How to Kill Your Boyfriend (in 10 Easy Steps) Read online

  “How did you finally get the nerve to do it?” Vera pressed her.

  Stacy paused, thinking about it. “…When I was about twelve, I had this huge fight with my best friend. She thought Harold Turley was the cutest boy in school and I thought Anthony Rivers was the cutest. We started yelling at one another, with me screaming ‘Anthony Rivers is the cutest!’ and her yelling ‘No, Harold Turley!’ We were screaming at the top of our voices, and then the next thing I knew, I had punched her in the face—knocked her out cold.

  “When I was debating with myself over if I should kill him or not, it was as if there were two screaming voices inside of me: one screaming ‘Do it!’ and the other screaming, ‘Don’t!’ The voices were blaring in my head, driving me crazy, and the next thing I knew, I screamed out and stabbed my boyfriend in the chest. After I had done it, his body convulsed. I pulled out the ice pick and ran out of the bedroom. I threw up then and collapsed on the ground. I noticed the time on the VCR clock as I lay on the ground in a daze; an hour and six minutes later, my boyfriend came out of the bedroom and asked me what was going on.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him that everything was fine, and that he should go to sleep on the couch; afterwards, I went to clean the bedroom.”

  Vera nodded numbly. “…And then you decided to kill him today and show me?”

  “I was thinking about it all week—about contacting you. I listened to your show for the first time on Monday, after we got back from Vermont. It was something to do late at night, since I couldn’t sleep anyway. There was something about you—some connection…I found that listening to you helped me to feel better somehow. …I followed you home from work on Wednesday, but I knew that I really didn’t have anything to show you. If I had just come up to you and told you that I thought my boyfriend couldn’t die, then you would think I was crazy. I knew that I’d have to show you the body coming back to life. That also meant that I’d have to see the body come back to life again, to make sure. So, in a way, you helped me to do it that second time.”

  Vera was stunned, not only by the last part, but by all of it. “…So, you’ve killed him three times so far,” she said, still struggling to digest that impossible fact.

  “Yes,” Stacy answered her. “Now that you’ve seen for yourself, we can figure out more of the details.”

  “Details like what?”

  “For instance, I figured out that he comes back to life exactly an hour and six minutes after I kill him.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, it’s like clockwork. I had guessed at it after the second time, but I proved it tonight.”

  “That’s why you were doing that countdown?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is this all possible?” Vera asked again.

  “Anything is possible now, Vera—don’t you see that? There are loopholes in reality—we’ve stumbled upon one of them.”

  “You don’t care how these ‘loopholes’ exist?”

  “I don’t know. What I’m saying is that we may not have the brainpower to figure it out. Think of it this way: how many cavemen could have figured out what the sun really was? As the first human beings advanced, all they could content themselves with was the knowledge that the sun existed—that it rose at specific times of the day and set at specific times. After thousands of years of advancement, those one-time cavemen could use the placement of the sun to set up calendars and predict the seasons. You and I are still at the early caveman stage, Vera. All we can do for now is acknowledge basic facts.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “We try to find more loopholes in reality.” And then, looking at Vera with a smile, “Do you think you’re up to it?”

  “Yes,” Vera said without hesitation.

  “Good,” Stacy said, pleased. “You should spend the night at my place—so that you can observe my boyfriend when he wakes up in the morning.” At that, she started up the van, and they drove off. Vera nodded her head and sat back in her seat, knowing that nothing would ever be the same again.

  They drove along in silence for about two minutes. Stacy decided to put on the radio, but the reception was horrible, so she turned it off.

  “Tell me a story, Vera,” she said while they were waiting for a red light to change.

  “What?”

  “Tell me a story to pass the time.”

  “Like what?”

  “Something totally insane,” Stacy said with a smile. “Show me how imaginative you are.”

  “I’m not too imaginative right now. I’m still trying to digest what just happened.”

  “Okay, then I’ll tell you a story. I’m thinking about writing a novel.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Want to hear it?”

  “Okay,” she said with a shrug: she was still too dazed to care one way or another.

  “Then, sit back and let me tell you a story, my friend,” Stacy started with a kind of self-mocking fanfare. “…So, Mr. and Mrs. X were nestling into bed after a long day at work. They were lying in the classic ‘spooning’ position: the wife was behind the husband, and was holding him around the waist. He had just showered, and had a good scent. She inhaled deeply and smiled. She realized that she was aroused. She breathed deeply again. ‘You smell good, baby,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘…Wha?’ he mumbled sleepily. ‘You smell good,’ she said again, holding him tighter. He groaned noncommittally and went back to sleep. Her face soured, and she sighed angrily. ‘Jimmy!’ she screamed into his ear. He jumped, then swung around, glaring at her. He said: ‘Why the hell did you scream in my ear?’ Her sour expression had softened, and she was smiling again. She hugged him now, hoping to pacify him. ‘I’m in the mood, baby,’ she purred. He grimaced and turned back around, nestling into bed again, ‘The mood for what?’ he said evasively. She caressed his arm: ‘Let’s make love, baby,’ she said. He groaned. She screamed, ‘C’mon, Jimmy—it’s been weeks since you touched me.’ He countered: ‘I’m touching you now, aren’t I?’ ‘You know what I mean. I can’t even remember the last time we made love. Let’s do it, baby,’ she purred again. He groaned again, his voice muffled by the pillow: ‘I’m tired,’ he said at last. As an afterthought, he added, ‘Let’s do it tomorrow.’ ‘That’s what you always say!’ she screamed, frustrated. ‘No, I don’t.’ ‘Yes, you do—or you tell me we’ll do it later, and then, when I turn around, you’re fast asleep. Don’t you find me attractive anymore?’ ‘Of course I do—I’m just tired, that’s all.’ ‘You’re too tired to make love to your wife?’ ‘Yes,’ he said, flatly. She gasped, sitting up in bed. ‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing!’ she said, outraged. He rose from the pillow and looked at her: ‘You can’t believe that I’m tired, after I come home from working a double shift?’ ‘You’re acting as though I’m asking you to run a marathon. You’re getting lazy in your old age.’ ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he said, growing heated. He continued: ‘All you have to do is lie there on your goddamn back and spread your legs. I have to do all the work! You’re lazier than I am! Every time I ask you to get on top, you stop after thirty seconds, saying you’re tired, so what the hell are you trying to say?’ She was a little stung by that; she whined: ‘…You know I can only come when you’re on top.’ ‘That has nothing to do with it,” he said, sensing that he had her on the defensive. “You just like sitting back and letting me do all the work.’ ‘That’s the benefit of having a pussy,’ she said, but there was a smile on her face now. She went on, ‘If God had meant for me to work during sex, He would have given me a dick.’ She snickered here; despite his attempt to stay angry with her, he shook his head and smiled. Seeing him soften, she caressed his shoulder again, and he sighed, saying, ‘Okay, since you’ve ruined my good sleep anyway, we may as well get this over with.’ ‘Don’t pretend that you ain’t horny, too,’ she said with a laugh, feeling the bulge in his shorts.

  “Despite Mr. X’s complaints about being tired, they went at it for a
bout forty-five minutes, until Mrs. X was begging him to come, so that she could go to sleep. He laughed out. In the morning, he woke up feeling refreshed and aroused. He nudged his wife with his elbow a few times, until she jumped and raised her head off the pillow. She squinted at him for a few seconds, before resting her head on the pillow again. He smiled. ‘Don’t pretend that you’re asleep.’ She smiled, but kept her eyes closed: ‘What the hell do you want?’ ‘I want some—what the hell do you think?’ She chuckled, saying, ‘You ain’t tired?’ ‘You know I’m a morning person,’ he replied. She laughed out, then reached down to feel his crotch, to see if he was aroused…but when she did, she frowned and opened her eyes. They were both naked under the covers. She looked at him confusedly; he, in turn, was looking down at her hand, which was still palming his crotch. ‘What the hell…!’ they whispered in unison. They threw off the covers. First, they both stared at his crotch; and then, with the same stunned expressions on their faces, they looked down at her crotch. She took hold of the thing that was now between her legs, squeezing it in disbelief. Mr. X, in turn, brought his hand to his crotch, running his finger across the moist slit. When they had both verified what was there, they looked at one another with a kind of wide-eyed horror. Somehow, Mrs. X had her husband’s penis; Mr. X had his wife’s vagina. ‘What happened!’ he said hoarsely. She was still holding his dick. The sight of it between her legs was disturbing. It was fully erect. She stroked it a few times, as if amazed. Her face had a far-off, meditative expression. Somehow, watching her made a sense of panic rise in him. He screamed: ‘Would you stop stroking my goddamn dick!’ She jumped, as if she had forgotten about him. She shook her head, as if freeing herself from a spell. ‘I’m sorry—it’s just that I’ve always wondered how it would feel.’ She looked down at the thing in her hand, squeezing it again. She was sitting there with her legs spread, whereas he had his legs clamped shut, as if ashamed. She was holding his penis possessively, and he had to resist the impulse to wrench her hands off. When they made eye contact again, he realized that she was watching him with an odd gleam in her eyes. It startled him, and he cringed, saying, ‘What the hell are you looking at me like that for?’ She had gone back to stroking his dick. There was a seductive smile on her lips now: ‘Haven’t you ever wondered how I felt when you were inside of me?’ ‘No!’ he screamed, ‘—I don’t want anything inside of me! I want my dick back!’ She moved closer to him, and he looked at her with an increasing sense of panic. She nestled against him, still stroking his penis. He shuddered, blurting out, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ ‘Let’s make love, baby,’ she purred then. ‘Hell no!’ he said with a full-blown case of panic. ‘C’mon, baby, I saw how wet you were when I touched your pussy before.’ ‘It’s not my pussy! It’s your pussy, and that’s my dick!’ ‘Calm down, baby,’ she said, caressing his shoulder again. He was out of breath and trembling. She smiled again, and held him close: ‘Let’s make the best out of it, baby. I know you’re ready,’ she purred to him seductively. As she said these last words, she reached down and rubbed his clit; despite himself, he gasped at the pleasure. ‘C’mon, baby,’ she was saying now, nestling against him again, ‘I know how to make you feel good. I know all the spots to touch.’ She was lowering him to the bed now; his heart was thumping in his chest. He was terrified, and yet, another side of him was ready, as she had said before. And then, his wife was inside of him. The sensation was bewildering and wondrous. He felt things that he could never have imagined. He tried to resist it, but he moaned. He felt crazy inside—undone. His wife was grinding her hips against his. She was banging against him so hard that his pelvic bone hurt. And he felt her all the way inside of him. He felt somehow complete—as if his wife were adding some essential thing to him. Just as he was about to surrender to all these new sensations, he felt his wife’s body stiffen. She cried out as the pleasure seized her, and then the husband felt her hot semen inside of him, filling him. His wife collapsed on top of him, her body already sweaty. He held her; he felt her penis shrinking inside of him. He listened to her breathing as it slowed. He tried not to think. This was all so surreal. Was this really happening? His wife was asleep. Her full weight was on top of him. His mind was jumping about so chaotically that he had to consciously ask himself what he was thinking. …His wife had just screwed him with his own penis. He had her vagina…he had been enjoying the sex. This last part was shameful somehow. And yet, even now, he was eager for more. He felt cheated, in fact. He looked down at her now, just as she began to snore. He frowned. She had had her pleasure, and now she was snoring. What about his needs? he thought, outraged. ‘Sweetheart,’ he called to his wife now. She continued to doze. ‘Sweetheart!’ he screamed, and she jumped, looking up at him confusedly. ‘…Wha?’ she said, fighting to keep her eyes open. ‘I’m still ready, baby.’ ‘Wha?’ she said again, going back to sleep. ‘Let’s do it again,’ he said. She groaned, then she rolled off him and lay on her side, with her back to him; she began to doze again. He shook her, suddenly outraged: ‘Hell, nah!” he said; and then: ‘You were talking all that shit last night. Now you’ve got the dick, so it’s your turn to service me!’ She looked back at him pleadingly, her eyes still fighting to remain open: “But I’m tired, baby,’ she groaned, ‘—can’t we do it later?’

  When the story ended, Vera was staring at her with a disturbed expression on her face. “…That’s how it ends?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Stacy said, smiling proudly.

  “What’s the meaning of all that?”

  Stacy laughed out, as if Vera had missed the point. “There was no meaning to it. A good story should never have any meaning. A good story should always leave you thinking, ‘What the hell was that about?’”

  “I see,” Vera said, uneasily.

  They drove along in silence for about half a minute.

  They had driven to the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. The Williamsburg Bridge was coming up on their left; Stacy made a right-hand turn on Broadway, so that they were soon driving beneath the elevated M Train. The blocks were lined with the usual New York City businesses: Chinese food restaurants, dry cleaners, retail clothing store, grocery store… As it was late at night, there were not that many people outside; but as it was New York City, there were always pockets of people.

  “How much farther is it?” Vera asked now.

  “Not far.”

  Vera suddenly remembered the boyfriend: “You think your boyfriend will be okay back there? What if he runs out of air or something?”

  “Don’t worry about it: if he dies, he’ll come back to life later.” Her tone was so matter-of-fact that it did not even seem morbid. She was pulling the van over now. She stopped in front of a club: young, hip-looking people were milling about outside; a monstrous bouncer was frowning at everyone with his arms folded, so that his arms seemed like gigantic pythons squeezing the life from him. Stacy had pulled into a cordoned off section right in front of the club, and Vera looked over at the bouncer anxiously, in case he rushed over and squashed their heads between his biceps. However, Stacy got out of the van at that moment, and waved at the bouncer. To Vera’s amazement, the man waved back and smiled. Seeing that it was safe, Vera joined Stacy outside. Stacy went to walk past her, and up to the club.

  “You’re going to leave your boyfriend back there?” Vera whispered.

  “Let’s let him sleep. In the morning I’ll sneak down and take off my clothes, so he’ll think we slept there all night.”

  Vera nodded anxiously. Stacy took her arm again—not as commandingly and gruffly as before, but in order to guide her through all the milling twenty-somethings. Some of them waved at Stacy. She gave them her trademark smile. Vera glanced back at the van—somehow, it still did not seem right to leave the boyfriend there.

  When Stacy said hello to the bouncer, he moved his massive bulk to the side for them to pass. There was a wall of sound when they entered. Vera could feel the drum beat in her chest, as if some invisible beast were trying to p
erform CPR on her. It made her feel as though her insides were liquefying. On top of that, colored strobe lights were flashing in the darkness, disorienting her at the same time that they highlighted the intertwined and/or gyrating bodies of all the young people. Vera felt out of place, but Stacy was still by her side, guiding her through the sea of lustful youth. Some of the young people bumped into Vera during their sexualized exertions; she had the impulse to apologize, but they didn’t even notice her. Besides, the music was so loud that it was impossible to talk to anyone anyway. Stacy tugged at her arm again: Vera had been looking around as if lost. They walked on; a beautiful young woman came up to Stacy and yelled something at her. Stacy smiled and nodded, even though Vera was still convinced that it was impossible for her to have heard anything. Just when Vera felt herself on the verge of trying to make a break for it, Stacy nodded to another guard, who then opened a door for them. Immediately, they were in a gloomy staircase. The music was not as thunderous. Vera felt relieved somehow. The young people in the club had filled her with the same unidentifiable sense of frustration and dread she had felt when Stacy first accosted her on the street. There was something inescapable and threatening about their abundant youth—something that terrified her. She took a deep breath; when she looked over, Stacy was smiling at her.

  “What are we doing here?” Vera asked then.

  “I live upstairs. Come on,” she said as she began to walk up the staircase. Vera suddenly realized that she had left her bag in the van. The ice cream was probably all melted by now anyway. She sighed and began to follow Stacy; she watched the younger woman’s shapely behind with envy. As she looked at Stacy, Vera finally admitted to herself that Stacy was everything that she pretended to be. Stacy was outgoing and rabidly sexual; Stacy was carefree and self-confident, and powerful. Before she met Stacy, all she had wanted to do was lie in bed and vegetate. Now, she knew that she would not be able to sleep, even if she wanted to. There was so much to do—so much to discover. She felt as though she could spend a lifetime exploring the things Stacy had shown her. At the same time, she knew that she had to get some rest and recoup her faculties, or whatever she discovered in the next few hours and days would destroy her. Within herself, she sensed the budding signs of an addiction—an obsession. …And yet, she saw no other course of action but to continue.