Everybody has preferences, likes and dislikes, and most often, we do not really know why. What triggered our likes and desires? Why do we hate specific smells, tastes? Why do we get excited at certain sights that leave the next man cold, why do certain other things that drive another man to white heat leave us cold? In some cases, we can analyze it or find out in another way, but most often, our tastes are just what they are, and no reasons obvious for the why.
I like raven-haired petite women in a short figure-hugging leather dress, a bit older than myself with pert, well-rounded bottocks. And I know exactly why.
While during my adulthood the issue was to find raven-haired girls in leather to play with (something I became quite good at, also thanks to loosening public morale), it now becomes an issue to find them older than myself and still slim with a pert shapely arse, as my story happened a very long time ago, in another country where I spent my misspent youth.
At that time, I lived in a student dorm that beyond the usual bed-roof-companionship combination offered some more perks. It had a very active social calendar, with planned visits from local and foreign student groups, its own bar and beer pump and facilities to serve meals three times a day for which you could (and were expected to) subscribe. The members also used the sports facilities together and trained for sports competitions.
The House was managed by students and financed by alumni. Whoever joined was a lifetime member with varying tasks over one's life.
In 1st and 2nd year: party fodder. New members were the heart and soul of the House. They participated in all events, partied, received the guests and lived in the House.
In year 3 and 4, the members grew into roles of organizing activities, leading the group, managing finances and organizing the external support needed. These roles were seen as officers' roles with a certain amount of power over the stripelings.
In year 5 one usually became an alumnus and paid an annual due as soon as one made a living.
The older members were also available as mentors in personally or academically difficult situations and for many students, the network of alumni acted as an extremely efficient career booster.
The House was a Victorian building from the 1880ies built of brownish sandstone with arches and vaults everywhere, a lovely building that could have been renovated into a real gem hadn´t there been the students with their moderate sense for order and cleanliness and their constant parties that included a generous amount of drinking and carousing. The alumni curbed the most extreme excesses but left the students a relatively free rein, exactly as they had enjoyed one generation before, or two or three.
The House could not have been run without the help of a couple, janitors does not entirely describe their role. He was responsible for small repairs around the building, grilling and pulling beer at festivities. She was in charge of food, three meals a day for between 4 people (during term breaks) to 30 people (during term), occasionally a banquet for special days where up to 100 alumni joined; this and the tidiness and cleanliness of the house in general.
This was not a task we envied her for and particularly not the day after one of the rowdy beer parties. The whole ground floor stood full of empty and half-empty glasses, the floor was sticky from spilled beer and sometimes, there were the last revelers snoring on a sofa, a chair or leaning in a corner, wherever Morpheus had overpowered them.
A good couple made a huge difference for the whole House and they were always in high demand from other Houses. We were envied for ours as they were performing their tasks outstandingly well and never gave us students a hard time. Yes, our couple was a gem. They both were Croats who had fled the country and had lived here since the war. I cannot recollect their name anymore, after all, the story I am telling happened a long time ago. But let us call them Mr. and Mrs. Juric, that does suit them well.
I must have been in my third or fourth year in the House and my role at the time was that of the House's Steward. I was responsible for everything to do with food and drink, I discussed events and the weekly menu with Mrs. Juric, I ordered wine and beer and I was responsible for cleaning and maintaining the beer pumps. If the latter sounds like a lowly chore, this is misunderstanding the importance of the beer pump.
In Christian churches, life revolves around the altar stone, the Jews in the Sinai danced around the Golden Calf, Muslim life revolves around the Qu'aaba in Mekkah. Our life at that time revolved around the beer pump. Not cleaning it properly, a malfunction during a big event, or any other laxity had you immediately stripped of your rank and excluded from the House for a set time. I cleaned and maintained that pump religiously and could even today, decades later, disassemble and re-assemble it blindly. But I digress.
It was in my fourth year when we had the visit of another House, old friends of the House since at least 20 years and the beer party in the evening had taken off like a rocket, as these things tend to do. Drinking games, challenges, daring speeches, competitions, songs, always lots of songs, and lots and lots of beer.
At two in the morning, the group was considerably decimated, and at three, all but six or seven had gone to bed. We decided to retire from the large wood-paneled hall to the Red Salon, a smaller room with plush armchairs and blood-red velvet draperies that gave it its name.
The small group had entered together the Golden Hour, that magic time sometimes experienced towards the end of raucous parties. A small group, the fever has dropped, everybody is quite drunk, not yet fully out of order, but already a bit exhausted. Discussions ensue on a subject that are pursued in ernest, it can be anything from extremely philosophical to downright ridiculous. I found myself at one time arguing whether or not souls had a fixed size, carrying away the day with the remark that souls could not have a fixed size, they had to vary by species, otherwise a flea's soul would go beyond its body, sort of spill out and would be visible. Solemn nods, wise words, it sounded very true at that moment.
The most remarkable thing is that these discussions are led with the ultimate seriousness and meaningfulness. Yesterday is gone, tomorrow not quite here, everybody draped over the armchairs, dreamy, happy. You feel engulfed in this golden cocoon that bathes everything and everybody in its warm and comforting light and shines deep into your soul.
It was one of these golden moments, and one of the remaining guests said:
"Your housekeeper", he referred to Mrs. Juric, "she is hot". A discussion started if this was the case, a serious and slow discussion with long, pensive pauses. The main arguments for it were her looks, she occasionally wore short dresses, among them a black leather dress, her friendly smile she gave all of us so freely and the tight dress she had worn today. The argument against it was that she was OLD. She could not have been a day older than 35, but for us at 19 or 20, that was old and even though we were full of sap and strength, most of us could not see her as an object of our desires, or so we thought.
"Does she do it..." was a tentative question from our guests. We did not understand what he meant, a pause followed, the idea was far from our minds, so he added after a short pause "... you know, does she do it with you?" Now that was a droll idea and we said truthfully, that no, she did not, and we had not heard anything from the Alumni that she had done at any time or ever. Silence descended upon us again while our guests considered the information and we grappled with the concept that Mrs. Juric was a woman and we were men, and therefore, theoretically, ...
"I bet she wears a garter belt under her skirts" one of the guests said softly after a while. That was a statement of incredible audacity and eroticism; in the time of the pantyhose as a key element of women's wardrobe, a garter belt was a symbol of naughty girls that liked to play. The thought of Mrs. Juric who fastens her nylons while being bare-legged... You could see how the thought made its way through everyone's mind, sparked more secret thoughts that each of us carefully protected and did not share ... except for one guest:
"I bet she even wears a G-string underneath her skirt while she is about the House..." That was a shocking thought; to our knowledge only skanks wore this kind of incendiary underwear to excite their customers. The thought alone that Mrs. Juric's buns were naked under her skirt, nothing but her skirt hiding them from our view, while she served food at lunch...
"Only sluts wear lingerie" stated one of my friends forcefully, thinking this would close the debate. I felt like a real bon vivant when I testingly said:
"And ...?" A thundering silence ensued. Everybody stared at me, mouth agape. What had I insinuated here? Did I really mean what she was ... Me, the person that probably had most to do with Mrs. Juric. A shocked silence reigned, I was possibly most shocked of us all by my own audacity. My question had closed the debate.
The next morning, it must have been around nine, I was seemingly the only soul alive in the House. I was in one of the vaulted cellars where we stocked beer barrels and connected them to riser pipes that brought the beer to the tap room. The stone vault was sparsely illuminated and cool, which is always welcome after a hard night's drinking.
I was checking how much beer was left from yesterday's debauchery. Did we have enough to make it to Friday, where the next delivery was expected? Just barely enough, we did not have any planned activities until Friday, but I found it wiser to later go and borrow a barrel at one of the neighbouring Houses to be on the safe side.
