Free Unsoul'd by Barry Lyga Page B

thoughts of my ex-girlfriend was just too much to handle. What was that even called? I don't think the Greeks had a tragedy for it.
    "Dad, I'm not going to talk to you about seeing my girlfriend naked."
    "Who asked you about that?" Dad roared, offended. "What kind of pervert do you think I am? She's not your girlfriend anymore. There's nothing wrong with talking about that . It's what men do. It's not like I'm asking about Amanda."
    "Manda, Dad. And no, it's not what men do. Men do not describe their ex-girlfriends' bodies to their fathers so that their fathers can--" I couldn't believe I had to say it "--use them for wank-fodder."
    "I don't know when you became such a Victorian," Dad complained. "You must get it from your mother."
    "I must."
    "Did you see the Canucks game?"
    I had never in my entire life watched a professional hockey game. No, wait, I lie: I watched a game with my father one time when I was ten. He got us tickets to a Bruins game and we went together. It was supposed to be a bonding experience. I hated every last instant of it. Except there was one moment when a player's blood actually bounced on the ice. Apparently something to do with the temperature differential between freshly-shed blood and the cold rink surface. That image stuck in my head and I used it in my second book, where someone's hopes and fears are described as "bouncing in her chest like blood on hockey ice."
    I confess to really liking that simile, as well as to being vaguely disappointed that no one ever points it out to me.
    Other than that, I had never watched hockey and had absolutely no interest in it.
    Which didn't stop my dad from asking -- every single time we spoke -- if I'd watched this game or another. I had learned from long, tortured experience that my answer was immaterial. If I lied and said I'd watched it, he would want to discuss it. And if -- as at that moment -- I said I hadn't seen it, he would...
    "Oh, well, then let me catch you up..." And proceeded to spend the next infinity reliving the game for me, speaking of players and cities and teams and rules of which I had not the slightest understanding or interest, boring me to the point that I almost asked him to talk about jerking off to Fiona again. He finally wrapped up, saying, "...well, I guess I'll let you go now."
    "OK, Dad."
    "It's almost time for the news, and I have a special little bottle of something new waiting for the new anchorwoman."
    "That's great, Dad. We'll talk again soon."
    He hung up and I went into the bathroom to wash my face, wishing that I could somehow scrub all the way down to my brain, down to my soul (or whatever was in its place now).
    Manda came by unannounced, a rarity in our relationship, but somehow -- despite the brain-bashing Dad had given me -- I was ready and hard for her, in fine form bed-wise.
    I was thinking of Gym Girl the whole time.
    Strange, I noticed in the afterglow, that I didn't feel guilty about it this time.
    Manda mumbled sleepily and turned on her side. I stared at the ceiling for what couldn't have been more than a couple of seconds, considering my uncharacteristic lack of self-flagellation before dropping off into a blissful, perfect sleep.

Wherein I Make the Devil Happy
    Never one for superstition -- my dalliances with the devil notwithstanding -- I still found myself the next morning in a state of steady sidewalk crack avoidance, lest I break my mother's back. Put more simply: I tried to remember everything I'd done the previous day so that I could replicate the day and -- hopefully -- the concomitant burst of literary fecundity.
    Manda woke up before me, as usual, showering and sneaking out of the apartment before I'd managed to rouse myself. I lay awake in bed alone with a useless hard-on. Sometimes she stayed for a bout of morning glory, other times not. That day: not.
    Which was fine by me. I had not begun the previous day inside Manda, so I would not start out this one that way, either. I crawled out of bed,