"...and IIIIIII-ye-IIIIIIIII, think you need glasses..."

Thursday, February 26, 1993, 6:30pm
Renee's apartment

"What are your intentions with my daughter?" Murray asks, staring down at me through thick glasses. For a white-haired Jewish man, he's intimidating.

Instinctively, I glance at Renee, and she rolls her eyes.

Murray bursts out laughing and hugs me. "I'm just teasing you. I've heard a lot about you. You've been very good to my little girl, from what I've heard."

"I'm Debra, Renee's mother," a stubby, poufy-haired woman says. I shake her hand.

Murray throws his arm around my shoulders. "Steve, I'd like to buy you dinner."

"Thank you, Murray."

**********

10:05pm

The women have retired to the kitchen to make banana bread as Murray and I channel-surf.

"Are you using protection?" he asks, and the canned sitcom laughter of whatever show we are watching punctuates his question perfectly.

"Uh, ah, um..."

"I mean, I assume you're sleeping together; that's natural. It's what people do when they are dating," he shrugs. "You're having fun."

"Well, ah--"

There aren't too many things more uncomfortable than talking to some guy you just met about boning his little angel. I really wish that Renee would walk out of the kitchen and rescue me, but I'm sure she can't hear us.

Besides being uncomfortable, this is also a delicate situation: Murray does not know for sure that Renee and I are sleeping together, but if I gave him a yes or no answer, I would confirm it. And do sponges really count as protection anyway? It's basically a catcher's mitt for my jizzum; one wild pitch, and we're done for.

"Steve. Really, it's alright. I'm a big boy. I know that my daughter--"

"Mind your own business, dad," Renee calls from the kitchen; her and Debra shreik with laughter.

"Busted again," Murray laughs. "Seriously," he whispers, I just want to make sure you're being careful. You guys are just having fun, I know, so it would be a shame if--"

"I'm serious dad, cut it out!!"

At first, I was just glad the conversation was over. But the more I thought about it, the more troubled I was. What did he mean by, "you guys are just having fun"? He made it sound like we were just fucking for the hell of it, like there was no connection whatsoever. But there was.

Wasn't there?

Maybe Murray assumed that when Renee was ready to settle down, it would be with a Jew. Maybe he meant that she wasn't going to stay with me long-term.

Was I thinking about marrying Renee? No! But I wanted to take this to its logical conclusion. If the relationship failed, it failed--but I didn't want it to be over something so arbitrary.

Renee didn't strike me as the type who was dominated by her parents, and surely she was not arcane enough to restrict her life choices for the sake of perpetuating outdated dogma.

Was she?

She wasn't religious. She had never set foot in a temple for all the time I had known her. So why couldn't I shake this fear that Murray was exactly right?

There was no way I was bringing this up to Renee. What was I going to do, walk up to her and say, "Hey, were you planning on marrying me?" Sure, that would go over well. If she wasn't mentioning it to me, maybe she did think this was just a casual fling. So what kind of loser would I look like if I asked her about it?

**********

Thursday, March 18, 1993, 10:00am

"Steve, can you help me do a gig this Saturday?" my friend Dennis asks.

"A gig?"

"I know you haven't helped me in a long time, but I sprained my wrist and it's in a cast. I need you to pull records for me, help set up and break down, stuff like that."

Dennis and I were pulling down a few hundred bucks a week at one point DJ'ing at parties; we had even gotten a few wedding gigs, and were generating some buzz around town. But after I had started my internship the previous fall, I was too busy to continue, and Dennis carried on by himself.

"Sure, I guess I can do it. Same arrangement as usual?"

"Yeah, 70-30, right?"

"Fuck off," I laugh.

"Yeah, fifty-fifty Steve, just like always! It's the spring semi-formal, so the honies ought to be out in force."

**********

Saturday, March 20, 1993, 8:00pm
University "Spring Fling" semi-formal

The doors open, and a sea of liquor-craving undergrads sprint for the bar, drink tickets in hand, bumping and jostling one another for a better place in line.

Dennis and I preferred drunk partiers over sober ones; they were uninhibited, and they made it easy to get the party rolling. We exchange a knowing smile as the booze flows.

One sure-fire party song in 1993 was "She Drives Me Crazy" by the Fine Young Cannibals. Dennis spins it around 9:30 and, as always, the dance floor fills immediately. No sooner does Roland Gift begin his odd falsetto, than a tanned hottie approaches the DJ table.

Dennis' radar works better than mine; though his back is turned, and the music blares painfully loudly, he wheels around right away, as if he can smell her.

"Can you play a song for me?" she asks, and I devour her with my eyes, lingering on her slender neck and naked shoulders.

"Sure, which one?" I ask.

"Um, I don't know the name. It goes, '...don't hurt me, don't hurt me..."

She's talking about "What Is Love?" by Haddaway. But there's no way I'm telling her that; she's way too hot to let her get away quickly.

"Hmmm," I say pensively. "It rings a bell. Who sings it?"

"I don't know. You don't know it? It's like, 'what is love, baby don't hurt me...'"

"Ohh, that one! That's 'What Is Love' by Haddaway. Sure, I'll get that on for you! What's your name?"

"Kiersten."

"Okay, Kiersten, you got it."

I stare at her three-inch heels as she walks away. "Don't tell me. 'Shout!', right?" Dennis says.

"No, 'What Is Love?'"

"Oh yeah, of course," he laughs.

"This one's going out to the lovely Kiersten," I say, in my best polyester DJ voice, as Dennis spins the record. Kiersten and two other girls shreik and wave their arms as if riding a rollercoaster.

She's not with anyone tonight, or at least I don't think she is. These gigs were always overflowing with young hipsters, and I often found myself wishing I could go talk to them. For whatever reason, it never happened for me, but Dennis had hooked up a few times.

9:45. Kiersten returns to the DJ booth. She's heartbreakingly hot, all hips and boobs, with mouthwatering pink lipstick. "Can you play something slow? I want this guy to ask me to dance."

"So go ask him!" I say.

"A girl never asks. Play something slow!"

"How about Whitney Houston?"

"Perfect!"

I cue up "I Will Always Love You", and 30 guys with newly-found beer balls let their hands slip down over their dates' asses. Kiersten stands off to the side, eyes darting about the room as if looking for someone.

The song is less than half over when Kiersten approaches me again, moping.

"Why aren't you dancing?" I ask.

"He's dancing with someone else!"

"Where is he?"

She points to a pudgy, dark-skinned man dancing with a blonde, who looks halfway decent until she turns around and we notice that she's riddled with back fat.

"That's the girl he's dancing with?!"

"Mm-hmm," she nods.

I don't care how cool the guy is, he's just average-looking. Maybe below average. If he's got a girl like Kiersten sweating him, I should be able to nail her outright.

I think I'm going to try.

Is this fast enough for you, assholes?

Saturday, January 30, 1993, 1:30pm
33 Briarwood Drive, apartment 4

Most of you probably hear "take home exam" and think, "cakewalk". Obviously, you did not go to my grad school.

Dr. Glenn, my Organizational Behavior professor, is a brilliant man. But apparently, he does not believe we are truly learning anything unless we have carpal tunnel syndrome. One 15-page paper after another. Essay tests. Hour after hour of dry, scholarly lectures. And, worst of all, the dreaded take-home exams.

Taking an in-class test has benefits. The teacher knows that you have filled your brain with reams of information, and that one can only be so successful at regurgitating it. Forget a point here or there? It's to be expected. Take-home tests offer no such luxury.

Forget about copying the answers from a textbook: Dr. Glenn's tests call for numerous reference sources. It's not uncommon to need four books to answer one question, and if your response covers less than five pages, you fear you have forgotten something.

"How about if you work on #1 and I work on #2?" Renee asks, tapping her cheek with a pencil.

"So our answers will match? That'll go over well."

"We share the relevant material," she reasons, "but we write our own answers. Deal?"

"Relevant material?" I mock. "When did you turn into Dr. Fraser Crane?"

"If you make fun of me, I'm not helping you."

"I think it's time for a break," I say, rising from my chair.

"We just ate lunch, Steve!"

"I'm not hungry." I brush a handful of curls aside and kiss the side of her neck.

"Stee-eeve, we have a lot of work to do."

"It'll still be there in an hour."

"An hour? What are you planning on doing to me?"

"You'll find out."

She wheels around in her chair, eyebrow cocked. "You want to do it now?"

"I wanted to do it three days ago."

"You have bad timing," she says, but I can barely hear her. And I can tell by the restless wiggle of her butt and her breathy sigh that she's lying.

I've been to her house every night since Monday. On Thursday, we had The Talk, about birth control (she uses sponges) number of partners (she's had two), and history of diseases (both of us are clean). "Do you feel like you are ready to do that with me?" I asked, and was surprised at my directness.

"Yeah!" she said, and I went stiff. But all I got was a big kiss goodnight before I went home. And jerked off.

I came back on Friday, and nothing happened. But today seems promising.

She stands up, narrows her eyes and looks me up and down, then runs her fingertips across the back of my head. She opens her mouth to kiss me, and I know she can tell how hard I am when
our hips bump together.

"Go get in bed," she whispers, and heads for the bathroom.

I don't like being butt naked when a girl walks into the room. For me, it's better to have boxers on and leave something to her imagination.

She opens the door, and I catch a brief glimpse of her dainty triangle before she snaps the light off. I squint, and see her in shadowy profile, slipping her Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt over her head.

She flings herself on top of me as I frantically pull off my boxers. "Go slow," she coos, her breath hot against my cheek. "I'm really tight. Okay?"

"Okay," I pant.

She lifts her pelvis and rubs the tip of my cock against her, slipping it this way and that, as if to find the perfect angle. I have adjusted to the dark now, and I stare at her face as she stops moving and her eyelids slide closed. She presses against me, and her pussy spreads open as I penetrate her with agonizing slowness. She pauses with me halfway inside her and her eyes flutter open, her mouth ajar, her lips wet and shiny. Is she okay?

"Ohhh my God," she moans.

I slide my hand down her back and across her ass, pulling her harder against me, but it's unnecessary; she is riding me now, her pussy devouring and releasing my cock as I watch unblinkingly.

She is tight, amazingly tight, and I feel every millimeter of her insides as I fight to hold off the orgasm, the pleasure blaring in my head like an air raid siren.

The initial resistance melts and her thrusting grows faster, the wet sounds of our sex drowning out the faint squeak of the bed springs.

I grab her tiny, bouncing breasts in my hands, her hard nipples against my palms, and I am overwhelmed by the exquisite perfection of the moment, the intense euphoria. I shudder violently as the orgasm finally overtakes me, and I relax and let it.

She lays her cheek against my chest as my racing heart slows, and when I can finally breathe deeply again, she props herself up on her forearms and stares at me for a long time.

"I don't feel like studying any more today," she grins.

"Yeah, as long as I don't have to eat my foot again..."

Monday, January 25, 1993, 8:46pm
McKellum Hall, room 238
Organizational Behavior Seminar

She must see me staring at her.

The funny thing is, she's not what I would call traditionally hot. She's small, for one thing, barely five feet, with comic book-character eyes, a little too big for her face. And though curls can be sexy, hers aren't; her hair is coiled tightly, like the spring in my pen.

So why do I find myself swiveling around in my chair every two minutes?

She's Jewish. I don't know exactly how, but I can tell. It might be her nose; though it isn't the deformed beak you are imagining, it's definitely not the frail, girlish one you'd see on some southern chick at her debuttante ball.

It's too hot in the classroom, and the air is dry. She licks her lips, and right away I want to fuck her. Her mouth is small, her lips thick and pouty, jutting slightly from her face. Her teeth shine with flawless white, and suddenly there is no group decision making or benchmarking; there is only my racing pulse and the subtle line of sweat on my forehead.

"I'm gonna let you cut out a little early today," Jodi says. Thirty-two notebooks snap closed; backpacks zip and unzip.

She came to class late. That meant the parking lot outside the classroom would have been full, and she must have parked in the rear lot. She'd probably take the long way, out the front door and around the building; if I walk out the back door, I'll get there first, and our paths will cross.

I walk a narrow hallway and open a door marked "Fire Science Department". Immediately, I'm hit with the smell of burning plastic. Wispy blue smoke drifts from an open classroom door, and inside, two Asian men huddle over a table, talking animatedly in another language. I exit the building, and my lungs hungrily suck the fresh air, though it's only a few degrees above zero.

A single street light blares blindingly, illuminating the billowing clouds of my breath. The hairs in my nose begin to freeze, and I realize that today is not the day for idle chit-chat, as intrigued as I am by her. Besides, what if I was wrong? What if she didn't park in the back lot at all?

She rounds the corner of the building, in her puffy pink jacket and matching scarf, her curls spilling out from a white knit cap with a pom-pom on top.

I stare at my shoes. It's important not to look like I planned this; it needs to seem like an accident that we bumped into each other. My plan has worked perfectly--she's all by herself, not a classmate in sight. Now is my chance to talk to her without interference from anyone.

I look up as she steps onto the curb. "Hey, Renee!"

"Oh. Oh! Hi, Steve!" Her mouth spreads into a sweet smile. Somewhere between the classroom and here, she put on a face completely different than the one I saw a few minutes ago. She is no longer an overachieving grad student, just a girl looking to get home and curl up underneath a warm blanket. I can't blame her.

"Nice of Jodi to let us out of class early, huh? So we can get started scraping our windshields."

She laughs. "Tell me about it. I'm gonna have so much reading to do when I get my book."

"You don't have one?"

"Bookstore was out."

"Wanna borrow mine?"

"If I take yours, what will you do?"

"I'll just fail," I smile.

My stomach leaps. I'm no pro at this, but I know that giggle, that little bat of the eyes. I actually have a shot with this girl!

"Wanna meet me at the library tomorrow and copy the pages you need? I have some money on my copy card."

"Oh, I'll pay for the copies."

"Buy me a burger instead."

"Now?!"

I wasn't thinking now, but what the hell?

"Sure, you hungry?"

**********

Parthenon Diner
10:05pm

She's from Minneapolis. She graduated last spring and moved right on to grad school. "I enrolled before senioritis set in," she said.

"Good move."

I can't stop staring at her mouth, the way her lips glisten wetly as she lowers her coffee mug, and how her dainty tongue slides slowly across them. I shift uneasily in my seat, burning to jump across the table and slip my hands under her purple turtleneck.

"It's so nice talking to you, Steve. Thank you for the coffee. You made my whole day!"

She must know I want her. She must know how urgently I want to take her home and rip her clothes off while Barbara Walters cackles incessantly on a TV that neither one of us is watching. And she must feel the same way, too, or else why would she have come out with me? And why would she have made such a flirty comment?

I wasn't as confident then. I analyzed too much, tried to read into every little clue. I'm sure I looked horribly unsure of myself.

"So, do you... need a ride home?"

"Steve. I drove. Remember? I followed you here!"

"Oh yeah, that's right," I stammer, as my ears burn.

"Are we still on for that burger tomorrow?" she smiles.