Madrigals. Chamber Choir. Just the sound of the words inspired sheer boredom in me. For weeks I suffered through the worst elective of all time, only attending class for the grade. At eighteen I had little idea how to navigate college life, so I stuck with the class, opting for the credits over entertainment.
The semester passed quickly, and soon enough the Christmas concert was upon us. Solos. Wassail. Men in tights. Thinking of all those fools, me included, ruining the culture of times past made me cringe. Maybe it was only the thought of my mandatory costume that had me afraid, maybe not.
I drove my '85 Dodge Ram van to the Watchtower, an old lighthouse now used for Renaissance Faires and other festivals. The place actually looked pretty kick ass—renovators built a brick façade around the structure, turning it into the town's own castle turret. Other students and guests, all dressed in their medieval get ups, wandered around the grounds laughing and joking. I pulled my costume from the back of my van.
"That's an old school van."
I looked up to see a short, dark haired girl with horn-rimmed glasses walking by.
"I had to pimp it out so I could haul my band's gear to our gigs," I responded without thinking.
"That's what all the boys driving their dad's beater say." The girl smiled, turned and disappeared among the crowd headed into the Watchtower.
Burn. I chuckled anyway. Once in the bathroom, I slipped on the ball gripping tights that functioned as pants. Then the idiotic hat and every other part of the costume made me look foolish. At least the ensemble was as ridiculous as every other costume out there. At least the ones every other guy wore. Or so I thought at first. Right up until I notice how good my package looked. A nice bulge accentuated my size in the same manner some of the corsets accentuated breasts on the women in costume. Besides, the rental shop gave me a sword. A real sword. Steel blade and all.
Unfortunately, because the choir was the in-house entertainment for the evening, our class stayed backstage in the greenroom most of the night. Until our performances were over, we huddled in small groups waiting for our performance. Our director let those with early solos filter into the audience to mingle at dinner with everyone else, and our numbers backstage soon dwindled. With only five or six of us left, I pulled the sword out to admire the fine piece of weaponry.
"My what a big sword you have," a voice whispered.
I turned my head to see the short girl from earlier. Voluminous breasts pushed outward, almost bursting from her corset, so much so it took me a moment to remember to look her in the eyes. But she was looking down—whether at the sword in my hand or the package bulging from my tights I didn't know.
"Good thing I know how to use it," I responded.
The bulge in my pants expanded a tad.
"That's what all the guys say."
This time she looked me in the eyes, than darted them to my tights and back.
"That glance tells me you're in need of a demonstration."
"Maybe."
Again she walked away, leaving me with a growing hard-on. I might have worried, but found out she was in an upcoming number. I swung the sword a few times to get my thoughts on track before the choir returned, using the exertion to take my mind off things. A minute later, the rest of the choir returned. Chris, a classmate who was taking chamber choir for the third straight year, sat in a chair next to me.
"Hey man," I said. "Who's that girl in the green over there?" I said, pointing to my verbal sparring partner.
"That's Rochelle. She's hot! I've been trying to get in her pants for years now."
"Any luck?"
"Never." He eyed me like I was crazy. "How do you not know people from class?"
"I've spent the entire semester being too afraid of class to notice who's here. I don't like singing in front of people. But I signed up to get over that fear."
The minute I said it, I realized it was true. But right then I noticed Rochelle just returned from a number, her dark hair swimming in front of her face, her horned rimmed glasses, and breasts almost spitting out of her dress. I wondered what her ass and hips looked like, but the dress kept them hidden.
"Tombstone, you're up," my teacher called for my solo.
My three numbers came and went in a blur. During my solo, my experience from being in a rock band took over, and I left the stage to a rousing, if drunken round of cheers. I loved it.
My solo was close to the last of the night, so when I finished, I had missed most of the in-house party, and the crowd had thinned. With so few people left, I changed back into my jeans and a t-shirt. I grabbed a turkey leg from the caterers and headed back to my van.
Again I heard Rochelle talking to me.
"Apparently you can use one weapon."
She had changed too, her wonderful breasts now covered by a t-shirt, but her ass perfectly framed in her blue jeans. She had her hair pulled into a pony tail. I wondered how she snuck up on me.
"I guess I'm not like all the guys," I said, this time more interested in keeping her around than having two quick exchanges and calling the conversation good.
"That's yet to be seen."
Something stirred below my belt. Now I knew I needed to find a way to give her a proper demonstration.
"The implication to your statement is that you want a real weapons trial."
Rochelle, feigned shock, and waved a hand in front of her chest. "Maybe." We reached my '85 Dodge Ram. The van still ran strong all these years. I opened the side door and hung up my costume. Then shut the door.
"It's only about 10:10. It's a little early," I said.
Rochelle shrugged her shoulders. She looked off across the bay, the moon hanging above the bridge, lighting the water below.
"There's an awesome view nobody knows about, just off the road here," she said. "You drive us in your dad's van."
We hopped into the van and went down a little service road for Watchtower vehicles. Sure enough, not fifty yards down the path, another gravel road headed down Lighthouse Hill. Two minutes later we parked on an outcropping hidden by trees on three sides and a view of the bay on the other. Even people driving down the gravel road wouldn't be able to spot us.
