The year was 1972. The Jefferson Airplane was playing in the corner of my dorm room on one of those cheesy in one radio/phonograph/8-track stereos. From the missionary position, I was humping the living daylights out of my everlasting true love soul mate whose name escapes me at the moment. "Humping" is the apropos term for my sensual techniques at that time. I lacked that certain panache and style that developed later in life.
My partner had an uncanny ability to consider a completely irrelevant thought even under these unique circumstances. She could even manage a conversation during my rhythmic attentions. With her 20-year-old coed breasts keeping jiggly time, she managed, "I, need, you, to, come, to, the, so, ror, i, ty, house, to, mor, row, night."
Sweat was trickling down my forehead when I managed, "What for?"
"Just, be, there, at, 8. Bring, your, robe."
Nothing more was said about the subject and our evening of rapture progressed and concluded as usual, with not one hint of tenderness. It was an arrangement that seemed to work for both of us at that time in our lives. She stood at the door, looked back at me and said, "And for God's sake, wear clean underwear."
Gee, I never thought that was an issue.
My girl friend's sorority house was Pi Mu Sigma. As you can see, the first and last letters conveniently start with "P" and "S". When written, the greek letter Mu (pronounced "m-you") looks enough like a "U" for the purposes of hormonally-charged college men. With just a slight extension of this convoluted logic, Pi Mu Sigma was fondly referred to as "Pussy House". To get into "Pussy House" you had to be one fine-looking babe, the cream of the crop so to speak, so it was no small wonder why I was so attracted to, uh, what's-her-name.
Per my standard operating procedure, I arrived at ye old Pussy House ten minutes late. Draped over my arm was my tattered avocado-green terry cloth rode that my mother insisted I take with me to college. I don't think I had worn it for at least three years. My girlfriend was standing at the top of the stairs and was waving me to come up. She whisked me into her room and told me to take my clothes of. OK by me. In moments I was standing naked with my boxers (clean) rumpled at my ankles ready for another lustful encounter.
"Oh, fer Christ's sake. Pull up your underwear and put on that robe."
With those words of tenderness still ringing in my ears, she took me by the hand and led me back downstairs into the large sitting room. The furniture had been rearranged for some kind of ceremony. Candles were lit around the perimeter of the room. The light from two aluminum cone fixtures, the forerunners to modern track lighting, shone down on two ottomans in the center of the room. There were four other guys standing along one wall. All were wearing bathrobes in about the same crummy state as mine. I joined them as the fifth in line. We all looked at each other and shrugged. Neither of us had a clue to what was going on. (Upon reflection, I guess that could have been said for about 80% of my normal day at that time.)
About twenty or so of the sorority girls were in the darkest part of the room, seated in rows of folding chairs. After about a minute or so, a procession of girls entered the room single file. No one said anything. They were all dressed in white sheets except for two. Theirs were dyed pink. The first five of the girls stood in front of us in the line. The two in the pink sheets stood beside the ottomans. The last girl I suspect was the Queen Bee of the group. She had some goofy tiara on her head. She stood in front of the two in pink and started to read from some paper. Thus began a sorority ritual, complete with an overly contrived and amateurish liturgy.
"Hear ye, hear ye. The secret council of the order of sisters of Pi Mu Sigma..."
I heard two guys in line mutter in unison, "pussy house."
"... is now convened. I, Sister Aurora, do hereby call this tribunal to order."
Aurora? Gee, I thought her name was Stephanie.
