Ending the drought

June 27, 2003 (continued)
10:05pm

I have not had sex for a good two months, and the constant horniness is annoying.

Sure, I jerk off twice a day, and you might think one orgasm is just as good as another. But when a girl gets me off, it means she thought enough of me to strip naked in front of me, to kiss me deeply and hug me with her legs; it means she gave a shit about me, even if just for an hour, and it was important to her to satisfy me. No matter what anyone tells you, that is a powerful feeling--certainly more powerful than rubbing your cock until your hand blisters.

I laugh when guys talk about how they "can't go without it", as if they can get laid whenever they want to. Unless your name is George Clooney, you go through cycles where you can't miss, and others where you couldn't get laid in a whorehouse. No matter what some men say, all of us must endure our share of lonely nights with our dicks standing at attention. Luckily for me, my latest drought might just be over soon.

I knock on the glass door to the pool. Michelle stops and smiles up at me, two wet towels in her hand.

"You're late!" she smiles, opening the door for me.

"I got lost," I say, winking.

"You did? Ohhh, you're kidding me again! I never know when to believe you!"

She walks to the edge of the pool and peels off her Team USA shirt, revealing a tiny bikini top.

I didn't expect her to be so curvy. She struck me as the lean, athletic type when I saw her earlier, but now that she has stood up and turned around, I can see that I was deliciously wrong.

"You comin' in?" she says, and I barely hear her over the pulse pounding in my ears. I'm trying not to stare at her succulent ass, but doing a bad job.

"Yeah!" I reply, finally.

The pool area is completely dark --"So no one sees us," Michelle says--except for the underwater lights, which cast a warm glow around us as we swim.

"So how old are you? And where are you from?" she asks, and it dawns on me that I just met this girl today.

Her boyfriend graduated in May, and asked her to move back to Minnesota with him. She broke up with him instead.

"I'm only 19," she reasoned. "I mean, he was my college boyfriend. It wasn't like I was going to marry him or something." Her voice does not waver, but her eyes plead for me to agree.

If the guy was lame enough to ask some 19-year-old chick to move across the country with him, then I'm sure he cried like a bitch when she said no. He made her feel guilty, though they both knew it was the right choice. This is good news for me: It's a lot easier seducing a girl who is too young to be jaded.

"You did the right thing. You need to live your life. You both do! What was he, 22?"

She wants to know if I have a girlfriend, and if I've ever been engaged or married. I tell her about how Angie agreed to marry me, then unceremoniously ceased all communication, without so much as a "Fuck off and die". I love telling that story. It never hurts to look like an innocent victim.

It's 10:30. She's been working all night, and now she's swimming. Pretty soon, fatigue will set in and all she'll want to do is sleep. Time to make something happen.

You can't be too aggressive with a young girl. I swim to the steps and sit on the second one, looking over at her. "C'mere," I smile.

She sits next to me and leans her head on my shoulder. "I've never had a one-night stand before," she says, matter-of-factly.

My heart gallops. If there was any doubt that she wanted to fuck, it's gone now. And I haven't even kissed her yet.

Now that I'm taking a girl to my hotel room, the last thing I want is to run into my brother in the hallway. He and I would start talking, she'd suddenly feel dirty as hell, and next thing you know, she'd be high-tailing it down the stairs.

Chris's room is right next to mine. Luckily, I'm at the end of a hallway, so if we take the right stairway, we'll have no chance to run into Chris--unless something crazy happens, like him deciding to walk downstairs at the same time we're walking up.

We're halfway up the stairs when the door opens, and immediately I recognize the tattered shorts and huarache sandals.

Yep, Chris.

I open my mouth to say something, then realize that Michelle doesn't know Chris from Adam. If I keep silent, I might just get away with murder here! That is, if Chris knows enough to do the same...

He looks at Michelle, then back at me, then at her again. Our eyes meet briefly and then he is past us, covering his mouth with his hand.

We reach the room. "I want you to use a condom," she says, before the door is even closed all the way. Luckily, I have one in my laptop case, for just such emergencies.

You might think that not getting any for a long time would give me quick-squirt syndrome, but it's just the opposite. It takes me a while to get going, like a car that has not been driven all winter. A blowjob would be awesome, but I doubt this timid little college girl is going to go for that. I start to put on the condom.

"Don't you want me to suck your cock?" she says, with an innocent smile.

She wraps her lips around my stiff rod, and a shudder passes through me like electricity. She shields her teeth expertly, so that all I feel is the inside of her mouth as her head bobs up and down with agonizing slowness. Definitely not the first time she's had a dick in her mouth.

She reaches behind her back and her bikini top falls away, her naked tits tumbling out and rubbing against my grateful midsection. Her head sinks deeper, and deeper still, until I feel the back of her throat and she gags.

"You almost made me puke," she grins.

It's no problem. I've had all I can stand. If I'm not inside her pussy in the next 10 seconds, I'm going to explode.

"Do you want me to--"

"I want you to open your legs for me so I can fuck your tight little pussy."

She slips her bikini bottom down her tanned thighs and sits on the bed, gingerly spreading her knees apart. I watch myself enter her, listen to the wet sounds of our sex, smell our mingling sweat.

I bend over and lick her stiff nipple, and she grabs me behind the neck, mashing my face against her tit. I pull my head back and watch my hips rise and fall against hers, faster and faster, until I feel the wave rise within me. My cock is full, heavy, ready to burst with the full force of my lust. I ache to cum; I cannot possibly hold back any more.

I pull out of her and strip off the condom in one motion. Cum erupts out of me in spurts, onto her stomach, between her tits, into the hollow place at the base of her neck.

I linger over her for a long moment as we catch our breath. Yes, this entire episode was borne of pure lust, but unexpectedly, I enjoyed her company. Somehow I feel like... talking to her.

"That was nice," I say.

Head for in the mountains

Friday, June 27, 2003

I've come to hate long drives. These days, most everything on my to-do list involves typing on a computer or holding a meeting, and I can't do either of them effectively in a car. I'd like to say that a long stretch of highway is a perfect place to relax, but I can't calm down at all; I just sit idly, waiting impatiently for the miles to go by, and watching the guy in the Four Runner next to me pick his nose.

My father's aunt Carol dutifully calls us on the first Tuesday of every month--first my father, then my brothers and I, in descending order by our ages. It's good being in the middle; when I'm tired of hearing about what was on sale at the supermarket that day, I can remind her that she has another call to make.

Once or twice a year, when my father can no longer shoulder the guilt she's heaped on him for not visiting, he somehow browbeats my brothers and me into a trip to the mountains. Telling ourselves that it will be different this time, that it will actually be fun, we load our car and pound due north until our ears pop from the altitude, where civilization stops and the road cuts a clean path through an endless sea of trees.

This is a great place to be for a skier. And if it's winter. Unfortunately, I'm not, and it isn't. If this area was going to be developed into a thriving city, it already would have been. But it hasn't, so until the next ice age, the "center of town" will be nothing but moose-themed gift shops and rustic bed-and-breakfasts.

I insisted on taking my own car this time, and dad told me I was nuts. But work is going well for me, and I have a lot to do this weekend. I really can't spare the time, so, at the first sign of lameness, I am gone--and, lame or not, this is the last time I'm coming up here.

The Twin Mountain Lodge
Coos County, New Hampshire
7:30pm

Dad tried to convince us to stay in one room, but we didn't. What, are we twelve?

I cross the parking lot toward the health club, with a cool breeze in my face. The western sky glows pink and orange, and I can't help but stare at it. I stop where I am and breathe deeply. Maybe this trip will suck less than I anticipated.

I mumble a hello to the girl behind the counter as I sign in, then turn back to look at her again.

Clearly, she bought her "Team USA" t-shirt before she became a woman. Now, it's a prop from a sexy calendar shoot, faded and stretched tight across her ripening bustline.

Wow! You guys sure take this Twin Mountain theme seriously, don't you?

I turn away and stifle a chuckle. "What?" she says, sheepishly. "Did I... say... something dumb?"

Obviously, the common sense train left the station without her on board. The girl has not said one word to me, so how could she have said something dumb? Not that I'm complaining...

"No, of course not. I was just... thinking of a joke." That's usually enough to make it go away when someone sees me laughing.

"Oh, what was it!" she chirps, sitting up straighter in her chair.

For a moment I'm lost in her flawlessly white teeth and huge blue eyes. Damp brown hair hangs lazily, covering part of her face. She's relaxed and sexy, the way your girlfriend looks after coming out of the shower. I have a hotel room here; I wonder if I could convince her to-

"Did you forget it?"

"Huh? Oh, the joke? Well, it's just kinda dirty, that's all."

"Tell me!"

This is a good sign. She's either a complete slut or not offended easily. At the very least, she'll be fun to talk to.

I tell her a joke. She chuckles loudly as soon as I utter the word "dick", though I haven't even reached the punchline yet.

"My God," she says, rolling her eyes. "This one time, I was at a party at my girlfriend's house, and I passed out in her room. And when I woke up, she was giving some guy a blowjob three feet away from me."

Okay, that totally was not a joke. And you know what? I want to get you naked anyway!

"And they asked you to join them, right?" I ask, spitting out the first thing that comes to mind.

Her face goes blank. "Were you there?" she says, and she seems honestly confused.

"What? No, I was just... kidding..."

"Ohh," she says slowly, obviously still processing.

Michelle is on semester break from college, working at the health club for summer cash. A steady stream of swimmers walk past us as we talk, dotting our conversation with thank yous and have a good nights. One man asks what time the pool closes.

"9:45," she answers.

"You're gonna let me come by at 10 though, right?" I ask.

"Umm, yeah, that sounds cool."

...To be continued...

"No, I also want my mix tapes back!"

Sunday, March 21, 1993, 8:45am
Steve and Paulie's apartment

The phone rings.

"I thought you were calling me after your gig last night," Renee says.

I had anticipated the question and was ready for it. "It got late," I reply immediately. The lie was efforless, natural.

"Yeah right," she chuckles. She's just teasing, but doesn't realize how right she is. "I'm sure you and Dennis hooked up."

"No, we're not gay, thank you."

She laughs out loud, and it strikes me how the flawless the tactic is: I have now used it twice in less than 12 hours! I made a joke, and it's almost as if she forgot all about what her concern was.

"Did you get any phone numbers?" So much for laughing it off.

Nope, no phone numbers. Fucked a gorgeous 20-year-old though. But the phone number count was a big zero.

"I was there for work, Renee."

"I know."

**********

Friday, April 23, 1993, 7:30pm
Renee's apartment

"What's wrong?" I ask. "You've been acting strange all night."

"I've been--"

"You've been what?"

"I've been thinking."

"About what?"

She sits up straight in her chair and exhales heavily. I look at her; she avoids eye contact, and I know right away she's dumping me.

"Steve, you've been so sweet to me--"

"Say it, Renee."

"It's just that, and this isn't about you at all..."

I sit silently, careful not to avert my eyes. I'm not trying to make this easy for her; if she's going to break up with me, she's going to have to work for it.

"The plan has always been that I'm gonna marry a Jew, Steve, and you aren't a Jew. We're graduating in a week, and I'm moving back home, so--"

I keep staring, emotionless. I could throw in an "I understand" or a "This is totally unexpected", but I don't want to help her. I want to hear what is truly on her mind.

"Why, I mean, um, why, like, prolong it?"

"Why prolong it?" I retort. "Is it a disease, Renee?"

"Steve, you know I didn't mean it like that."

"You're a coward, Renee."

"How am I a coward?"

"You're not a Jew. Not a true one, anyway. When's the last time you've been to temple?"

"Totally irrelevant," she spits, but her cheeks have flushed and she's breathing just a bit heavier then usual.

"Never mind what your parents want. Never mind what your bubbe and zade want. What do you want?"

"I just told you," she says, with a stiff jaw, and I almost believe her. Almost.

"I think you don't give a shit about religion. I think you want to find someone you love and get married, and I think religion is the farthest thing from your mind."

"Steve-"

"I don't think you care whether or not your kids are running around with little yarmulkes on their heads. I bet you think keeping kosher is the most ridiculous thing you've ever heard of. I bet you think it's stupid. I bet you think all religion is stupid. Don't you?"

She stares at me, so still that she might as well be a cardboard cutout.

"I'm gonna meet someone else, Renee, and one day I'll get married, and I'll be really, truly happy. And you know what? I won't give a FUCK if she's Jewish or not. I feel sorry for you. I actually feel sorry."

"Is that all, Steve?"

We had been together for months, most of them really happy. When I looked back, all I could remember was laughter and passion. I could have forgiven her, but as far as I was concerned, she didn't deserve it. She had the freedom to make whatever choice she wanted to, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. But I sure as shit was not going to reward her selfish stupidity with a hug and a warm goodbye. Fuck her.

Without another word, I turned my back and walked out of her life forever.

Closing out some ass

"Is that your girlfriend?" Kiersten asks, abruptly.

I hit the stop button too quickly; I looked like I had something to hide, and now she was on to me. Maybe this was how it was meant to happen. Maybe I was supposed to tell Kiersten I was with Renee, then bid her goodnight with a firm handshake, and go talk to Renee about our future together. At that point, I had blown it with Kiersten anyway.

Not so fast, I think.

Paulie lived in the apartment too. A girl could just as easily have been calling him as me. But I couldn't look suspicious; that would give me away.

"None of my girlfriends have my number," I smirk, and immediately know it was a home run. I didn't deny anything, didn't get defensive. It was perfect!

She laughs and changes the subject. Was that it? Wasn't she going to ask who it was?

Evidently not.

"Can I use your bathroom?" she asks.

"As long as you leave the door open," I smile.

I'm on the couch when she comes out, with the TV set to the preview channel. No sense in letting her get distracted, you know.

She sits next to me, and I put my arm around her. I behold her face for a brief second before we kiss; her skin is pure, flawless alabaster, and her eyes are shimmering sapphires.

I reach around and lower her zipper; her party dress falls away, exposing a beige demi bra, overflowing with her voluptuous breasts.

The thrill is palpable, rising through my insides like hot steam. This was actually going to happen!

My heart gallops as she unhooks her bra and her tits tumble out, round and curvy, much bigger than Renee's. I stare as she slides her panties down, and I am awed by her sexiness; it's surreal, as if I'm watching a movie.

A blow job would have been amazing, but I was sure it wouldn't happen. Girls like Kiersten didn't suck dick. Did they?

She kneels in front of me, and as she takes it into her mouth, I am in full sensory overload, my hands shaking, my breathing choppy.

She sucks me to within an inch of coming and I instinctively pull away from her, my cock soaked in spit, hot and throbbing. I pick her up and sling her over my shoulder like a caveman would, carrying her to my bed as she giggles and runs her fingertips lightly across my back.

I penetrate her slowly, running my eyes up and down her body like a jeweler searching a diamond for a flaw that isn't there.

It was the best sex I had ever experienced, hot and slow, with a climax like a volcanic eruption. Maybe I was lost in the moment, but I started thinking of Kiersten like a girlfriend, like someone who I could get to know, form a bond with. She was beautiful, and the sex was great, so why not?

4:14am

I woke to the rapidly fading sound of a car engine, and got to the window just in time to see the cab moving out of sight.

Maybe she had to get to work tomorrow, I told myself. Funny she didn't leave me a note, or wake me to say she had to go. But I could always call her--

My pockets were empty. I never got her number! Well, I could look her up...

...that was, if I had her last name. I didn't.

Holy shit. I was never going to see her again.

RIP Croc Hunter

Like everyone else, I am shocked and saddened by the death of Steve Irwin, the Croc Hunter. I was never much of an animal guy, but he made me want to be one.

From one Steve to another, I'll miss you, mate.

**********

Girls like Kiersten were meant to fuck. Their bodies were built for it, the way waterbeds were built for sleeping. Every moment she roamed the Earth without a dick in her was a complete waste.

Plenty of women were beautiful; Kiersten was sexy. She was fuckable. In the short time I had known her, her face had registered happiness, anger, disappointment, jealousy. She was unafraid to express emotion, even in the presence of someone she didn't know. Sure, maybe she had hangups, but evidently none of them had turned her into a frozen block of bitchiness.

Of course, I was with Renee. But, assuming I hooked up with Kiersten, who would have been hurt? Assuming that I was safe, and assuming that we didn't tell anyone, what damage would I have done?

I was supposed to feel guilt. Performing that most intimate of acts with Renee was supposed to be special. It was supposed to mean something, and doing it with someone else was supposed to cheapen it somehow. That was supposed to bother me, but it didn't.

I went over the idea in my mind, examined it painstakingly, like a car that failed to start for no apparent reason. Surely, some switch would go off at any moment, some floodgate would open and I'd be deluged with self-loathing for even considering something so despicable. It never happened.

"Can you... t-turn this up?" Kiersten stammers, with a glassy-eyed smile.

She liked loud music, just like I did. She'd had a few too many cosmopolitans and she was tipsy, just like anyone else would be. She was definitely hot, but what was so intimidating about her? Why on Earth shouldn't I talk to her, just to see what would happen? What was she going to do, laugh at me? So what? I was busy anyway, and could dismiss her easily enough.

She was smaller than me, and not just in the physical sense. I was superior to her. I could try my luck, and if things didn't work out, maybe I'd find someone else. In a worst-case scenario, I'd find Renee, and tear those panties right off her muscular little ass. I couldn't lose!

"Turn it up? I guess so," I smile.

"Pleeeease?"

Suddenly I was ten feet tall. I was bulletproof. I could lift Humvees with my pinky finger and see through four feet of solid concrete. She could have dismissed me, or ripped off her party dress and mounted me right there in front of everyone; it no longer mattered. My self-confidence had everything to do with me, and nothing to do with her.

"Are you coming tonight?" I hear myself say. There was no forethought, no plan. The words spilled out of me, like cold water from the waitstaff's steel pitchers.

"To what?"

"We're going to the Muddy Hen for drinks after the party tonight."

No, "we" weren't. There was no "we". Dennis was in pain and was probably going to go home to crash, and I didn't know anyone at the party.

"I love that place!"

"See you there, then," I smile, and immediately make myself look busy searching for a CD.

She stands uneasily for a moment, taking a step back, then forward, before finally walking away.

I wonder if she'll show up.

**********

Sunday, March 21, 1993, 1:30am
The Muddy Hen

"There's no fucking way this chick is showing up, Steverino," Dennis says.

"Well, like I said, she was--"

"Out of your league?"

"She was digging me, bro."

"So where is she then?" he smirks, then turns and winds his way through the crowd to the bar.

Two hands cover my eyes from behind. "Cut it out, asshole," I laugh. What the hell was wrong with Dennis, anyway? Only chicks did that.

Only chicks did that!

I reach up. The hands are unmistakably female, with their soft skin and long nails. I turn around.

"Asshole?" Kiersten giggles.

I start to explain, then stop myself. She's smaller than me.

"It's a term of endearment," I laugh.

"Great show tonight. You guys rocked," she says, patting a hand on my chest and leaving it there for a long moment.

"Appreciate that."

"We were just driving by and decided to stop in," Kiersten says.

"She came to see you," a buck-toothed brunette says. Damn, she was ugly. "She came to hook up with you."

"Yeah, she totally wants you," another girl says. It sounded sarcastic. Was she joking? Girls didn't say things like that to me!

"The line forms to the left," I smile, and they giggle in unison.

1:50am

Paramedics barge through the front door and sprint for the rest room, stretcher in tow. Some lush probably passed out on the toilet.

"Where's your friend?" Kiersten says. "Didn't he go for beers, like, 20 minutes ago?"

I freeze. It must be Dennis who needs the ambulance. The line at the bar was short; he should have been back by now.

The paramedics rush by, and sure enough, I see Dennis's cast-clad arm hanging over the side of the stretcher.

"That's him!" I shout, and we bolt out into the frigid spring air.

"What's wrong?" I yell over the rumble of the ambulance's engine.

"Slipped on some piss and landed on my bad arm," he moans. "Thanks for helping, bro."

Kiersten chuckles.

Again I resist the impulse to explain. To do so would imply that he deserves an explanation.

"I'll see ya tomorrow, bro. I'll come out first thing in the morning. Well, maybe not first thing," I smile, sliding my arm around Kiersten's waist. She chuckles again.

"Fuckin' sellout, bro..." he mumbles.

"Aww, are you scared, Dennis? Hey, can you get this guy a teddy bear?" I ask an EMT.

**********

March 21, 1993, 2:35am
Steve and Paulie's apartment

I'm not used to the sound of high heels against my hardwood floor, and her perfume suddenly overwhelms me, like loud music in a tiny closet. "I can't believe I'm hooking up with you," she grins, smiling coyly at the floor.

"Yeah, I can't believe you seduced me," I laugh.

"What?" she smiles.

I press the "play" button on my answering machine and immediately regret it, even before hearing Renee's voice.

"Hey babe, it's me--"

I hit "stop". It would be a damn shame to miss out on this now. It was a sure thing...

"...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.

Wow... I really held out on you fuckers, didn't I?

Marlene is turning out to be a great girlfriend. Graduate school is tough, and she understands when it's time for me to hang up and go study. Sometimes she leaves little notes under my windshield wiper while I'm in class, and I sit in the driver's seat, reading and smiling. She always signs them "Leenie", with a little heart next to her name; one day, instead of a heart, I see the word "love" in her loopy, girlish hand.

We sleep in the same bed a few times a week. We haven't had sex yet, but on more than one occasion I've awakened to find my bare crank in her hand. She tugs me off expertly now, staring longingly at my naked cock while she strokes it. She's definitely not shy about seeing it anymore.

"I want you to get tested for STD's," she says one night, as we sit in my car eating ice cream. "And if we have sex, I want you to wear a condom."

"Okay, Leenie, whatever you want," I say, and I am so hard that I have to shift positions in my seat. It's finally going to happen!

So much for her waiting until marriage.

I know now that I was stupid for fucking Brenda. I was stupid to listen to her, stupid to pay any attention to her whatsoever. Brenda is a typical cock-blocker, someone who hates to see others happy because she is miserable. I have no doubt that she had sex with me to ruin my relationship with Marlene.

But it didn't work, and that must piss her off. That must motivate her even more to screw things up, and now she's got a way to do it: All she has to do is utter three little words, "I fucked Steve," and I'd be done.

I don't feel guilty: If anything, I'm flattered that two girls who live together think enough of me to want to get naked for me. But how long can I count on Brenda to keep her yap shut? No matter how much fun Marlene and I have, the worry is never totally gone: That one mistake bubbles up from my subconscious, reminding me that, like a dormant virus, it can awaken at any time and devour me.

"I'm gonna tell Marlene," Brenda taunts drunkenly one night, her head lolling from side to side, as if it were a helium-filled balloon. "I'm gonna tell Leeeee-nie..."

"Gonna tell her what?" I ask, and she doesn't answer. Dumb question.

Monday, November 2, 1992, 1:41am
Steve and Paulie's apartment

"Tell me it isn't true," Marlene sobs over the phone.

"Tell you what isn't true?" I gasp, as my ears burn.

"Did you have sex with Brenda?"

I was a bad liar in those days. My stories were plausible enough, I guess, but I always hesitated one beat too long, or let my eyes drift off, betraying my guilt.

"I-, I-, Marlene, I--"

"Oh my God," she shrieks. "Oh my God!"

10:30am
University development office

It's funny how this office, which once glowed with romantic tension, now feels like the scene of a crime. It's quieter than usual, and the silence gives me time to think. More time than I want.

I return from the restroom to find a Krackel bar on my desk. It must have been the one she got in San Diego; she never did give it to me when she came back. I still have it to this very day.

I want to talk to her, to thank her for the candy, to apologize, to tell her that I was really starting to like her. But as she rushes awkwardly past my desk, I know we're never going to speak again.

We never did.

April, 2006
Steve and Tim's house

"Every girl has to get her heart broken at least once," Tim says. "You did her a favor!"

I wish I could agree.

Cramming for exams

I'm overrun with motivation--deep motivation, the kind that can only be inspired by shame.

I wasn't good enough to get my prudish girlfriend's clothes off. Her ex-boyfriend back at home, with his Billy Dee Williams moustache and backwards baseball cap, he got the job done. But not me. She made me fall for her, made me open up to her, and then went back to her dorm room and downloaded every morsel of information to her roommate like chemistry notes. I'd show Marlene, and I'd show her meddlesome roommate too.

"So what's your situation," I say to Brenda, with a sly smile.

She looks at me. She's wondering how I'm not affected by the whole thing, how I can smile after being eviscerated by my girlfriend.

"Why?" she smiles.

"Tell me." Being a nice guy didn't work; perhaps being a cold-hearted bastard would be more effective.

"I'm 20. I think I'm too old for you."

"You're funny when you're drunk."

I refill my cup, and the haze slowly returns. I lean in closer each time her voice softens, until our faces are almost touching.

"So, I'm gonna walk home now."

"Okay."

"It's dark out. And it's raining."

"Do you... want me to walk you home?" I ask, my heart fluttering like a trapped bird.

It's strange seeing the room from Brenda's bed. The posters and furniture are familiar, but different somehow. Maybe it's just the angle.

She's wearing striped panties. I have been eyeing them through her white capris all night; so was every other guy in the room. Seeing them in stark relief as she pulls her pants off is pure triumph.

"I can't do this very well," she whispers, as she lowers herself onto me, and the alcohol evaporates from my bloodstream instantly. There is no guilt anymore, no Marlene, no studying to do, nothing except this warm and willing female who happens to be fucking me.

And just fucking her is not enough. My manhood has been questioned, and I have something to prove. So I fuck faster and harder, like the crude, inexperienced kid I am. I'm not patient enough to try different positions, and even if I were, I don't have the stamina or the patience to hold out. But I do know enough to drink in every detail, to see the swatch of pink beneath the tuft of black hair, to watch her pussy stretch subtly as my cock enters her, to notice the jiggle of her breasts and to listen to the squishy sound of wet flesh against wet flesh.

The haze lifts intermittently, sometimes just long enough for me to feel a warm puff of breath against my neck, or the flicker of her tongue against mine. Headlights pass by, briefly illuminating us, and I watch like a bystander, surprised at the coldness of our sex, but turned on by the desperate strength with which she pins her knees against my hips.

"Cum. Cum, Steve," she is saying, as I grow harder and her insides grow wetter. I was too stupid to wear a condom, or even to ask if she was on the pill, and I unload an ocean inside her, oblivious to everything except my own euphoria.

**********

Monday, October 17, 1992

"Did you see Jose out there?"

"What? No! I don't talk to him anymore!"

"Yeah."

"I told you that already, Steve!"

"I know, Marlene."

"Why did you ask?"

"Did you... did you and Jose ever--"

"Steve, I'm a virgin! I told you that!!"

"No you didn't! You never used that word, 'virgin'."

"Fine," she says, moving her mouth exaggeratedly. "I'm a virgin! Happy now? Why are you so jealous lately?"

"I'm not jealous."

"Did you talk to any girls while I was away?" she smiles.

That depends. Does "can you get me a towel?" count as talking?

I'm beginning to think I made a huge mistake. How could I have been stupid enough to trust Brenda? I should have known she just wanted to stir up trouble.

I better hope she doesn't open her mouth. And that no one saw me entering or leaving her room that night.

I am still pissed at her for telling Brenda about the tit incident, but if I confront her, I'll have to admit I was talking to Brenda, which would lead to Marlene confronting Brenda, which might lead to Brenda telling Marlene about the creampie I left a few inches south of her appendix.

For once I'm going to be smart and keep my mouth shut.

**********

Friday, October 21, 1992, 7:30pm
Steve and Paulie's apartment

"What's the glans?" Marlene asks.

"It's the head of the penis."

"There's so much about that stuff I don't know."

This is a good sign. She's curious. If she's curious, she'll want to try things.

"What do you want to know?" I ask, supportively.

"Like, when a guy has an orgasm, that stuff comes out, right? Semen?"

"Right."

"But pee comes out of the same place. So why doesn't pee come out?"

"There's a little valve in there that closes when the man gets aroused."

"What if the valve doesn't work right?"

"Then you call Roto-rooter."

"Steve!"

11:30pm

The TV blares incoherently on the other side of the room. Marlene pulls her mouth off mine for a second to look down at the zipper of my Guess? jeans.

"How does it get hard?" she asks, running her fingers across my fly.

"Blood rushes to it."

"Is it getting hard now?'

"Uh-huh."

Her eyes flicker up at me, as if to ask my permission.

"It's okay," I say, popping open the button.

She's touching it over my BVD's. It doesn't matter. I go statue-hard in ten seconds.

"You can touch mine, if you want," she says, averting her eyes.

You have a dick? I guess that explains why Jose didn't fuck you.

Her panties are dainty, like you would find on a kid's doll. I pull them away and slip a finger into her, and my pulse races at the feel of her tight box.

This is no ordinary pussy. Even a novice like me knows that. It would hug my cock, tight and warm, like a homemade sweater. Sexual pleasure is new for her; I'll watch as she makes her first fuck-faces, losing all self-control, succumbing to me totally.

I don't bother pulling down my zipper. The rubbing takes care of that. The outline is clear beneath my white briefs now, and she rubs it ever more feverishly between her thumb and first two fingers.

The head pops out. "Ew! Put it back, put it back!"

I tuck it back in.

"It was...shiny. Why was it shiny?"

"That's when the skin on the head gets really tight. Like on a bald man's head!"

"Oh yeah," she says, rubbing again.

"You're making me slippery," she says, her voice sinking to a hoarse whisper.

"Yeah?"

"You make me slippery when you kiss me sometimes."

"Oh really?"

"And when you talk to me on the phone. I love your voice."

"Me too," I manage, but I'm only marginally aware of what she's saying.

She's wet now, wet enough to fuck, if she wanted me to. But I'm not going to push it.

And then she finds the right spot, and rubs it just the right away, and I am totally gone. My eyes close and I hear myself moan softly as the first dollop oozes out of me. Nothing happens for long moments, and she probably thinks it's over. But then I cum like only a 22-year-old can, blasting wave after wave in my shorts, soaking them from the inside out. She pulls away too late, and it smears her wrist.

"It's... gooey!" she smiles.

"You see what you do to me?"

I know a Krack when I taste one

Once Tim moved in, I knew it would only be a matter of time before she found something incriminating.

Oh sure, her stuff has been here for months, but when move-in day came, and she unpacked the copy paper boxes full of sweaters she never intended to wear, the trouble started.

"Honey?" she calls from the master bedroom.

As soon as I see the workboot box on the bed, I sit down. Some things can't be dismissed quickly, and this is one of them.

"Did you open it?"

"Was I not supposed to?"

"I don't have anything to hide, if that's what you mean. But it is personal."

"I'm sorry, hon," she says with a lilt of her head. "Curiosity got the best of me. I only peeked for a second."

"Uh-huh."

"It's a trophy box, right? You'd have sex with a girl and then put something of hers in there?"

"But you only peeked, right?" I smile.

"Can I ask you one question?"

"Yeah?"

"What's the big Krackel bar for?"

**********

Her name was Marlene. She was a new freshman; I was just starting grad school.

She was half Puerto Rican and half black, but she was far from the feisty Latina you're probably imagining. Everything amazed her; each new fact was an earth-shattering revelation; every joke was the funniest she had ever heard.

I didn't like her at first. She was naive, uninteresting; her face was pretty yet immature, overshadowed by her gleaming teeth and feathery hair. I was a 22-year-old big shot, remember, who had lost 50 pounds a year before. Girls noticed me now; I had gotten laid a few times, and I just knew that I was the studliest guy within a five-mile radius.

Friday, September 9, 1992, 11:00am
University development office

It is my desk, technically--Nancy, whose cubicle this is, is on a leave of absence--but I lack the balls to take down the fake flowers and Precious Moments figurines that adorn her workstation. I looked ridiculous sitting there, but at the time I didn't know better.

I was fortunate to get this job: It's a work-study, 12 hours a week of clerical drudgery which I enthusiastically perform, not because I love making copies, but because it pays 50% of my tuition.

"Ask him," Marlene's coworker says, in a stage whisper.

"Noo," Marlene giggles.

The office couldn't be quieter if there were a final exam going on. I hear their every word, clearly; do they not realize it?

"Just ask him!"

"Later, later!"

11:30

"Steve?" Marlene says, meekly, brushing the hair from her eyes.

"Hm?"

"Are you... do you... "

We stare at each other, and my stomach starts to churn. She must dig me; otherwise, why would she be so nervous?

But why me? What would an attractive college freshman want with me? And isn't she too pretty to be so shy?

I want to let her finish her sentence, but she wants me to help her. "Yeah?" I say.

More uncomfortable silence. "Do you want to come to a party at my sorority? I mean, a sorority I'm pledging?"

"Sure!"

"Okay! Thanks! So, that'll be fun!"

"Yeah, definitely, Marlene!"

She scoots away.

Two minutes later, I track her down in the copy room. "Marlene? About that party..."

"What? You can't go? Oh, that's okay--"

"You didn't tell me where it was. Or when!"

I never thought it could be so easy to see a dark-skinned girl blush.

**********

October 10, 1992
Kelvin Hall, room 310

"A Nestle's Crunch is the same thing as a Krackel," Marlene says.

"Sorry, but you're very wrong."

"People are so crazy! Like, they get all goofy about Coke and Pepsi and they don't even know the difference! I bet you couldn't tell the difference between Krackel and Nestle's Crunch!"

"Bet I can."

"You can't see, can you?" she asks, as she ties the silk scarf around my forehead. I like that it smells of her perfume.

"Which one is this?" she says, gently slipping a small piece of chocolate into my mouth, as if feeding a baby. The tip of her finger brushes my lip longingly, and for an eternal moment I forget about the candy.

"Crunch."

"Hmph. Okay, here comes another one." The finger again, slower this time, deeper into my mouth, and it flicks briefly against my tongue. She's doing it intentionally; she has to be!

"Crunch again," I say, softly, and my sex drive is completely out of control. She has to know; she has to hear it in my voice. She has to feel it too!

We've gotten close, Marlene and I. We talk on the phone until after midnight, and she pleads with me to take her for ice cream at 1:00am. She giggles at my jokes and pulls closer when I put my arm across the back of her waist.

I haven't nailed her yet. We've had wet, mushy, sloppy makeout sessions, but it's gone no farther. Tonight is going to be different. Blindfolds? Chocolate? It's straight out of a porn movie! This is her way of telling me that she's ready: All of the waiting is going to pay off tonight.

"Try this one," she whispers, and now there are two fingers in my mouth, and I close my lips on them as she slowly pulls them away. "You got my fingers," she coos, with a little laugh.

"Kiss me," I say, and her lips engulf mine instantly, as if she were only an inch away. It's true what they say about not being able to see; your other senses are heightened. The touch of her hot mouth revs me, and I grab her pert breast in my hand, squeezing softly.

"Hey! Hey," she shouts, pulling away from me. "What are you doing, Steve?"

"I... you..."

"Don't do that! Don't touch me like that! Ew!"

I pull the blindfold off. "What do you mean, 'ew', Marlene?"

"I told you I wasn't ready for that!"

"You said you weren't ready yet! That was a long time ago!"

Yeah, like almost long enough to microwave some popcorn!

"It was last week, Steve!"

"Well, I know, but I mean, the whole blindfold thing, and the chocolate..."

"You thought I... ew! You thought I wanted to do that?"

"You don't have to make me feel like a pervert, Marlene."

"I'm not having sex until I'm married. I hope you're okay with that, or else..."

We make up. She waits until I cool off, then sits on my lap, playing with my hair like she always does. "You're not a pervert," she says. "And I really really like you, but I know this is hard for you, and I'll understand if you want to break up."

I like her too. It's comforting to know that we can talk things out. She handled an emotionally charged issue with a lot of maturity, and that impressed me. I am proud of her! How can I break up with someone like her?

I should have, though.

**********

"I'm gonna bring you back a Krackel from San Diego," she says. "A huge one!"

"Promise?"

"I promise, baby boy."

"Thanks, baby girl."

Marlene is home for the long weekend, and I'm not planning on going out, but after studying to exhaustion, I walk through the dark and drizzle up the hill to the dorms, admiring the colored leaves on the shiny pavement.

I almost don't open the door to the building. I don't like any of those people, really, and I don't want to waste the whole night drinking. Sometimes I still wonder what would have happened if I had just kept walking.

"Man! You need to relax," Marlene's roommate, Brenda, says. "You look like somebody died! You look like you died!"

"Thanks, Brenda."

She hands me a red plastic cup. "I better not see that empty," she says, wagging a finger.

Hours pass. Faces and conversations run together like cheap paint. I stop drinking and the haze clears a bit.

"...why are you dating a freshman, anyway?" Brenda asks.

"I like her! She's--"

"You're a grad student, right? You're 22, aren't you?"

"Well, yeah, but..."

"She's 18, Steve! And this is none of my business, but she... never mind."

"What?"

"It's just that, you're so much older than she is, and she's making you look dumb."

"How is she making me look dumb?"

"I heard about the boob incident," she smiles, looking down at her beer.

I felt my face go pale. "You what?"

"You were blindfolded, she was feeding you chocolate, and you thought she wanted to have sex. So you squeezed her tit," she says, stifling a laugh.

"Oh, man, shit, I--"

"I'm just saying, I'd be pissed if someone said that about me. I mean, all you wanted was to have sex. She acted like you fucking raped her!"

"What?"

"Oh man, she was all in tears and shit."

"I swear, I didn't force her to do anything--"

"Oh, I know. Marlene is such a fucking baby sometimes."

You'll never catch me having a conversation anything like this today. No one tells me my business, even if they happen to be right. Being played by someone much younger than me is the most humiliating thing I can think of. I can handle being wrong, but not being manipulated.

"I know you like her and all, but there are some things you should know."

"Like what?"

"Like that whole virgin thing? She's not a virgin, you know. She was sleeping with her ex-boyfriend. The one in San Diego?" Marlene never did use the word "virgin"; I picked up on that.

So she was fucking Jose. Jose wasn't a pervert. Jose got to see her naked, got to spread those sweet little thighs apart and bury himself deep in her 18-year-old pussy.

Bitch.

What the hell was I doing wrong? Why was Jose getting all the action, while all I was getting was teased? What words did he say, how did he look at her? How did he touch her, how did he kiss her? How did he melt her defenses, make her fling aside her Banana Republic wardrobe and dive at his cock?

Fuck Marlene. I don't know Brenda from a hole in the wall, but I know she's telling the truth. How the hell would she know about the tit story, if Marlene wasn't blabbing? The two of them were probably sitting around, laughing. Laughing! At my expense!

The chocolate incident, the fight, the reconciliation, all of it seemed so private. It felt like we were the only two people in town that night; it never occurred to me to tell someone else about it. But obviously, Marlene felt differently. How could she betray me that way?

"Your cup is empty," Brenda says.