This story is very different from my others. It is much longer, and the erotica is a much smaller percentage of the story and not nearly as graphic. I hope you enjoy it anyway.
As for the story itself--the time frame is about 1973 (the reference to LBJ is just taking liberties with history); the place is Greeley, Colorado, home of the University of Northern Colorado. The narrator, Ron Russell is the same young man who narrates "Sunburst," a story in the romance category. This story happens a little over a year after that story. You may find yourself wondering about some references to events from three or four months previous. I decided to let you come to whatever conclusions you wish. Thanks for reading.
A strange coincidence happened that quarter; it began and ended satisfactorily for all concerned.
I'd gotten pretty horny. I wanted sex like I'd had with Ellie--friendly and intense and earnest and totally physical. A one-night stand or maybe a one-weekend stand. It was the last weekend of the quarter, so I figured the odds might be improved. More girls out for one last night before heading back home, and therefore less chance of hooking up with someone interested in something long-term.
For one of the few times in my life--maybe the only time--I decided my big brother might have a point. So on a Saturday night in August, with premeditation and malice aforethought, I set out to get laid.
I went to the Hoosegow, supposedly the place to get lucky, a twenty-one spot I'd been to before with the guys. As with most bars, the ventilation existed mostly in the owner's imagination, so a thin cloud of smoke already sprawled, cat-like, over the lower air, curling smugly around the ceiling lights and rubbing up against the rough wooden walls and doorways.
The place was noisy but not loud which I liked. Music played constantly, but there were speakers in every corner and along the ceiling, so the music didn't have to be loud. In most places the music is loud enough to be heard from the farthest speaker, which makes the closest speaker usually intrusive to say the least. But there were so many there, it only provided a backdrop--you could hear it and listen to it if you tried, but could ignore it, too, if you wished. It did not drown out conversation.
The bar was an attraction. It was long, wide, and ornate, with high chrome and black vinyl stools along the front. Behind it stood a big mirror almost concealed by hundreds of bottles of various brands of liquor. Above the mirror, in the exact center of the wall facing the bar they'd staged a professional-looking painting of a man in jail. He sat, face against the bars, smiling. One hand reached through the bars and held a big mug of foamy beer. Below it was the legend: "The Hoosegow--Confine Yourself to a Good Time."
Beyond the bar were tables and chairs, very standard wooden furniture for a tavern. This was usually the least occupied of the three sections, frequented by faculty and grad students who were there to talk seriously while they drank, and by the card players. Which included me on occasion when I'd come with Mike and Annie and Don.
To the right was the section that featured two long lines of wide unsophisticated wooden tables, each at least eight feet long and flanked by equally rough wooden benches. These tables offered room to dance without disturbing the drinks at the edges, and sometimes someone would. If a guy, the bouncers would usually chase him off, good-naturedly if he responded in kind. If a pretty girl (or even one not so pretty) took a spot, they were more inclined to let her have her way for a few minutes before coaxing her off. If she was really pretty, and wearing perhaps a short skirt as well, they would wait still longer, and still have to deal with boos and cat-calls when they finally urged the young lady to step on down.
I like bars. This may seem strange since I don't drink much. But I get a big kick out of watching people who do. So often they are like children or puppies--entertaining without intent or realization. Plus, of course, there's always a few good-looking girls in most bars. Even if they're escorted, it's still just so damn enjoyable to look.
And look I did, this night. And quickly found what I hoped, but did not expect, to find.
I walked over to the bar and got a beer and made my way through the traffic. A young lady sat alone, a similar mug of suds, though somewhat emptier, sat on the table before her.
The one bad thing about those tables was that they were so wide it was tough to have a conversation across them. But if you sat next to whomever you couldn't look at them very well. I managed by approaching this young lady from across the table. I caught her eye and gave her a little smile and a nod. She smiled back. Now, as I've been told, if she then looks away and doesn't look back at once, she's not interested. But if she holds the eye contact, or glances away and looks back with another smile, there's hope. This pretty young lady held the eye contact and managed to give the impression she'd reserved her smile for me and me alone. Horny guys always interpret a woman's behavior to be sending the message they want to receive. That's why we make fools of ourselves so often.
But this time, I thought maybe I'd struck gold. The little butterflies in my stomach, not yet drowned by two small swallows of beer, started flitting around and bouncing off the walls. I walked around the end of the table and sat down on her left. She nodded an acceptance of my presence and turned back to her mug. She was as pretty in profile as she'd been full-face. Not beautiful, but pretty. Soft, with full lips and a turned-up nose, and long straight black hair that shined like polished ebony. She looked at least partially Afro-American. And other things. Oriental of some kind, judging from those almond-shaped black eyes. White, too, I'd bet; she wasn't especially dark. I never did find out her heritage. It's not something to ask in initial conversation.
From what I could see, she was tall and neither heavy nor thin. Seemed to have a good set of knockers, but she wore a very loose light gray sweat shirt, so I couldn't tell much for sure.
We'd discussed good pickup lines a lot--Mike and Jim and Al and Don and I; and one time Ellie and Chrissy and Renee threw their two dollars' worth in. Ellie's favorite went like this:
"Hi, I'm Ellie." Then, after three or four minutes of conversation, she'd say, "Hey, you know what a man says after having six orgasms in one night?" When the victim (target, prey, whatever) confesses ignorance, she answers, "He says, 'Thanks, Ellie!'"
I'd agreed that would certainly work on me. Mike's suggestion was to "confess" he had to sit down to pee because the doctor didn't want him lifting anything heavy. Don liked one Burt Reynolds claimed to use successfully once and even incorporated into the dialog in his movie Shamus: "Do you fool around?"
I contributed one Ken said he'd succeeded with: "The doctors say there's nothing wrong with me, medically, and my problems with impotence will be solved when I finally find a special girl." He claims few women can resist a challenge like that. I suspect being tall and darkly good-looking in a "fuck society" kind of way, and with an obvious bulge already in your crotch, gives this line more potency than it might otherwise have.
Jim's older brother used something charmingly crude, and Jim shared.
"How 'bout dinner at my place? You can have some hardwood nuts, a hot dog, and a banana split. I'll have a tongue sandwich and some hair pie, and then we can relax and play hide the sausage." No report on the success ratio of this approach although Ellie confessed she'd probably take the guy up on his offer.
All these possibilities were running through my mind. I finally gave up and just introduced myself. She surprised me a little.
"I know who you are. I recognized you from the picture in the paper. I'm Michelle. Call me Shelly. Sorry about your fiancée. But glad you put an end to the 'reign of terror', as the paper called it. I felt nervous being alone anywhere in this town, at any time." She looked away, sort of embarrassed. "I'd actually gotten into the habit of making sure the doors and windows were all locked three times every night before I could get to sleep. And I'm a pretty big girl. I can't imagine how some of these little freshmen and sophomores handled it. So, thanks for putting the paranoia to an end." She raised her glass, now nearly empty.
I promptly picked up mine, still mostly full, and clicked it carefully against hers. "Here's to the end of paranoia, and the welcoming of whatever psychosis is next in line!"
That got a chuckle. I decided to take a flanking approach.
"This is already an interesting evening, Shelly. You've surprised me twice, and you weren't even trying."
"Oh? How so?" She held the empty mug high in the air and waggled it until a waitress signed that she'd seen. Shelly had a long arm which confirmed she was a tall lady. She set her glass down and turned back to me.
"Secondly, you surprised me by recognizing me. I didn't think most folks would remember the newspaper picture anymore. But you surprised me even before that--the first time I saw you. A lady as pretty as yourself sitting alone is a surprise."
She granted me a smile. "Thank you. I haven't heard a nice sincere compliment in weeks, not even one motivated by desirous impulses. I've only been here about ten minutes longer than you. You're the first guy to ignore the engagement ring and be friendly anyway. Besides, I'm not really out solo. I'm waiting for my roommate--well, housemate. She's not late--I'm early."
Dammit! I never did pick up the habit of checking out a girl's left hand for rings! I always focused on the face, and then the other parts; the hands were the last thing I noticed. I did not admit this. But I was glad to hear her refer to her housemate as a "she." Although it might put a damper in my hopes, at least she hadn't totally shot me down yet.
The waitress arrived. I'd hurriedly killed off my glass, so she took both empties and returned with refills. I'd already extracted three bucks from my pocket.
