this!” she bellowed. “You like fucking me!”
    I loosened my tongue for locker room talk. “Batter up, batter down, who’s that monkey on the mound?”
    â€œI’m coming!”
    â€œShe’s coming around third. Here’s the throw. It’s in the dirt, safe at home!”
    My body twitched, heat surging from my feet and skull to join at the crotch and erupt. The fans shrieked my name. They were leaping from the stands, peeling the artificial turf, ripping bases out of the ground. Pooled sweat like celebration champagne swirled down my side as I rolled over.
    â€œThat was great, Jahi!”
    â€œYeah, you’re a natural.”
    She gave me a postgame pep talk on how to talk dirty in bed. I nodded and thanked her and she sent me out for pizza, her scent covering me like infield dust. I relived the game in my mind, conjuring instant replays of the best parts.
    During the next few weeks, Jahi commandeered my urban safari to Coney Island, Times Square, Radio City, and a hundred bars in between. On the Staten Island Ferry she climbed over the railing to dangle by her arms. The murky water whirlpooled below, filled with plastic tampon tubes and toxic fish, Jahi grinned at me and kicked the side of the boat.
    â€œDon’t jump,” she yelled. “Hang on, Chris. Hang on!”
    After the crew hauled her up, she began hurling life preservers overboard. “I can’t swim,” she explained. “I have to save myself.”
    The angry captain assigned us a guard, whom Jahi charmed through subtle exposure of her chest. He leaned to the port for a glimpse down her shirt. The boat rocked in the wake of a tug and