Another Night of College Hedonism as Measured by Half Hours

It started with “Quickie?”

That’s all I had to say, because I instinctively knew he’d drive over, huge black truck blasting Modest Mouse, within a half an hour of the text message. That small request, that haphazard question. Within a half an hour, I knew I’d have my legs wrapped around his bony thighs, and all it took was one word. Has any amorous encounter taken so little effort?

I lounged with my roommates, who were passing a plump bowl between the two of them. If anyone tells you girls don’t smoke on their own time, it’s a lie. The sticks and stems, the leftovers they sometimes were desperate enough to grind and smoke, could fill an entire mason jar in a few months. I looked at each of them, giddy, and they returned my smile with sleepy lids.

I guess the bitter, earthy smell triggered something for my paramour, because the minute after he came in, we were off to pick up a bag. I didn’t mind; I knew I’d get laid by the end of the night. The boy was always up for it.

The dynamics of buyer and seller are truly interesting. It was pouring thick rain when we drove up to this guy’s house--Matt, who sauntered outside, blazed out of it his mind, with a Led Zeppelin shirt hanging off his thin frame and a mass of odd, frizzy hair. I followed both of them inside like a puppy.

We settled in his room. Edward, my paramour (is there an equivalent for male mistress?), said something about the tapestry on the wall reminding him of peacocks.

I looked at them--there were peacocks on it. I said so.

He laughed in that slow, honest stoner way.

Matt owned an odd little piece, a red and gray knobby thing. I took a hit, but it wasn’t very good and then I realized I hadn’t put my finger over the tiny shotgun. I felt like an asshole. I hoped no one noticed.

Matt’s birdlike eyes fell on me. “So what’s your major?”

How many times have I slurred this to some random partygoer? “History,” I said sweetly, and pulled out my pack of Marlboro 72’s. I used to smoke Camels, but I change brands like I change lovers. And whatever he (or she) smokes (and they always do), I smoke out of convenience. There’s always the after-sex drag, and it’s that single moment, that one inhale, that gets me hooked. Every time.

“That’s tight,” he said. I lit my cigarette. “So do you learn about, like, knights and stuff?”

“Sure,” I said with a charming nod. “Sometimes.”

“I used to really like that stuff,” he said. “Like, I was always into knights as a kid.”

Another charming nod. I hated when people offered little tidbits like this to me, as if they found my major so easy. It would be the equivalent of someone telling me he was a business major and me telling him I ran a lemonade stand when I was five.

I stopped myself. I was being an elitist bitch.

I turned to Edward, who was looking at me intently. He handed me the bowl, which I was sure to use right this time, and changed the song. A few new faces trickled into the room: two loud girls and a baby faced guy named Kevin. They joined in the triangle, which of course transformed into an oblong circle soon after.

A half an hour later, I was bored and horny. There are two things I do when I’m bored: light a cigarette and check my texts. Mercifully, I had two of each, so I lit up a 72 and replied to the texts. I thought about the things I’d rather be doing than sitting in a cramped, dirty room, staring either at the wall or the table. I didn’t know what to do about the horny part.

“Anyone up for beer pong?”

Thank God. Anything but this, sure, yes. I didn’t even glance up to see who said it, but I sensed everyone was gathering their things to head downstairs, so I slipped my phone into my pocket and led the way. Like the blind leading the blind.

There’s something about beer pong that’s so unsanitary but acceptable. I always rationed any alcohol cleaned the dirt and hair and grime from the balls when they flew or bounced off the table. I saw the cigarette ash and dust on the floor and hoped I was right.

Round after round after round. When the last cup wasn’t a problem, we played two games per half hour. It was one in the morning, I was perched on a Goodwill leather couch, my final cigarette was dangling from my slurring mouth, I had class in eight hours and I was inexplicably and terribly happy. Drunkenly happy. Dazed and dizzy. Manic.

There was an excited howl; I looked up with distorted vision to find Edward fishing the ball out of the last cup. The other team won. He shook their hands with a pretend sadness he didn’t really feel, because no one ever really loses in beer pong.

We met in altered states, which is mostly how we spent our time together anyway, so little did it matter. He was tripping, I was drunk. I was wearing a short black dress that crept up my tattooed thighs when I fell into my bed. My spins were so bad that I couldn’t remember his lanky figure coming into the room, just the feeling of him lying beside me like a corpse.

I slept with him under even odder circumstances: while our ex lovers fucked right beside us. When they moved into my bathroom, he and I romped until I heard the birds outside my window. It was dawn, and anyone who chanced walking in (like the other couple did) would find two tired, sweaty things among mountains of sheets and comforters and lube on the bedside table. And the sweetest look of satisfaction on both of our faces.

We were like satyr and nymph and we did everything you weren’t supposed to do the first night you sleep with someone new.

That morning, Edward disappeared into the bathroom while I called my boyfriend. I told him I’d cut off his balls if he dared to make a sound. So not only was I a liar and a cheater, I was malicious bitch.

My boyfriend had a furry beer belly. He liked to tie me up and slap me in the face with his dick. He told me to shut the fuck up and came in me to prove his dominance. And I was the sweetest thing to him while my dark-eyed lover looked on.

A half an hour after Edward lost the game, we drove home in a light drizzle.

“Maybe the hot tub’s working,” I said brightly. My apartment complex had a hot tub and sometimes they didn’t lock it up at night.

“Maybe,” he said.

“I bought a new suit. It’s very retro-looking.”

“That’s cool,” he said over the music.

I looked at his face, half lit by the traffic lights, wondering if this is how Connie felt when she couldn’t stand the way Mellors spoke to her. It was unintelligible either way for a creature of ideas and neat, abstract rational. But neither Edward nor Mellors were creatures like that.

We never made it to the hot tub that night, whether it was working or not. Instead, I drunkenly tumbled into my bed and immediately undressed. Shirt, shorts, bra, panties. My panties got stuck on my toes as I tried to wrangle them off. I didn’t want to imagine how stupid I looked.

“The blues?” I asked with a smile.

His smile mirrored my own--lusty, knowing. So I put on a playlist.

There is nothing better than having sex to the earthy howl of Junior Kimbrough. Punk is fun for a hard, quick fucking with nails and teeth. Indie rock is perfect for when you care about the person you’re fucking. But there is something to be said for the long drawl of Muddy Waters or Mississippi Fred McDowell as you melt your hips into your lover’s or pulsate with orgasm during the twang of a guitar pluck. To me, there was something deviant about sex to the blues, wonderfully deviant. Like you were never taught it could feel that good or free or lovely. Sex must be manufactured. Sex is about how you look, not how you feel. Hide your ass if it’s fat or get into this position if you have nice legs so he can look at them. Deep throating is for sluts, but if you really make him work for it, you should do it. Never ask to be eaten out, because it’s not about you, it never was.

But sex to the blues. It is the great leveler. Fuck for fuck’s sakes.

We kissed until he slid in, my thighs straddling him on either side of his slender waist. It felt like the ebbing of a secret, pulsing tide. I never even saw his swarthy groin, his limp dick, because it was hard before I could put my mouth over it.

I would be a fraud if I told you it was perfect. It never is. But sex with someone you don’t love is the best kind of sex, the closest thing to perfection. To be violated for the feeling alone. For love, but the love of screwing.

I wanted to tell him he was my gamekeeper, but I knew he wouldn’t know what I was talking about.

My boyfriend liked ideas, like me. He enjoyed talking about sex more than he enjoyed having it. He did it to get it over with, to claim his possession of me. My gamekeeper was too sensuous for that. He took and gave pleasure because it was intrinsically rewarding. He was no Marquis de Sade. He spurted all over my belly and put his halfway hard cock inside me again because he couldn’t wait long enough, not even to clean up.

A half an hour later, I rode his dick so hard I came. He was happy with this, as good lovers should be. There’s nothing worse than a lover who doesn’t care about your orgasms.

Afterwards, as I listened to Kimbrough’s raspy growl, Edward sprang from the bed like a stag--if stags could smoke 72s. He told me he’d let me get some sleep. I didn’t have a clock in my room, but I knew that no matter the time, the second he left, I’d fall into a deep, satisfied sleep. In the orange light of my room, I watched his naked form reach for his boxers, his pants, his cigarettes.

If the boy had hooves or hairy thighs or horns I’d call him a satyr. If he had a feather-tipped hat, a Cavalier.

He caught me staring. I looked away, but I couldn’t help glancing at him while he dressed. It was too tempting, that old siren song, but in reverse. Would I drown?

I pressed my naked body to his clothed one, hot and fervent, and kissed him goodbye. I lit a cigarette from a new pack and wondered when he’d fill me up again. Muddy Waters’ “Baby Please Don’t Go” lingered from my speakers, mirroring my own sentiments, until his voice lulled me to sleep.