Never were there two more incompatible people than my college freshman roommate and me. Surprising, given the college required everyone planning to stay in the dorms to complete a lengthy questionnaire so they could match you with someone who had common interests.
Having selected your roommate, they sent you his profile in late summer. I was certainly excited, as Jim was from Florida and described himself as outgoing, into beach volleyball, water skiing, surfing, deep-sea fishing, and dating, among other fun things. I pictured us two wild and crazy guys gobbling babes down like buttered popcorn and could hardly wait for school to start in September.
When I met Jim, it took me about five seconds to determine he was either the world's biggest fibber, or I received the profile from some other Jim from Florida, for this Jim was withdrawn, possessed none of his claimed interests, and had really bad acne. When his parents met mine, even his own mother told my mom Jim was "strange."
And you were stuck with your assigned roommate for at least one academic quarter--3 months--before you could even apply for a change.
Now I'm one to always just make the best of a situation, so that's what I did. Most of the rest of the guys on my hall were great, and since Jim was in the work-study program and studied a lot at the library, my dorm ended up being very much like a single-occupancy room, and quickly became the floor "party room," full of revelers and funny-smelling smoke billowing from the window at most any time of the day or night.
But Jim did return to the room to sleep at night, when he would first pop a few dozen ripe zits onto the mirror, then climb onto the top bunk and whack off while reading Golf Digest. I used to chuckle to myself, wondering just what he saw in Lee Trevino and Jack Nicklaus. But he wasn't gay, and he was not an exhibitionist, as the magazine served as a screen behind which he'd masturbate.
In truth, I suspect Jim was fantasizing about Debbie, who was the best-looking, sexiest freshman babe on campus; she and Jim had gone to the same high school in Bradenton, Florida, and he spoke of her much like I spoke of Rachel Welch when I was eleven--that juvenile, golly-gee-whiz, she's-real-purdy way.
When Debbie was not parading to and from class in tight skirts and jeans, she was at the pool in an itsy bitsy teeny weenie micro-mini bikini displaying her dark tan, dizzying cleavage, and jaw-dropping tight butt that would turn the head of a Trappist monk. She had the look of those Hawaiian Tropic girls, which is to say, fabulous.
In stark contrast to the phalanx of he-man jock suitors usually surrounding her, I found her alone at the pool one afternoon. In fact, swimming classes having just ended, we were the only two people there. She had just gotten her long, thick brown hair cut into the short-'n-sassy style then popular, and, to my eye, it looked just terrific, as she had a great-shaped head, and, from the way her lips looked and moved, I figured she gave great head.
That notion, along with watching her slather tanning oil over her lusciously smooth contours, had me wanting to meet her and contemplating what I could possibly say. The more you think about such things, the more likely it is you'll screw it up. This was a classic act-now-don't-think situation, so I took a few hits of cold Stoli from the flask in my daypack, and began walking around the Olympic-size pool toward her. Longest fucking walk of my life!
Heart pounding, I sat down on the edge of the chair next to hers and purposefully made a racket so she'd look up. She did not budge. Gulp. Before I lost my nerve, I stood up and just blurted out, "Didn't you go to Bradenton High?"
Debbie raised up, took off her sunglasses, looked me up and down, smiled, and said, "Why, yes, but you don't look familiar, and I'm sure I would have remembered YOU."
With those words, my confidence soared, and I took off my sunglasses, looked her up and down, and smiled.
I had learned that mirroring technique from a psychologist: To quickly establish rapport with someone you are meeting for the first time, imitate their actions--their body language, gestures, expressions, voice tone, and speaking pace. It's a subtle way of making a personal connection, and it often works, as people tend to subconsciously identify with those that are like them.
I told her that I knew where she went to high school because her classmate Jim was my roommate. "You mean shy Jim, Pizzaface Jim? HE'S your roommate?" she asked, incredulously.
"Yes, I believe the school abandoned its similarity principle and instead, in our case, used the opposites-attract theory. We are completely different," I explained, realizing at that moment that we did have one thing in common—the hot weenie for her.
We laughed and continued to check each other out. I genuinely liked her new short hair-do, and I told her so. She really beamed at hearing that, as she said that she'd had long hair her whole life, really went out on a limb to cut it so short, and had heard nothing positive about it until my compliment.
I, too, had just gotten my hair cut quite short, and she said she really liked it, running her slender fingers through it. I offered her the flask from my daypack, and we took several slugs of the cold Russian vodka from it. This conversation with the to-die-for Debbie was going better than I could have ever dreamed, and it certainly seemed that she liked me. But testosterone has a way of impairing one's judgement. She might simply be a friendly Southern girl, teasing me, or even mercilessly toying with me. I would have to up the ante to find out.
Now I would not be caught dead in them now, but you have to remember this was the 1970s: I was wearing Speedo swim trunks. OK, go ahead, laugh your asses off, as I'm laughing at myself too, just as I do when seeing pictures of me in neck ties nearly wide enough to make a bedspread or the short-shorts of my basketball uniform, just like the ABA's '70s uniform shorts--ridiculous. Thankfully, styles have changed for the better.
Once you realize that more than a few men wore Speedos in those days, at the risk of sounding vain, I actually looked pretty good in them. Tall & tan, broad-shouldered & thin-waisted, with thick brown hair and a mustache, I looked a lot like U.S. Olympic multi-gold medallist swimmer Mark Spitz--so much so that a dorm buddy had recently nicknamed me "Spitz"—though in all honesty, I struggled to chop my way across a pool.
Anyway, the point is, both my suit and Debbie's left little to the imagination, and as we sat there chatting by the pool, she was staring at me nearly as much as I was gawking at her goodies. To help determine whether or not she had any real sexual interest in me, I offered to put some oil on her back when she turned over. Her "Please do. I'd really like that," sounded so sincerely sensual and inviting that I wasted no time in drizzling it across her back, where she had already undone her top.
Back and shoulders well-oiled, I squirted way too much on her legs and worked my way up from her calves, massaging both legs at the same time as we continued to chat, chat, chat. This day-glow yellow suit looked brand-new, and its bottoms were a bit higher cut across the bottom of her buns than she had been wearing, revealing matching arcs of ¼-inch wide lily-white flesh at the tan line. Now we wouldn't want to skip over this area, now would we?
I hesitated momentarily before pushing my oily thumbs along those gloriously firm strips of butt flesh. She made a faint "mmmm" sound, so I did it again, this time a little more firmly and starting closer to her pussy—half an inch away—which splayed her bare outer lips partially into view just beyond the fabric as she made another barely audible coo. I continued to make little circles with my thumbs, now just beneath her bikini bottoms and to talk about who-knows-what, making a comment about my being "garrulous and circumlocutory." To say my penis was erect would be like saying Chicago's Sears Tower is tall.
Debbie then raised up, twisted around, propped herself on an elbow, and looked around. At first, I thought I was busted, but when I saw that smile and the fact that she made absolutely no attempt to cover her splendid breasts, I knew it was OK, but not just how OK until, staring at my bulging crotch, she said, "Did you say hairless and circumcised?"
Simultaneously embarrassed and turned on, I cracked up laughing, as did she, and I watched her boobs jiggle in the bright sun before she pulled her top over them. That was the critical moment, and I made a date with her for that evening. I wrapped my towel as best I could around me to hide Mr. Johnson, said good-bye, and waddled back to my dorm room.
Unbelievable. I had a date with the awesome Debbie!!! So as not to disappoint her, and for the very first time in my life, I shaved my crotch and balls bare, nicking myself a few times in the process, but, hey, you do what you gotta do.
When I met her at her dorm, she came down the stairs wearing a short black pleated skirt, sandals, and a thin white halter-top. Nipple city. Muscles flexing beneath the smooth, dark skin of her long legs. Moved like an ocelot through the jungle. A radiant smile like the girl in the Ultra-Bright toothpaste commercials. Debbie was, indeed, a ravishing beauty.
We walked up to the campus village together, got a pizza, and washed it down with a several pitchers of beer. Not only was Debbie gorgeous, but she also had a great personality—witty, intelligent, confident, sexy. We were having a truly grand time. By the second pitcher, we were kissing and basically all over each other. A terrible local band was playing, but we danced anyway. Every man in sight was looking at us, and you could almost hear them thinking, "that lucky son of a bitch."
We strolled arm-in-arm back towards campus and passed a drug store. I broke my last ten-dollar bill and got a six of St. Pauli Girl Dark. She grabbed a big bottle of aloe lotion, placed it on the counter, and said, "This could be fun."
We French-kissed and groped each others asses on the dark quadrangle, and she had one of the longest, most agile tongues I've ever experienced. I told her I'd like to come up to her dorm room.
"Let's go to your room instead," she suggested.
