twenty-something

« Last Post | Next Post »

In honor of the "real" Duncan, here's an excerpt from a larger (and largely unfinished) work that I refer to as Make The Man. I unofficially call this "little" bit "my crowd pleaser" (because straight women seem to love it), but this excerpt's true title is:

The Dress Sock

Back in January, less than a week into the second semester, I first met Adam Duncan. And by first met, of course, I mean first saw. The winter was fairly cold and not very snowy, mild by my Vermont standards. I was very pleased to be back in the wimpy weather of Little Rhody after an uneventful month-long stay back home in the bitter north during the semester break.

Because none of my friends would sign up for it with me, I sat alone in my psych class. 103, with Dr. Parnell Hagerman, called "Towards Self-Understanding," or something like that. An intro-level course, it was held in a gigantic lecture hall, but the number of students that showed up on a regular basis barely filled a third of the room.

That day, the first, was full. I strategically picked my seat in the middle of the hall, exactly seven rows back, three seats from the left. Though still early in my college career, I had already acquired academic manipulation skills far beyond my years. Here Dr. Hagerman was likely to see and remember my face from each class, but unlikely to call on me. And, in my peer's eyes, I wasn't geek enough to sit in the deserted front rows nor anti-social enough to inhabit the back.

I had my desk up, my notebook out, and my travel coffee mug -- filled with chocolate milk instead of java --in hand. Since I recognized no one in the room, I stared alternately down at the blank lined paper and up at the slowly ticking clock, taking greedy sips from my mug, trying to look cool, confident, and not as entirely vulnerable as I really was, alone in that lecture hall, listening, in those pre-class moments, to the chattering and laughing behind me, which registered only as clicks and squawks in my ears as I worried -- nay, I knew -- that everyone in those thirteen or so rows saw through my façade, noticed me despite my perfectly-picked seat, and were judging the poor, awkward freshman in his aloneness.

The clock hit 2:28 and, with two minutes to spare, Hagerman arrived, a short, stocky black woman, in a fluster of syllabi and TAs. The clicks and squawks behind me grew to a roar in some places and silent in others. And then, to my left, somebody cleared his throat loudly.

I glanced over and barely noticed a pair of khaki pants standing beside me. Some asshole wanted to sit in the middle row and in order for him to do so, I had to move my carefully constructed defense. With a sigh and a refusal to even glance up again, I pulled my desk up and my feet in, utterly annoyed.

He ended up just two seats away. And since no one sat in those seats, it was basically like he sat next to me. He was close enough to burst my defense bubble and far enough away to make it known that we didn't know each other. Now it was clear I had no friends. Bastard.

The clicks and squawks, for the most part, stopped from behind me and started from the front, as Hagerman began a patronizing lecture supposedly about the self-help nature of the course we were about to embark on, but it seemed to me more self-serving for her, as she touted her credentials, massaged her ego, and discredited the university.

My selective A.D.D. kicked in barely five minutes into it all. I stopped taking notes and instead I focused my attention on A.J. the T.A.. He was sorta-cute, just as his reputation claimed, the same reputation that let me know he was gay and quite attainable. My mind danced with thoughts of a heretofore untapped T.A. fantasy I had tucked away somewhere in me. It proved to be better left buried as the daydream wasn't illicit enough nor was the T.A. sorta-cute enough to hold my attention. I was beginning to think I was better off in "Human Development" with Allison.

So halfway through the lecture, sick of staring at my still-blank notebook and the still-slow clock, I decided to step out of my defenses and glance around the class.

I looked to my left first. The two seats beside me remained empty and the students across the row were either note-taking or napping.

Then I looked to my right. And I noticed the dress sock.

I admit, I noticed Duncan's clothes first. I'm not into fashion much -- at all, really, and neither was he, which is the funny part -- but his outfit was what got my attention. He had his foot pulled up on his right knee, pulling the pantleg of his aforementioned khakis far enough up from his boot to make his argyle dress sock -- a tan base with a green-and-blue pattern -- clearly visible. My eyes tracked up his pants, past the notebook resting on his thigh (he was too cool to use the fold-away desk), to a pleasantly snug blue wool sweater that gripped his well-developed torso and arms. He was pleasingly preppy, tapping a deeply seated fetish for boys from GAP ads and John Knowles novels. It was the collegiate look I'd dreamed about for years, the fantasy that got me through to high school graduation. If clothes make the man, then this was the man of my dreams.

I finally got around to looking at his face. A strong jaw, a suggestively large nose, black hair, and beautiful sideburns. He was, to me, devastatingly handsome. Most would've acknowledged his good looks, but few would've had the same reaction I did, with the lust and the breathless and the drool. He wasn't perfect. I knew it in that moment, I knew it always. But I never cared.

I also knew, instantly, he was a jock in disguise, a baseball player in prep's clothing. It must've been a gameday or something, because one look at this guy's face, no matter how good he looked in that outfit, you knew it was a costume.

I don't know whether it was the clothes, or his jock status, or his good-looks, but something about him screamed unattainable to me. And that something made him irresistible.

As I gazed over and into his eyes, those deep, clichéd pools of brown, dark like a pint of Guinness -- I realized he had caught me looking at him.

And he was staring directly back at me.

Hagerman went on about some self-help concept that no one would remember tomorrow, let alone by the final -- and in the middle of her lecture hall, exactly seven rows back, three and five seats from the left (respectively), Sam North (that's me) met Adam Duncan with a single, confused slow-motion look shared between them.

I quickly looked away, but his stare, those eyes, left an aftertaste. He caught me admiring him, practically drooling. I felt horrified, mortified -- and completely alive. For the remaining twenty minutes or so, I refused to so much as glance to my right, even remotely in his direction. But I felt him there, next to me, and the electricity of it all -- the excitement, the embarrassment, the danger -- crackled under my skin.

Before I knew it, our first class was over. When he stood, I finally looked again, carefully getting my fix as I put on my jacket. He donned a puffy-looking parka and his backpack. I further admired his choice of khakis, which showed off his ass nicely, as I watched him walk down the steps. I gave him a five-step lead, then followed him out of the lecture hall.

As I trailed the jock boy out, he turned his head, just a bit, and -- I swear -- deliberately checked for me there. And then, with those eyes, he gave a cautious, knowing look -- and a slight, daring smile. It stopped me. His five-step lead grew to at least fifteen before I could move again.