Dex & Alfie
November 2008
Alfie and I watch as Ken parades around our dorm room in nothing but a pair of form-fitting, shiny briefs that leave little to the imagination as he gathers his strewn about clothes and shoes. Gus shakes his head in mock-disgust as he steps back into his own jeans without fanfare. For the first time this year, my jeans stayed on, but I'm still shirtless and barefoot at the end of our weekly tournament. Alfie (Alf to everyone else) is, as usual, fully clothed. He never even lost a shoe. He never does.
Alfie and I are roommates at the University of Bridgeport in Connecticut. Our friends Ken and Gus come to our room every Friday and we play Mario Kart for hours. Fridays are our time to decompress. Alfie always wins. Since we're (mostly) all broke college students, we never play for money, but it was Ken who wanted to, as he put it, "make things more interesting". He suggested Strip Mario Kart. Alfie was unphased by the suggestion; not only does he always win the war, but he wins every battle along the way. He is seemingly invincible as he avoids banana peels while hurling shells and dropping bombs. It's kind of infuriating.
The way it works is that a fourth place finish means you lose an article of clothing. It's November in the Northeast, so we all start with shoes, socks, pants, a t-shirt and a hoodie. The loser is the first person to eight losses. By that time, you're already in just your undies, but the final loss does not culminate in the full monty. No. The big loser keeps the goods concealed, but has to buy the popcorn for all four of us at movie night in the great room later. It only costs a couple dollars.
Gus, fully dressed now, says, "Dex, Alf... Catch you at the movie."
He and Ken are roommates too. He glances at the still mostly naked Ken and adds, "At least you guys only have to watch this show once a week. I see way too much of our man here every single day. The dude sleeps naked!"
Ken finally has one sock on. He looks up, "Hey! We were born naked. It's our natural state of being. You're all about environmental issues, Gus. I'm contributing to the world's natural beauty."
Alfie laughs as Gus gives Ken double middle fingers before slipping out the door.
Ken nudges me into the corner, "Umm, I'm a little shy this week."
He means shy in terms of cash. In no other way is the still almost naked dude six inches away from me shy. Ken and I trade off being the loser each week. Alfie always wins and Gus is always second. I try to downplay it with my friends, but I'm the only one of us who's not constantly strapped for cash. I end up paying for the popcorn every week regardless of who actually loses. I really don't mind.
I smile at Ken, "I got it."
He grins back, "Hey, Dex. I owe you something then. Maybe I should drop my briefs for a ten-count, give you a gook look-see and we'll call it even."
"I'm taking a hard pass on that," I tell my friend. "And really, I wish you were wearing pants for this conversation."
He winks and laughs. If I'm being honest, Ken is a good-looking dude both above and below the neck. He is clearly proud of his body and he should be. But we're not at the pool or the beach and it's enough now. He picks up on the vibe I'm throwing off, pulls on his spandex biking shorts, gathers his remaining items and disappears down the hall, still shirtless and shoeless.
Alfie says to me, "I bet you anything he finds a reason to drop his briefs before we get to second semester. He's dying to show us what he's packing."
"Right? Even before he had to take them off, those biker shorts were painted on. Size, girth, contours - the mystery is over."
Alfie giggles, "Why is he so desperate to give us this particular show?"
"The same reason he has a new girlfriend every week; he wants as many people as possible to see his proudest accomplishment. He's a big boy and eager to prove it."
"He accomplished his biceps. Hell, he even accomplished his tan. But the size of his junk is nothing but the luck of the genetic draw."
"It's also his gregarious personality. He's what they call a 'shower'."
Alfie makes a face, "I thought that meant something else."
"When it comes to our buddy Ken, it has a double meaning." I chuckle, "Can you imagine if he were a 'grower'? That thing would need to be registered as a lethal weapon."
Alfie chuckles too.
It's our second year of college, but our first year rooming together. I met him early on freshman year in a required health and wellness class. We got to know each other and started hanging out. I am an English/Lit major and Alfie is a Biology major. I struggle big time with all of my required science and math classes. Alfie has tutored me and helped me to study for tests I'd surely otherwise fail for three semesters now. Tutoring is one of the three jobs he has in addition to his class load. All last year I paid him for his tutoring, but now that we're best friends and roommates, he refuses to take my money. I have to find other, sneaky ways to pay him.
Every couple of weeks I stick a crumpled twenty in his jeans pocket. I can't do that too frequently or he'll get suspicious. I also find devious ways to give him things that he'll only accept because he thinks I didn't have to pay for them. I guess he and Ken have pride in common, though they are clearly proud in very different ways.
Ken and Gus are poor, struggling college students in the traditional sense - they just run constantly short on spending money. Their respective families support them and whenever they really need something, they're there for them. They both have all the clothes, books and supplies they need. Their meal plans are paid for. Alfie is another story. He had only two pairs of jeans, three t-shirts, one hoodie, one pair of tattered sneakers that turned from white to grey with age long ago and no coat. It's November in the Northeast. I only know as much about his situation as he lets me know - which isn't a lot.
I've learned to stop asking about his family because it's pointless. He won't talk about them. What I've pieced together in the year-plus that I've known him is that if his family exists, he has nothing to do with them. Financially or emotionally. He's on his own. We're only nineteen. What the fuck? It's a good thing he's so smart because his scholarship covers 75% of his tuition. The other 25%, plus room and board all falls to him. That's why he works three jobs. That's why he never goes home during breaks. And that's why I stick twenties in his jeans pockets whenever I can get away with it.
My parents are not rich by any stretch of the imagination, but I am an only child. All of their love and spoiling lands squarely on my shoulders. I get a generous monthly spending allowance that I supplement with a Saturday job at an off-campus sandwich shop. Alfie actually has a jalopy of a car and he lets me borrow it every Saturday to get to work, since at the same time, he's working on campus in the library. Neither of us talk about it, but I return it to him every Saturday evening with a full tank of gas.
There are only a few scattered stretches of days each year that the campus is completely closed. I strongly suspect that during those times last year, Alfie lived in his car. His old, beat-up car that burns gas to run the heat. I hate thinking about it.
On Saturdays, we meet up in our room after our respective shifts and I bring sandwiches, chips and sodas for the two of us. He only allows me to do this because I convinced him that as an employee benefit, I get up to two free sandwiches a day. Since it's free, he accepts it. He also works library shifts on Monday, Wednesday and Thursday nights. On his scheduled breaks those nights, I bring two sandwiches and we eat dinner together. On Tuesdays, Fridays and Sundays, I get meals for two at the dining hall because I don't use my card on our sandwich days. Again, this is the only reason he allows me to bring him a tray of food. He thinks it costs me nothing. The truth is that none of it is free. Eight free sandwiches a week for a kid who works just one six-hour shift is not an actual benefit. I buy them all. And I lie about it to my best friend.
From the beginning of freshman year to the end, I watched Alfie wasting away. Already skinny eighteen-year-old boys are not supposed to lose weight. For Alfie, the "freshman fifteen" worked in reverse. He could hardly keep his too loose pants to stay up on his hips. When I first saw him after returning from the long summer at home, I was shocked. He was emaciated. I've been pumping him full of food under false pretenses for three months now and he's finally getting close to his original weight. I think. Other than his pants fitting better, I'm not sure he even notices.
It's so much easier for me to help him now that we're roommates. Beyond the gas, the extra twenties and the meals, I find other ways. Of course I find other ways. He's Alfie. It's not just that he keeps me from flunking out of college, despite how little time he has between classes, labs and three jobs, but he's a kind and caring friend. My best friend. So, I come back from visits home with "birthday clothing" that is too small or things I've outgrown. He thinks I didn't buy them, but I do.
Little does he know that I am about to give him a much needed and long overdue second pair of shoes. This one is tricky because we are different sizes. I am 6' 1", 175 pounds and I wear a size eleven shoe. Alfie is only 5' 7", I would guess back up to 115 pounds and I happen to know that he wears a size ten shoe. It wasn't easy to find that out. With his jam packed schedule, he stays up later than me and gets up earlier than me every day. When he's out of the room, his shoes are with him on his feet. When he's in the room, he's either wearing his shoes, or he's awake and would notice me checking them out. I had to wake up in the middle of the night recently to spy his shoe size in the night-darkened room. I'm also lucky that he has big feet for his height. It makes my little ruse more believable.
I slip back into my shirt and sit next to him to put my socks back on. I gently elbow him in the ribs and he jumps. "How come you never have to get dressed again?"
"Because you three all suck." He grins.
I elbow him again and he flinches again.
"Cut it out," he pokes me in the belly with one finger. "That tickles," he says.
That's the opening I hoped for. In actuality, his poke didn't tickle me at all, but I pretend like it did. "Now you're gonna pay! I didn't tickle you on purpose, but you did!" I bend down, grab his left foot and secure it by the ankle with one hand. He can't shake it loose. We're on his bed and he flops backwards, laughing in anticipatory fear before I even do anything. Before his shoe is even off. I flip off his old sneaker with my free hand and I stroke up and down his arch a few times as he thrashes and laughs so hard that he gasps for breath.
This was all just a set up. I needed a reason to get his shoe off, I'm not actually looking to torture the poor guy, so I let him go. As he writhed around on his back, his shirt had bunched up around his ribcage and I noticed two things. First, I was glad to see that while he'll probably be skinny his whole life, he no longer resembles the starving, neglected children you see on those TV commercials. He is in fact getting his weight back. Second, I realized with some surprise that the flash of his smooth olive-toned abdomen caused a stirring in my jeans. My jeans that I'm suddenly very glad I didn't have to take off today. Yes, this is surprising. Just moments ago, Ken (with an admittedly good body) paraded around here almost completely naked and all but swung his dick about like a golf club and none of it had the slightest effect on me. But a two-second flash of innocent stomach on Alfie and I'm suppressing a hardon. What's that about?
