that other guy and flipped out like that. It turned into a big joke, and Johnny knew that Marissa couldn’t wait to tell her friends about it; he figured she’d probably blog about it, too. This was yet another example of how golden Johnny was, how he could do no wrong. Something that could’ve been a disaster and ruined his plans had turned into something that had scored more points with Marissa, bringing them even closer together.
Johnny was hoping that Marissa would invite him home with her tonight, but again she wanted to take the subway home alone. He insisted on going with her because it was past midnight and “you never know what kind of maniacs are on the subways at this time of night.” She agreed, but when he was walking her back to her house, she was acting uncomfortable, not talking very much, and when they got to her house she barely kissed him good- bye and rushed inside. He had no idea what the hell was going on. He knew she was into him- that was obvious- so there had to be some reason she wasn’t inviting him in. It wasn’t like she’d never taken a guy home with her before. She’d talked about a few guys she’d had over to her house since graduating from college, including that skinny little dork Darren. Johnny wanted to ask her if something was wrong, but he figured it was better if she brought it up herself. He didn’t want to push too hard and blow all of his plans.
The next day, Thursday, Johnny called Marissa in the morning and asked her if she wanted to meet him for lunch in Brooklyn. She said she’d love to- not exactly a surprise- and he met her outside the Smith- Ninth Street subway station and rode the bus with her to Red Hook, where they went to some trendy coffee bar where Johnny had seen a lot of artsy types go. They talked for a while, holding hands the whole time, and then he took her back to his place.
He’d been working hard to try to make his studio apartment look like a place where an artist would live. He’d picked up some more paintings from thrift shops and, a couple of days ago, had bought four paintings of bowls of fruit from some guy on Craigslist who lived about ten blocks away. He’d done a few more of his own paintings, too, in the Jackson Pollock style, and he thought they were at least as good as that shit in the Met.
On the way over to his place he gave her some BS about how “nervous” he was about her seeing “his work.” She told him how silly he was acting and said she was sure his paintings were amazing.
In the apartment, he watched her reaction closely as she looked around. He could tell she was seriously impressed.
“Wow,” she said. “You really have a lot of range, don’t you?”
“Thanks,” he said.
“You use oils and acrylics, huh?”
He had no idea what he was talking about, but he said, “Yeah, I like to do a lot of everything. I mean, I don’t like to limit myself. I want to blow the whole thing wide open.”
Wasn’t that the line in Pollock? Eh, something like that.
Admiring the paintings he’d bought on Craigslist, Marissa said, “Do you do your portraits from real life or photographs?”
“Real life,” he said.
“Wow,” she said. “Impressive.”
She turned toward the wall where he’d hung up a couple of his own paintings and said, “So you’re into modern and abstract, too, huh?”
“Yeah,” he said. “You see the Pollock influence, right?”
Influence. He was on a roll, all right.
“They’re very Pollockesque,” she said. “You and Pollock have a very similar controlled freedom in your styles. I love the use of gray- very Jasper Johns. I also see the homage to Picasso in your use of blue.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I was going for,” he said. “Johns and Picasso. Yeah, I’m so glad you noticed that.”
She continued to admire the paintings while he was thinking about how this whole art gig was so perfect for him. It was all about bullshitting, and nobody could bullshit better than Johnny Long.
When the love fest for his artwork ended, he cracked open a couple of Heinekens and sat with her on the couch.
A few minutes later, she was snuggled close, wrapping her leg over his legs, saying, “I’d love to watch you work sometime.”
“That would be great,” he said, “but nobody’s ever watched me before. I might get nervous, you know?”
“You don’t have to get nervous around me,” she said, and she put her beer on the coffee table. She kissed him, rubbing his chest with one hand, then said, “Maybe I can… help you.”
“What kind of help do you have in mind?” he asked, playing along.
“Maybe some of this,” she said, kissing his lips. “Or this.” She kissed his neck. After a while, she moved one hand over his crotch, then unsnapped his jeans and started to reach inside.
Naturally he was ready for her, but he shifted back a little and said, “I think we should wait.”
“Wait for what?” she gasped, wanting him so badly.
“Until we get to know each other better.” It was so hard to deliver these lines with a straight face. “I mean, we’ve only known each other for less than a week.”
“So you’ve never slept with somebody you’ve known less than a week?”
Only about four hundred and fifty before you, baby.
“But this feels… different,” he said. “It feels… special.”
She smiled, blushing. “You really mean that?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Why? Doesn’t it feel special to you?”
“It feels very special to me,” she said. “I’m just not used to hearing guys say things like that to me. I’m used to guys trying to get into my pants.”
“I’m not most guys,” he said.
“You’re definitely not most guys,” she said.
They kissed for a while longer. He was glad, because if he’d had to talk right then, not laughing would’ve been impossible.
When he was sure he’d composed himself he said, “I guess I also feel a little uncomfortable.”
“Uncomfortable about what?” she asked.
“Well, you’re living at home with your parents. I feel like I should meet them first before we… you know.”
That was the way- make out like he was too shy to say “have sex.” That was him all right, Shy Johnny.
Marissa moved her leg off of him and shifted away a little and suddenly seemed upset. Johnny hoped he hadn’t taken this playing- hard- to- get routine too far.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “It’s not you, it’s just… I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
Johnny held her hand, squeezing it tightly to show how much he cared, then said, “I’m gonna have to meet them eventually, right? If my parents didn’t live so far away I would’ve already brought you to meet them.” The other night he’d told her his parents lived in San Diego.
“It’s just really complicated,” she said. “God, I wish I wasn’t living at home. It’s just so hard, especially with my father and his mood swings.”
“Mood swings?”
“Not ‘mood swings,’ mood swings. I mean, he’s not manic- depressive. But one day he’s aloof, in his own world, and the next day he wants to be this involved father. Suddenly he has all these rules- I can’t drink in the house, even a glass of wine, and he made me throw out my pot even though I barely smoked at home. Then I came home the other day from the museum and my freaking bong was gone- it was handmade, from Guatemala, and he threw it in the garbage. Oh, and I have to let him know when I’m coming home at night, the exact time, like I’m a teenager again. He knows I’m dating you, so the other night he made this big stink about how I can’t bring you up to my room and you can’t stay over or anything until he meets you.”
“So let me meet him,” Johnny said. “What’s the problem?”
She had that concerned look again. “There’s something I haven’t told you,” she said.
He thought, Uh- oh, VD. Not that this really bothered him. He’d had crabs before, and he’d knocked out a case of gonorrhea last year. VD was part of the job when you wanted to be the next Casanova.
“I mean, you probably heard about it on the news,” she continued,“but maybe you didn’t make the
