But now — Angelique?
I couldn’t help but wonder: Would I ever meet a guy I could marry? A guy who’d propose to me? One I could take home and introduce to my parents as my fiancé?
Maybe Brent will be the one, I suggested to Jane, trying out the idea. True, I didn’t know him that well — yet — but he was manly enough. A macho man, actually. The only type of male I’d endeavored to date since Mark Williams (a genuinely wonderful guy who was the greatest boyfriend ever during college…until he “came out” to me). But Brent also has something of Sam in him, with that love of bantering and his natural…oh —
Impertinence? Jane supplied.
Well, yeah.
She sniffed, making it clear she didn’t endorse Brent as a marital prospect.
Your sister is a married woman now, perhaps she can offer you some beneficial advice?
I laughed aloud. Not likely, Jane. You know how I feel about trying to talk with her. You know it’s futile.
I know no such thing, Jane retorted. You are such a stubborn young being, Ellie. I only mention this because a time will come when you may wish to cherish your sisterly relationsh —
“Can I have change for a five?” a second-floor resident asked me, interrupting Jane’s latest lecture.
“Sure,” I said, pulling out the cash box and contemplating doing something reckless with Brent Sullivan.
I decided I didn’t want to think about marriage. I didn’t want to imagine Angelique getting wild-’n’-wacky at a bar mitzvah with her Stanford boyfriend. I didn’t want to patch up my relationship with my malicious sister. In fact, I didn’t want to have the voices of Reason and Maturity in my head at all that night.
Instead, I just wanted to think about Brent. About being young and free and potentially in love. About my own life and what I wanted from it: Some respect from my immediate family. A career I enjoyed and was good at. One man who cared about me and whom I cared about in return.
How bad could it be to, for once, go after exactly what I needed, even if the method wasn’t wholly and completely honorable?
What are you devising, Ellie? Jane said in her Warning tone.
Nothing.
Nonsense. Tell me. I implore you not to do anything regrettable.
But because I’d momentarily forgotten the tremendous pain I’d endured at the hands of men when I’d ignored Jane in the past, I shut my eyes and shut Jane out of my mind for the night.
While this skill was something I’d learned to do as I’d grown older (one I’d often had reasonable grounds for exercising, particularly when boys and bedrooms were involved), and while Jane herself elected to shut me out on occasion as well…this time it was a mistake on my part. No question about it.
Brent led me by the hand through the door of the now unlocked sauna room. Then he locked it behind us.
“Alone at last,” he said with his trademark spider-to-the-fly smirk.
“Yep,” I replied, eloquent as always.
I wondered what his lead-in line would be. How long it would take before he began to kiss me. If I could give off the appearance of cool until I knew where he was headed. And, mostly, if our month of verbal foreplay meant anything when it came down to lip-to-lip action.
I took a couple of deep breaths and surreptitiously studied Brent’s attractive physique. My fingers itched from wanting to run them through his dark curly hair, but I clasped them together instead.
I wasn’t quite subtle enough. He caught me staring and looked at me as if he knew what I was thinking.
“I brought along a deck of cards.” He punctuated this statement by pulling them out of his back pocket and waving them in the air. “Thought, maybe, we could play a game or two of Go Fish.”
Not the opening line I’d expected. “Here?” I said, unsure how to respond. “In the sauna?”
“Well, yeah. Every time I have to fish for another card, I also get to fish for an item of clothing.” He grinned. “One of yours.”
My heart, which had been pounding frantically, stopped. Then restarted. “Oh. Uh, Brent — ”
“Now before you go disagreeing with me, just think of how fun it’ll be. I bet no one’s done that in here yet. We could be total originals.”
“I — I’m not sure I want to make my mark as a trendsetter in quite that way.” Not that I was opposed to seeing more of him, but I’d expected at least an attempt at hugging or kissing before we started discarding clothes. I had to laugh, though, and eye his body one more time. Who else would’ve thought of Strip Go Fish?
Unfortunately, when he caught my admiring stare, Brent had his way in, and he knew it.
“Ellie,” he said, his voice low and seductive. “Remember, if you have to go fish, you get to make a clothing selection, too.” He held my hands and pressed them up against his hard chest. “Aren’t you even a little curious?”
This was the dangerous line women had to walk. Curiosity versus consequences.
“Of course,” I whispered. “But we haven’t known each other for very long and — ”
“That’s not true,” he said, adamant. “We’ve been friends for ages, and I know you’re nice and friendly, cute and smart, into poetry and English and stuff. I know you, Ellie. I just wanna get to know you better.”
I was being an idiot. Exhibit A: Even thinking of considering a Very Lame Line like that. Exhibit B: Going ahead and considering it anyway. However, this was a case where curiosity bested consequences. In my defense, I did make a brief plea for responsibility.
“Let’s get to know each other then,” I whispered. “But, please, let’s take things slow. I’m not ready to go too far, not just yet. Okay?”
He nodded, looking gleeful, and I realized I’d just given him the female equivalent of a Very Lame Line.
Brent turned on the switch to start the sauna. Within moments the room began heating up. At this rate, we might have to begin removing clothing before the card game began. I unbuttoned the top of my shirt and pushed up my sleeves. Brent untucked his jersey and plopped down on the floor.
He shuffled the deck like a Vegas dealer. The cards buzzed in his palms, smacking into each other and falling neatly into place. Then he dealt us seven cards each, placing the remainder in the middle.
He studied his hand and rearranged a few. “You can go first,” he said with a gallant smile.
I fanned out my cards. Two eights, a four, a three, a ten, a king and an ace. I removed my pair of eights and laid them on the warm tile.
Brent looked impressed by my early match and winked at me. “Way to go.”
“Thanks. Okay, I’d like a four please.”
He scanned his cards and his grin broadened. “Sorry, don’t have it. Go fish.”
What to do?
I selected a card from the pile. A six of spades. I added it to my hand and stared at him.
“What else will you take?” he asked, pointing to his torso with his open palm.
“Your, um, left shoe.”
He raised his eyebrows and slowly untied his sneaker. He pulled it off and handed it to me. “Hope it’s not too stinky for you.”
I shook my head. “Your turn.”
“A jack, any suit.”
Damn. I didn’t have it. I swallowed hard and said, “Go fish.”
Brent grinned as he reached for a card. “And I’ll take your shirt, too.”
“My shirt? Already?”
“Yep. Off with it.” He motioned for me to pass it over to him.
So, he was going to play hardball, was he? I unbuttoned my blouse and slowly tugged it off, glad my bra was full coverage and freshly washed.
He eyed me with an appreciation far more licentious than reverential. “Thanks. Back to you.”
“A three,” I said.
He raised a cocky brow and plucked one out of his hand. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.” Then I winced. Since we’d agreed not to have double turns, even if we got a matched card from our opponent, it was already his turn
again.
“Ten,” he said.
I exhaled and handed my ten of hearts over. “Okay, Brent, give me a king.”
“No king. Sorry, sugarplum.” He shook his head with feigned sadness. “Go fish.”
I blindly grabbed a card, then pointed my index finger at him. “And I want the jeans, too.”
A laugh erupted from him. “Okay. Now you’re getting into the spirit of things.” Then he very deliberately unfastened his belt, his eyes never leaving my face, and he slid them off, taking the right sneaker with them. He tossed the jeans over to me and retied his remaining sneaker as I watched. The distorted shape of his white briefs boasted full arousal.
I felt the room temperature spike. Boy, that sauna was really working.
“My turn, Ellie.” His voice was even lower now and even more seductive. I felt a chill of excitement despite the heat. “Do you have a five for me?”
“No,” I whispered.
He paused, waiting.
“Go fish,” I said finally.
He grabbed a card from the pile and winked. “Bra.”
My jaw dropped. “I — uh — ”
“Don’t back out on me now.”
“Umm…” Oh, what the hell. I shrugged and unhooked the back clasp. So much for full coverage.
“I’ll take that,” he whispered.
I handed the bra to him and crossed my arms.
“No fair.”
“Tough,” I said.
“Your turn,” he reminded me.
“Yeah. That’s right. And I want an ace.” The kind of ace that would get him back good.
He shook his head. “No ace, baby doll. You know what to do.” His grinned dared me. “Go fish.”
I drew a card, leaned toward him and said, “Your briefs, please. Now.”
His look was jubilant, not embarrassed. Brent knew what he was doing. He pulled the briefs off and dangled them on his finger. I, of course, wasn’t really focused on the underwear. Brent had been fortunate in the endowment department, and it was a pleasure to observe the length and firmness of him. So much so that I’d forgotten to keep my arms crossed.
“Finish the game?” he asked, his tone amused.
“S-Sure.”
“A nine, then.”
I didn’t bother looking down at my hand. I knew I didn’t have it. “Go fish.”
He put his cards on the tile floor. “I want the rest of your clothing.”
“Okay,” I heard myself say. “Likewise.”
We shucked whatever we were still wearing, and Brent swept the cards aside. He pressed his body against mine and his lips swooped in to taste my mouth. To consume it.
I felt like a kid sneaking chocolate bars on Halloween night. How after a busy evening of trick-or-treating, when we’d already eaten our allotment of sweets, I’d tiptoe out of bed and into the kitchen, find my stash and secretly devour another Snickers or Milky Way. It was bad for me. I knew I didn’t need it. It kind of made my stomach roil. But the temptation was too strong for me to ignore. Brent Sullivan was just like that candy.
“I want you,” he whispered. “I’m crazy about you. Be my girlfriend, Ellie.”
I nodded and hoped, rather than believed, he was sincere in his intentions.
He didn’t waste time trying to convince me further with words after that. He just used his hands and his mouth and his hips and his…well, let’s just say that Brent had come prepared for safe sex, and what followed wasn’t at all mediocre. My body was euphoric. My heart less so.
Brent nibbled on my neck in that rare, tranquil moment of afterglow. “We’ve gotta return the key by midnight,” he said between nips. “That gives us only another fifteen, twenty minutes. Anything special you wanna do?”
“Can we just talk?”
He shrugged and withdrew his teeth from my neck. “Sure. What do you want to talk about?”
“Our relationship.”
His eyes grew wide, but he glanced away — to keep me from reading his expression, I figured.
I sat up.
“Yeah?” he said.
I picked through the clothes until I found my bra and panties. I slipped those back on, fast. “So, when you said you wanted me to be your girlfriend, did you mean just for tonight? Or were you thinking longer term? Like that we’d be, you know, exclusively dating now?”
He met my eye and beamed a bright smile at me. “The second option, Ellie.”
Thank God.
“Oh, fine,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I was just checking.”
“I don’t hide out in the sauna with just anyone. I really, really like you.” He paused and his look turned serious. “You feel that way about me, too, right? You’re not just using me to get your jollies, are you, El?”
“Of course not. You’re smart and funny and very, very sexy. I really like you, too.”
He exhaled heavily. “Well, that’s a relief. I don’t wanna play those kind of games. You know, where one person is in it only for the sex. Somebody always gets hurt then.”
I nodded, seeing new depths in this guy that I’d missed during our bantering sessions at the front desk. My heart started to relax a little and marriage, suddenly, didn’t seem quite so much of a long shot. I mean, there we were — both twenty-two — legal and nearly self-supporting adults. Within a year and a half we’d be all set to live responsible, grown-up lives. We could realistically get married within a few weeks of grad school graduation. In a matter of seconds, I had our lives planned out until retirement.
Brent gave me an affectionate peck on the cheek. “Yeah, let’s be exclusive,” he said, almost to himself. Then, apparently deciding to go commando, he zipped up his jeans and expertly tucked his white briefs into his waistband. He covered it up with his jersey and slipped on his sneakers. “I’m ready to get outta here whenever you are.”
I finished getting dressed and we left the sauna holding hands and grinning at each other.
I thought it was the start of a beautiful relationship.
As usual, I thought wrong.
With the exception of enjoying a couple blissful months of hot sex, life went on much as it always had.
In the light of day, and with my full conscious mind open to her again, Jane, of course, tried to advise me.
She cautioned, There is, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.
She counseled, Every impulse of feeling should be guided by reason.
She said, hopefully, You are too sensible a girl to fall in love merely because you are warned against it.
But I wasn’t sensible. I was a fool. And I let her words of wisdom float in and out of my lust-crazed brain, until one afternoon when I went to visit my friend Erica in another dorm.
Erica was an undergrad, a senior, but only a year younger than me and in one of the lit classes that could be taken by both grads and undergrads.
Like me, she was an English geek.
Unlike me, she’d set her sights on a somewhat more illustrious career path than that of a high-school librarian. She wanted to become a famous poet and — for income until the fame kicked in — a professor at a Big Ten university. When we got together we liked to talk Classics.
That day, with the help of passages from a variety of mournful poets, we were discussing her feelings toward her high-school boyfriend Dylan, who died in a tragic car accident back then.
“I don’t think it’s wrong for those memories to dim, Erica. I doubt Dylan would want you to stop living. To still be thinking only of him.”
“I know he wouldn’t. But I feel odd about letting go completely. It’s as though I’m losing a sensitivity I’d had. I’m afraid if I really put my love for Dylan in the past, then I’m not feeling enough somehow. That a real poet would never recover. Do you know what I mean?” She squinted at me.
I squinted back and nodded. “I think so. That someone else might think you don’t have the heart of a poet or that
you’re incapable of really getting literature if you move on from this tragedy that shaped your youth.”
“Yes!” She paced the dorm-room floor. “And that’s a stupid, selfish motive, I know.” She paused. “Do you think I’m repressing things?”
At this I laughed. “Nobody I know dissects thoughts and emotions like you do. If you’re suddenly repressing your grief, you’d need someone a whole lot more skilled in psychotherapy than I am to figure it out. I think maybe you’re just finally healing.”
“But so soon?”
“Soon? It’s been six years.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Yeah.”
As my friend took this in, I thought about what I’d lost in high school. True, not a literal death, but the demise of an innocence, a hopefulness. And, yeah, my virginity, too, but who was counting?
Okay, so it was clichéd.
All of it.
I wasn’t a completely unaware idiot despite this latest lapse into melodrama. But — I had to say it — being with Brent, despite Jane’s disapproval, was bringing me back to life.
“Did you ever read — ” Erica said as she riffled through one of her lit texts. Most of our conversations began with that phrase. “Oh. Here it is. This passage by Elizabeth Barrett Browning?” She handed me the book, and I’d just begun skimming the lines she pointed to, when Erica’s door banged open and her roommate waltzed in.
Disappointment surged through me. “Hey, Rochelle, how are you?” I said, striving for friendly but detached. I hoped the dopey senior would grab a granola bar and leave again, but she dropped down beside us and exhaled breathily.
Conversations were always reduced to the lowest common denominator and, in this case, I knew we’d turn from Classic Poetry to Campus Gossip in a matter of nanoseconds. Rochelle didn’t prove me wrong.
“Lord, did I ever hear the stupidest thing today!” she said, shaking her shoulder-length hair and getting comfortable on Erica’s bed. “Some boys are soooo obvious. Trish’s boyfriend is here again.”
Erica groaned. “That guy has to be such a sleaze. I’ve never met him, but she talks constantly about what they do together. It’s nauseating.”
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