I'm Your Girl. J.J. Murray

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СКАЧАТЬ A black serial killer sniper is the narrator, he looks at life through his “little lens,” and I live alone on part of his personal battlefield.

      I’m going to pass on this one for now. I’ll probably skim it later, and I know I’m not the only book reviewer who skims books on occasion. So many books come out every year in the United States, something like 100,000 titles, and it’s difficult for reviewers to keep up. I officially reviewed 106 books last year in addition to “unofficially” reviewing 140 of my own choosing at Amazon.com, and I might have read half of the 106 all the way through.

      The title of the second book, Thicker Than Blood, by J. Johnson, doesn’t make me feel any safer, although when I open to the first chapter, I’m mildly intrigued:

      “They say that you men think about sex every seven seconds,” Jeanetta says, sipping her mega—Mai Tai during the happy hour at Bensons Bar and Grill after work.

      When’s the last time I went to a happy hour? Or even a restaurant that serves mixed drinks, for that matter? It has to be years. I doubt I’m missing much. But men think about sex every seven seconds? Who determines this stuff? Do I think about sex that often? Who has the time?

      I don’t answer right away because I’m looking at the cute woman sipping on some ice water sitting next to Jeanetta. She’s small with a cute face, zigzagged cornrows, little dimples, a shy smile, and very nice legs that are smooth and silky, with cut calves. She has small hands and the nicest brown eyes. And she’s wearing some cut-off jeans, you know, with all the strings hanging down from where she cut them, and a tight, plain white T-shirt that almost gets to the shorts, a tattoo of some kind edged around her belly button. She’s quite a package. I wish I were sitting where Jeanetta’s sitting—

      “Cute woman”? Hmm. That girl is a hoochie. When will authors realize that most of their female readers are nothing like the women in the books they write? When will authors realize that we do not aspire to be them? If other female readers are like me, they have some baggage, and the only time they have smooth and silky legs is just before a trip to the gynecologist’s. Cute Woman sounds like a trifling ho.

      I know, I’m just jealous.

      “Are you listening to me, Robert?”

      Oops. “Call me ‘Rob,’ Jeanetta, and I know that can’t be true.”

      Jeanetta, a fix-up date from Tony, a real estate buddy of mine, is bustin’ out all over in a beige dress with buttons that go all the way from her breasts to her thighs. The girl is thicker than thick, but she’s one of those sisters with an agenda, you know, like she has to save every man from himself or something. Too much make-up anyway, though I haven’t exactly been looking at her face. She must have triple Ds up in there.

      Mr. Johnson—at least I assume that a man wrote this—is obviously writing with his Johnson. Why is it the big women in men’s books (and some women’s books, too) have to have attitudes and agendas? Jeanetta sounds blessed, not cursed, and just to have some triple Ds for a couple hours might be nice to balance me out so I wouldn’t have to lean forward so much when I walk.

      “I bet it’s true,” Jeanetta says.

      “Just add it up,” I say, sipping my Coke. “That means men think about sex eight times a minute, right? That’s almost five hundred times an hour, over ten thousand times a day, close to four million times a year.” I was, after all, an accounting major before I went into real estate. “How would anything ever get done?”

      “Like anything ever gets done anyway,” Jeanetta says.

      Amen to that! Maybe nothing gets done because men are thinking about sex so much. So, whenever Congress has trouble passing a bill…I don’t want to think about that.

      The woman beside Jeanetta is quiet. I like that. She’s kind of like me, just taking life in, watching and thinking. Maybe she’s waiting on someone. Lucky guy.

      I’ll bet Cute Woman is a ho, and a pro ho at that, and Rob is about to hook up with her.

      “Okay,” I say, “let’s say a group of fellas are playing a pickup game of basketball. Don’t tell me all they’re thinking about is some booty while they’re ballin’.”

      Jeanetta blinks at me. “You just said ‘ballin’,’ right?”

      Jeanetta is obviously not a proper lady of color. Such language!

      The woman beside Jeanetta bites her lip and looks away. Cute. Definitely cute, and she’s eavesdropping on us. I had better not sound like a complete fool then.

      “I meant,” I say, “they don’t have time to be thinking about sex when they’re shooting hoops.” They’d better not be, especially if they’re playing tight defense on me.”

      “Yeah?” Jeanetta says. “Isn’t the object in basketball to put it in the hoop more than the other guy?” She takes a longer sip of her Mai Tai. “Sounds like they’re thinking about sex to me.”

      “That’s not what I’m saying—”

      “And what about football? ” Jeanetta says. “You take a ball from between some sweaty fat man’s legs, and if you hit the hole just right, you might score.”

      Damn. I never thought of it that way before.

      Neither have I. Yuck. I will not be watching any of the bowl games this year, not that I make time to look at TV. About all I do is dust off my TV.

      “And in baseball, you try to keep your balls in play so you can hit a home run and get to home plate.” Jeanetta nudges the woman next to her with her elbow. “All the sports men play are all about sex, right?”

      The woman turns to us. “Maybe,” she says in a cute voice. Everything about her is cute. “Sports can’t be all about sex.”

      What sport isn’t sexual? What sport puts most folks to sleep on a Sunday afternoon? I got it. “Golf isn’t that sexual,” I say.

      “Long skinny clubs, drivers, ball in the hole,” Jeanetta says.

      Hmm. Okay, what’s more boring than golf? “Chess, then,” I say.

      Jeanetta smirks. “A bunch of men trying to gang up on the queen.”

      Damn. Jeanetta is sharp as a tack. Smart and thick. I know this will be our only date.

      “Okay, enough with the sports analogies. I just know that I don’t think about sex that much.” I don’t know why I’m admitting that to them. I have to talk fast. “It isn’t because I don’t enjoy it.” Whenever there’s a blue moon. When was the last time? Was Clinton or a Bush president? Damn.

      I know this is false. Any man who’s this hard up has to remember his last time in glorious, graphic detail.

      All two minutes of it.

      And as for me…hmm. I don’t have a last time to remember, though that one time with Petie Whatshisname in the tenth grade…No. We didn’t. He did, but I didn’t. The boy didn’t even get his pants off. I thought he was having a seizure!

      And now I’ve depressed myself.

      “Don’t get me wrong. I just don’t СКАЧАТЬ