Katie was my first real girlfriend in college - not the first girl I fell for, not the first I slept with, but the first one to call me her boyfriend. We met officially for the first time about two months in to the second semester of our freshman year, but I had known who she was since sometime in our first semester. I wouldn't have guessed she knew who I was, but it was actually her that initiated our first real contact.
We were in the same Brit Lit seminar as first semester freshmen. The class had about a hundred students in a large, stadium style lecture hall. It wasn't the kind of class where you really get to know anyone. Just about everyone in that class knew who she was, however.
Katie was, quite simply, gorgeous, in that wholesome All American, Jessica Simpson sort of way. Saying that most everyone assumed she was a blonde bimbo would be putting it mildly - "dumb slut" was the more usual term girls who didn't know her threw around. But, as I would later find, she anything but a bimbo or a slut. She had the perfect hourglass figure. Large breasts (a 34D for what it's worth), a firm, but not muscular, build, hips just wide enough to frame a perfect ass, toned but soft looking thighs.
She was taller than girls I usually go for, probably around five seven or five eight - tall enough that when she wore heels we stood eye to eye. At first I fell in to the chorus of guys who derided her as fake looking. Her hair was obviously dyed. Her breasts couldn't be real - too big for her figure. She must spend all day in the gym. I bet she only fucks the football players, and has probably made her way through all the starters by now. The rumor mill was not kind to her. But I'd be willing to bet there wasn't one of them that didn't jerk off at least once that semester to a fantasy of getting in her pants. I know I did.
It was her ass that did it for me. She was a casual dresser, and the first time I can remember seeing her she was wearing cotton running shorts and a tank top. She was always dressed along these lines, sweats or track pants when it got colder, sometimes jeans. All of her bottoms were tight, showing off the round, firm yet soft looking, quality of that perfect ass. They also made it clear that she must be wearing a thong (further evidence to many that she was a slut - this was the late 90's when most college girls did not yet wear thongs regularly).
It was her breasts that did it for many others. While it was still warm she seemed only to wear tank tops, some of which made it obvious that a built in bra could be the only kind she was getting support from. As it grew colder she could usually be seen in v neck t-shirts, sometimes plain old t-shirts, then, disappointingly, usually baggy hooded sweatshirts. The common assumption was that they were fake, but not because they were fake looking - they moved like real breasts, curved away from her chest naturally, and looked very different on days she seemed to be wearing a bra than on days she didn't. Still they were proportioned to her waist like the breasts of a Playboy Bunny, and that was enough proof for most.
But in the end I would find that none of it was true. She was smart and interesting, mostly kept to herself, a far cry from a wild party girl, and never in her life hooked up with a guy she'd met at a party, bar, or anything along those lines. She did, however, I was lucky to discover, love sex. Nymphomaniac would be too strong a word, but only because she could control her desires. She was a serious student, pre-med. Even when we dated, I sometimes wouldn't see her at all during the week, though she did have a few sex toys to get her through these stretches.
I honestly could not believe it when she showed interest in me. I was far from some dorky kid, but she seemed like one of those untouchable beautiful people. It wasn't just her looks, or reputation as one of those slutty popular girls that only fucks the jocks, she was also a Xavier girl. My college had no sororities, but the Xavier house was as close as it gets. It was an all girl's dormitory on the main campus that girls had to apply to get in to. The applications, and subsequent interviews, were conducted by the older residents of the dormitory, as well as the resident advisers and residence hall director - all alumns of Xavier house. The girls were also some of the most desirable to be found on campus, which also made them hated by many, and assumed to be sluts. Few of them were anything close to slutty, but many of them were pretentious bitches. Katie had a little of that side to her, but it rarely showed itself.
As a freshman, Katie didn't actually live in Xavier house yet. She lived in the freshman dorms on the main campus, while I lived in the freshman dorms at the nearby satellite campus. Xavier house itself was near the freshman dorms on the main campus. She had gone to the open house the Xavier girls held in the first week of the spring semester every year, which introduces new candidates to the residence / social club. I would later find out, quite surprisingly, that her motivation for joining was that she had not had an easy time making friends. Because people thought she was a slut, a lot weren't willing to give her a chance. The ones that were lost interest when they found out she wasn't a slut. As was their process, the Xavier girls let her know before the end of January that she had been accepted. There was no pledging or initiation, but they did have frequent activities to help make the new girls a part of the group.
One of these activities was the crush dance. The new freshmen girls would each invite two guys (or sometimes girls) they had a crush on to the dance, and the sophomores would do the same. This was done anonymously, with the invite list posted in the school newspaper and in fliers hung up around campus. Invitations were coveted for two main reasons: it was one of the few parties where there were guaranteed to be at least as many girls as their were guys; and Xavier girls were, for the most part, gorgeous. Most who had never been to one imagined it as one big hookup party, but in reality a lot of the girls gave invites to people who they didn't even really have a crush on - either guy friends they thought could hit it off with other Xavier girls, or girls they were close with that weren't in Xavier. Many of the invitations also went to the boyfriends of the many Xavier girls in serious relationships.
It was actually Joyce that found my name on the list. Adorable little Joyce, my closest friend at school, with whom I'd had a sexual relationship since about a month in to our first semester. I hadn't bothered to check the list, not even really been aware of its publishing, and was shocked when she came up to me with the school paper and said, "I probably shouldn't even show you this, but here."
After a pause she added the question, "You're not going to go to that dumb slut party, are you?"
Things had gotten kind of rocky with us lately. To start with, while our fooling around had gone no further than oral sex for the first three months (save for one drunken incident), we'd started having sex the first week back in January. Things had started to seem more serious, almost too relationship like for both of us. This had meant we both started distancing ourselves from each other, spending less time together, and sometimes only hanging out to fuck. Before this, we were inseparable, and the fooling around had just grown out of hanging out together. To make it all worse, she had been asked out, and said yes, by a guy I didn't really like. I had reacted badly, with some jealousy, and we then had our first fight. The date was coming up on Saturday, the same night as the crush party, and we hadn't so much as kissed since the past Friday, when she had been asked out.
"I don't see why not. I have nothing else to do that night. You're busy, Crystal's boyfriend is around this weekend, and I don't especially feel like just sitting around smoking weed and playing video games with the guys yet again," I told her.
Her lips went tight and she dropped it. We watched a movie and she fell asleep with her head in my lap. The last time that would happen for quite awhile.
At first I was wary of going to the party. It wasn't really my kind of thing, or the kind of thing any of my friends were in to. When we went out, it was to house parties filled with people we knew, or to concerts. This was basically a dance, almost prom like, at a nice bar downtown the Xavier girls had rented out. I'd need to wear a suit, which I actually liked, but I wouldn't know anyone there, and I imagined most of the guys there being the stereotypes of douchey frat guys in college movies.
But then, when I got there, I was instantly thankful I'd come. It was a nice event, with fantastic passed hors d'oeuvres, an open bar of top shelf drinks that everyone was able to order without having to show ID. It was not crowded, and the music was actually good. Mingling proved surprisingly easy. I recognized a couple girls there, who then introduced me to those they came with. Everyone was surprisingly friendly, the kind of friendliness you only get at parties where either everyone knows everyone, or, as in this case, where you've all made an exclusive invite list. The girls weren't wary of any of the boys; we'd all been hand picked by their fellow Xavier girls.
The girls looked incredible. Most of them were gorgeous to begin with, but they were dressed to the nines. The relative comfort the girls felt towards the crowd had removed from them any inhibition towards dressing sexy. These girls were not, by and large, club sluts, so they didn't regularly expose this much flesh in public, and, on this night, they managed to expose it and still look classy. I looked around from backless cocktail dress to plunging necklines held up by spaghetti straps, tight fitting strapless dress, short and flowy dresses, thin materialed dresses that exposed the silhouette of the flesh beneath in the right light, dresses with corset tops, and longer dresses slit so high you could almost see some hip. I could have retreated to the bathroom to jerk off after about ten minutes there.
And then I saw Katie Adams.
She had on a tight black velvet cocktail dress that came down to mid thigh - just high enough that later, when she hoisted herself up into a bar stool, I was treated to a flash of the lace tops of her stockings - with a back so low there was no way she could have a bra on. It was not especially low cut, but the material over the top half of her breasts, plunging down to nearly the bottom of her cleavage in the middle, was a beaded black mesh. She was proudly displaying her breasts for the first time I had seen, and damn they looked perfect. They sat high on her chest, close together, the lines where each met her sternum running nearly parallel before curving near the bottom and disappearing from view beneath the velvet material that screamed out to me to touch it and feel its softness with hers underneath.
I'd been dancing with the friend of a girl I knew from a theatre production when I saw her alone at the bar, facing away from me. Her perfect ass stuck out as she leaned forward to give the bartender her order, probably giving him a great eyeful of cleavage. The song ended just around the time that she spun around and we made eye contact. She smiled at me and the rest of the room melted away.
The girl I was dancing with was cute, and I didn't want to offend her by shuffling off to another girl after we'd just done some rather physical dancing with one another. Luckily for me, she told me she had to run to the bathroom, and did.
I swallowed a gulp of my whiskey and soda for courage and started walking towards Katie.
The first words she said to me when I reached her were, "You know, I was hoping I could finish this drink before you talked to me. You wouldn't believe how nervous I am." There was a hint to her voice that she had already had a few, but not enough to yet be drunk.
"Nervous? What for?" I asked, stupidly.
She blushed and looked slightly down, "I don't know... Well, I mean, I figured I should just tell you I'm the one who put your name on the list. If I didn't you might keep on looking for whoever did and dancing with everyone but me."
"Well," I said, "then I guess I don't need to introduce myself and tell you that I'm Michael Gorman?"
"No, but," she stuck out her hand, "I'm Katie Adams. And is it Mike or Michael."
