I was that rarest of all creatures, a 19-year-old virgin, in my sophomore year in college. It had started with a silly pledge to my 8th Grade girlfriend that we would, you know, "save ourselves." And, somehow, even though she was a distant memory, that pledge had stuck.
I mean, look, I'm not really vain but I've been told by those whose judgment I trust enough times that I'm good-looking that I accept it. When I look in the mirror I see Mr. Average, and I am that, that's for sure. I save a lot of money by buying the display clothes off of the mannequins when they change the display. I'm 5'10" and a 38R. I weigh 165 pounds and was a swimmer and a long-distance runner in high school, not a wrestler or football layer. In the mirror I see a nerd with dark hair combed back in a style that would have worked in the 1950s.
So I was surprised when she came on to me at a party at a friend's house.
If you've ever been to college you know what I mean. But if you haven't, well, Frank had a house off campus. His dad was rich, well, rich enough that he bought the house and Frank drove a beautifully restored Fiat 124 Spider.
I digress.
Frank had a house, a big old two-story thing about a block from campus. Actually, three stories I guess because the basement was finished. And while I'm kind of a recluse, Frank is the ultimate outgoing guy. When we went somewhere together it would be like he knew everybody and I might know somebody. But we were friends, roommates actually during that first year when we were required to live on campus in the dorms, and he included me in his parties.
So there I was. A Friday night after-midterms party. There was a keg of beer in the basement, a pool game in progress, some folks shooting darts against the wall, and his zillion-dollar stereo was blasting out those oldies he liked so well. I had talked to the few people there I knew and had joined a circle for a while where a bong was being passed around.
I was a bit drunk and quite a bit high in other words.
I was sitting, well, leaning against a bar stool and watching as the pool game progressed. I was thinking that I would challenge the table and give pool lessons next when I felt her hand on my shoulder.
"Dance with me, handsome," she said.
I knew her. Well, I had met her.
I struggled and found her name, Carla. She was a bit older than the rest of us, by which I mean she could buy beer legally. She certainly didn't qualify as a "cougar," but I imagine it was her who signed for the keg.
She was a round woman. Short, what my art teacher would call Reubenesque although no Rueben model ever had boobs like hers, and cute rather than pretty. Her hair was very black and very curly. It framed a round face with wide-set brown eyes, one of those noses with a little bulb on the end although in her case it was cute, and a very generous mouth with full lips that would NEVER need botox.
"Dance with me," she said again, her hand extended.
So I took it and let her to the postage stamp-sized dance floor in the corner. There was another couple dancing.
One of those high-voiced male singers from like the 1950s was singing. Bobby Somethingorother I thought, singing something about "Blue Velvet."
But it was nice and slow and I liked that she didn't do the two arms around my neck thing like we were in fucking high school or something. We danced in the classic slow-dance position, her right hand in my left, my right hand on her waist, and I noticed it was a well-padded waist, and her left hand on my shoulder.
I'm actually a good dancer and I started with a simple box step. She followed well and before long we were doing a pretty sweet waltz.
From the whiny-voiced singer the music went to Jerry Lee Lewis doing "Great Balls of Fire," and I swung her into a Jive dance.
She whooped out a loud giggle but, again, followed nicely, her skirt, and I liked very much that she wore a skirt and blouse to the party, flared nicely when I spun her and I liked almost as much the flash of bright blue panties, matching her blouse, that peeked out when I did.
As the dance ended she was sweating a little and I liked that too.
I held her hand and didn't let her leave the floor. I could have kissed the stereo when the next song up was Elvis Presley doing "Blue Hawaii."
This time she DID do the two arms around the neck thing, and I liked it. She felt good as she molded herself to me and she felt even better under my hands as we danced and I explored her back.
After that song ended, we sat and actually talked.
She was interesting, the first Fine Arts major I had ever met who didn't have her head so far in the clouds, or up her ass for that matter, as to be something I considered an idiot. She could talk about many things and, more to the point, could talk about them in more than bumper sticker philosophy. She was anti-gun, a position I generally find idiotic, but she could discuss it reasonably. Well, anyway she could support her positions with facts and figures.
She surprised me with a wholehearted agreement when I asserted that "Fast and Furious" was a wonderful movie and, excepting the idiotic "Tokyo Drift" the whole series deserved a place in the Movie Hall of Fame, presuming there is such a thing. We laughed together at the antics of the 18-year-olds who drank too much.
"Would you like to come up and see my etchings?" she asked with an absolutely straight face making me chuckle.
"No," she said, "I'm serious. I have some etchings."
And I figured, what the hell. It's not like I knew anybody at this party and Frank was probably engaged.
