Thanksgiving break was the following week. There was a weird energy on campus, a merger of the smug self-satisfaction of those who had kept up with their course work and the simmering panic of those who had not. I landed somewhere between the two extremes, doing well in classes that interested me, and just 'ok' in those that did not speak to my academic mojo.
Macro econ ended with Dr Atherton warning us about the legendary rigor of his final exam. I was doing well, and smiled at the worried faces this stern reminder engendered in some of the loutish frat bros. The looming specter of Atherton's final hung over the room.
I always sat up front, fully engaged. "Thank you Dr Atherton. I hope you enjoy the break next week." He nodded.
"Likewise, Mr. Ravenel. Always a pleasure to have you in my class." I had learned quickly how to work these guys, just as I had done with my HS faculty.
I pointedly did not look around for Griffin. He had been friendly since our hectic-horny swapping of head in the library mens room some weeks ago, not bringing up our hot drooling toilet stall man sex. I played it equally cool, with a poker face that kept my pretty good hand hidden. I slyly noticed him around campus and had my ears on alert for any Griff gossip. His frank and knowing glance sometimes held mine, and would send me into a hot daydream quicksand of lust, confusion, curiosity, joy. I sensed that we were both playing a long game.
The hall thinned of students, and I leaned against the wall, mentally prioritizing what I should study that afternoon. "Hey Travis, wait up", that Alabama accent; I could feel his voice down to my 'taint. The scruffy letter jacket and killer jawline of dark stubble were now in front of me.
"Hey Griff, what's up? Where are you headed for Thanksgiving?" I asked casually.
"Home to Mobile. I wanna sleep late, chow down on mom's cooking, play golf with the dadster and the uncles, drink beer with the posse of jock dumb asses I went to HS with...where are you headed"? Be cool, I thought, be so cool.
"Sounds real nice. I am driving down to the family place in Richmond. They always put on a good spread. I have to get caught up on lots of reading for 20th Century American lit". Cool, so cool.
"Sweet. I hear 'ya on the reading; it is relentless. I like your jacket". He took his fingertips and lightly touched the epic softness of the lamb suede, the touch just a bit too long. "Very soft. Kinda' like the blond boy fuzz on your hot little ass". Cool, cool, be cool.
"Thanks. Gift from the step-momster. The jacket that is, not the blond boy fuzz on my hot little ass. Her unyielding good taste and weaponized generosity are two of her best qualities."
Griff laughed. "Nice. Looks good on you..." he lowered his voice and moved closer. "Listen, I just moved into my own apartment right off campus. Just a studio in Canal Place; no more roommates for moi, ever again!" My head reeled with implications, scenarios, consequences, shower scenes, Sunday mornings with the blinds closed late, shared hangovers and pizza.
"Whoa. Cool. Canal Place is kinda' pricey; can you afford it?" I stalled and deflected.
"No, I can't afford it. But my daddy can, and he wants me to have a good time here. No roommates means we can hang out. You could be my first guest in my new place. You wanna do that? Fly the magic futon?" No smiling now, just his dark eyed gaze meeting mine.
"Shit, You know I do, Griff". My cool gone, my hand played. I looked down and away, afraid for him to see just how badly I wanted him.
"Awesome! Tonight? Come by around 7p. Bring wine and some decent Thai food." Fuck around, Griff was as eager as I was. He wrote his address and number on the inside flap of my econ text in Sharpie, big and permanent and confident. "I gotta go; have two office hour meets on the other side of campus. 7p, cool?" Intentional Griff smile, no way out for me now.
"Hell yeah, 7p. I will so be there". He turned and trotted off towards the doors, head high, dark mane flowing back, jock ass in Levi's. Varsity shortstop. What the actual fuck was I doing?
I could not study. I could not nap. I walked around campus randomly as it got colder and darker. Back at the dorm room, I found the three bottles of rather decent Malbec I had lifted from dad and Vera's wine pantry on my last visit to Richmond.
My dorm situation was like a three bedroom garden apartment with common living area, full kitchen and shared bath. My roommates were a pair of Korean twins, both of whom were in the engineering school. They were quiet, studious, clean, sober, whip smart and intuitively cool. The quiet order and responsible calm of our pristine little dorm pod was fine with me, given the party crazed chaos some of our gooner braying neighbors lived in. They both liked to cook, and I would often front and fetch groceries so as to be included in their dinners, enjoyed at a properly set table. They were not home, and I left a note that I would be out late. They were politely incurious as to my personal life, and I rewarded them with a vague discretion, an unspoken arrangement that worked well for all.
I added a crew neck sweater and knit cap to the suede jacket, and headed to Saphire Thai, the Malbec in my backpack. Two take away orders of drunken noodles with chicken, two nam tok salads with extra slices of flank steak. Griff was gonna need his protein tonight.
Canal Place housed a mix of young-ish professionals and students who could front a lease for good digs off campus. Griff's flat was the ground level of a three floor end townhouse with a discreet private entrance on the side. Nice. I listened at the door; silence. I rang twice. Griff flung the door open, boxers and tee shirt, clearly just up from a nap.
"Trav! With FOOD! Fuck around! Get in here baby, I am starving! Did you find it OK?"
The fly of his boxers gaped open, and I got a sly hint at the dark fuzzy wonder of his manly crotch.
"Yeah. This is real nice." Windowless galley kitchen and bath at the front, one big square room at the back. Slider doors led out to a brick courtyard shared with the townhouse upstairs.
Futon on a base of stacked wooden pallets, unmade and clearly the site of a really good recent nap. A bag of expensive new golf clubs and two scruffy aluminum baseball bats. Battered Danish modern dinning table against a long wall used as a desk; laptop and desktop. Stacks of books. Didion, Updike, Burroughs, Canty. A used plaid sofa, ugly enough to clash with the whole world, was in front of a big flat panel on a solid shelf made of thick planks and fresh cinder blocks, the lower shelves also packed with books. Large flat top footlocker as a table. "The Birds" was on the TV in full mute, Tippi Hedren silently enjoying both her fur coat and her speeding Sunbeam roadster, headed for Bodega Bay and the studly Mitch Brenner.
"It is coming together, thanks to CraigsList and select dumpsters" he laughed. We unpacked the Thai take away in the narrow kitchen. I fished the wine from my backpack. He picked up a bottle and raised his dark eyebrows appreciatively. "This is good shit. Where?"
"I lifted it from the 'rents last time I was down there." He wielded a high end cork screw and some stemless wine glasses. He poured, we drank.
Eyebrows still raised, he looked me up and down. "Mmmm. Hot blond preppie boy brings me good wine stolen from the family manor. How did I get so lucky?"
Fuck all the way around. "Keep talkin' like that and you will get soooo very lucky tonight." He put his arms around me from behind, and ran his agile tongue slowly across the entire nape of my neck. Lust imploded my universe and all I could say was "Unnnnh!"
"Let's EAT already!" he clowned. Heaped Thai food on mismatched plates. Chop sticks from the take away bag. We wolfed the food like feral dogs, washed it down with the rest of the bottle. The movie was still silent on the screen; large crows were perching on playground equipment while Tippi Hedren stylishly smoked.
Griff kicked back on the sofa, sated, and let out a long slow deliberate belch. I laughed. "Very fine. Truly world class. Musical, yet manly." I said, sarcastically. Without asking, I went to the kitchen and uncorked bottle number two, brought it back to the foot locker, poured for us both. Eyebrows up, he looked pleased that I had quickly mastered his turf.
He went to the desk, found an ample jay, cheap roach clip and disposable lighter. No vaping gear or $600 bongs like the fake hipster wannabe stoners on campus. Apparently, weed was still weed on the sandy party roads and ball fields of southern Alabama, where young men with work roughened fingers mastered the delicate art of EZ-Wider roll ups. He lit up and took a huge hit. Exhaling his ample cloud, he offered me the joint, asking facetiously "you get high?"
"Does the Pope shit in the woods?" We laughed and I took and held an equally strapping hit, eager to show I was not some lightweight in a Lord & Taylor sweater. After about three hits each, he carefully stubbed out the roach on the rim of his dinner plate, and left the clip on.
I gaped at the screen. The town gas station burst into flames after a pink DeSoto crashed into the pumps. Angry Sea Gulls descended from the sky. Bad day in Bodega Bay for Tippi and Mitch. "Are you OK?" he asked.
"Yeah, just Livin' in Stoned Henge. Baked like a cake. Show me your tongue." He stuck his tongue all the way out. "Shit. We both have red wine mouth. The only cure for red wine mouth is...more red wine." He shouted with laughter and rolled into me. I grabbed his long hair and kissed him from above, hard, eager. I eased back, tip of tongue, lips, slow, with a thoughtful gentleness I had not shared with anyone else.
He looked up at me. "Get naked for me". His voice raspy from wine and weed. "Like a stripper, not like a shy school boy in a locker room".
