twenty-something

Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part One, Section Six: "Perfect Gentlemen"

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Many of the best memories of my relationship with Duncan took place in bed. I suppose that's one of the pitfalls -- or advantages, depending on your perspective -- of dating a closeted baseball-playing frat boy. Plenty of alone time, secluded behind closed doors, snuggled up in bed.

He slept over in my room, on my futon, with me about two weeks after our first date. Being perfect gentlemen, we both wore pajama pants and matching white tee-shirts, but our carnal desires got the best of our good intentions. We lost the pajama pants and went to second base. (Though I'm not entirely sure of which base is which in things of that nature, Duncan assured me that's where we were, and since he was a baseball player, I believed him.)

We lay together, talking. We talked about many things, little things, and Duncan recalled a funny anecdote about his father that had both of us in stitches. I don't remember the story he told at all, so I can't recount it here. I also can't remember if I genuinely found it funny, or if I was just being polite. Regardless, there was a story, and some laughing, and when it stopped, Duncan breached the subject that I'd desperately tried to avoid.

"What's your dad like?" he asked.

Admittedly, I'm a freak when it comes to my dad. I don't like to talk about him much at all, even in proper company. But nearly naked, post-heavy make-out/petting session with my new boyfriend was not the time or place for this discussion.

I stiffened up, but my grip around Duncan probably loosened. "My dad. He... died," I confessed.

Duncan rolled over to face me. My arms loosely draped on him.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't..."

I managed a weak smile, more of grimace, to show him that I was all right. "It's OK. It's been a while now." Dunc placed his hand on my chest and slowly brushed his fingertips over the light blanket of hair. "I was fifteen. Henry, my brother, was eight."

I paused.

"There was... a fire." I instantly felt regret.

"I'm so sorry, Sam. Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. I'm good. Really." He ran his fingers through my hair. "Just hug me," I murmured.

And he did. We hugged and held each other for a long while. I had nearly drifted off to sleep when Duncan spoke again.

"So... remember when I said that thing... um, to thank your dad for certain, um, 'genetic endowments'? I didn't mean to be offensive."

I pulled back and looked at him, puzzled, for a moment. Then I cracked up. He followed suit.

It was a Thursday in March, maybe two or three weeks after our first sleepover. My roommate Rich was at a party with girlfriend Carly, and thusly Duncan and I again had my room to ourselves. He ditched his fraternal obligations and I gave Allison the night off. We claimed we were going to watch a DVD, but we weren't even past the opening credits before I jumped him.

We made out for a good hour, rolling around on my tiny dorm bed in only our boxer shorts. And then, without warning, Duncan broke our kiss. Lying atop me, he looked into my eyes. That look. I could tell what was on his mind.

He started kissing me again and I knew I had to stop it. "Duncan," I moaned. "Adam. Stop." I tried to be firm, using his first name to stress my point. I pushed him away weakly and he stopped his kissing. His bare chest pressed hot against mine.

"Sam, I'm sorry. What's wrong?"

Oh, how I wanted him to fuck me.

"I can't have sex with you."

And I wanted to fuck him, too.

"Who said anything about sex?"

"But I thought that you wanted—"

"Oh, I do. Believe me, I do. But –"

"I'm a virgin," I blurted out. As soon as I said the word, I felt pathetic, like the good little Catholic girls I dated in high school. There I was, an eighteen-year-old gay virgin, out since the age of sixteen and intentionally uneducated in the school of male-to-male love. Was I the only such creature to ever willingly exist? In bed with a sexy, smoldering stud, who drove me completely crazy, who I wanted to do things to that I'd only seen in Falcon porn movies, I began to wonder just what I was holding onto my virginity for.

"Yeah?" Duncan replied, breathlessly. He looked right at me, expectant of some elaboration.

"I mean, I've done some stuff with guys before. Made out, fooled around some. But no sex."

"That's OK," he said. He started kissing my neck, driving me crazy. "You're not ready for all that." More kissing. "And neither am I." And for his part, he seemed genuine.

"Really? Are you a...?"

"No," he said sheepishly. "Wish I was."

"It doesn't matter."

"I know. But when we -- it's going to be special. It's going to be different from the other guy. It's going to be love."

I suddenly remembered what I was holding onto that pesky virginity for. But was it what I was waiting for -- or afraid of?

Things calmed considerably between us just then and we settled into a soft, snuggly sleep in my tiny twin dorm bed.

That was the one time that word came up between us. We never made it past second base, never did have sex. Never said "I love you" either. I cared about him a lot and I knew I was falling into something. But love? No. Never love.

Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part One, Section Five: "Curdled"

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Allison and I cheered along with the crowd as my boyfriend, the third baseman, tagged out the runner, scoring the third out. At least I think that's what happened. I've never been into baseball that much, and I was starting to feel buzzed.

I took another sip of the Kaluha-and-milk in my travel mug and nearly gagged. We'd recently discovered the drink earlier after ransacking my roommate's liquor stash and fell in love with its sweet taste. Without much thought to the weather, we headed off to the game with two mugs full of the stuff.

It was a hot May day, and that was a bad idea.

With a gurgle in my tummy, I turned to Allison and, over the dull roar of the other spectators, revealed, "I haven't told Duncan yet."

She turned to me and slapped my arm, twice, hard. "Sam Spencer!" I deserved it, and worse.

"Yeah, I know. I'm the devil."

She moved herself tight next to me on the bench and put one arm around me. "Look at him, Sammy," she said, pointing as Duncan waited on deck. He saw her, and us, so she waved and he gave a little smirk out of the side of his mouth. "He looks really good in that outfit. And he looks really happy."

"I know."

She hit me again. Harder. "And you leave in the morning!"

I rubbed my arm. "Gee, I almost forgot."

"I don't know about your memory, but there's something obviously wrong with your brain if you're leaving school forever and you haven't told your boyfriend."

We both became aware that some of the sports fans surrounding us were giving looks. "Stop saying forever," I whispered. "It's not forever. Just... for now." And with that a pause set in, a pause that became a silence, which became uncomfortable. I could stand it no longer. "Well, it's done now."

"You did it?"

"Withdrawl? Yeah. I stopped by that office after I left his place."

"We're officially college drop-outs, eh?" She pulled a familiar-looking yellow carbon copy out of her back pocket. "Nice souvenir. Although I wish it was orange." We had done it, fulfilling our late night vow to both "take time off" from school and find our true paths. Neither of us seemed as excited about this as I suspect we thought we should have been. Withdrawing seemed much less glamorous while drinking warm milk-based mixed drinks in the half-empty stands of a college baseball game.

Duncan was on base now. I had been so caught up with Allison that I didn't even notice him at bat.

"I meant to tell him. I did." I took another sip from my mug and then spit it back in. "I think my milk's curdled."

Allison rubbed her stomach and groaned. "Oh, thank God. I thought it was just me."

Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part One, Section Four: "I Know a Place"

« Previous (1.3: Perks) | Next (1.5: Curdled) »

In my mind at least, the flirtation continued for about two weeks after our "meeting." He'd always sit "next to me" and we'd always nod vauge acknowledgements. Later I'd always sneak glimpses of him during the lecture. But we never talked. I started noticing him in the dining hall and spotting him around campus. I stole his name from the class sign-in sheet and, unable to read his first, took to calling him by his last: Duncan.

Duncan's fashion sense had regressed a bit since my first sighting. Gone were the wool sweaters and white dress shirts. He'd taken to wearing beat-up jeans or cargos, long-sleeve tee-shirts, and sneakers most days -- a look which he pulled off well. At that point in the infatuation, he could've worn almost anything (or nothing, really) and I would've been pleased.

One Friday he removed his puffy North Face jacket to reveal a garish, gray sweatshirt emblazon with three Greek letters. I cringed.

I was having a mental relationship with a jock and a frat boy.

I'd spent enough idle time on the Internet to know that frat scenes were hot. And I had my share of frat boy fantasies -- but the man of my dreams? I was treading into dangerous territory here and I --

"Hey man."

It startled me back to reality, as I realized I was still staring at his chest and the letters on it. It was Duncan who'd said it, but I looked up to find that he wasn't talking to me. He was addressing another jock, a somewhat handsome, non-descript athlete who sat in the row behind us (on the rare occasions he made it to class). By this time, I had deduced that my guy was a baseball player, and his friend was on the football team.

I immediately snapped my head forward and just stared at the front of the lecture hall, for the first time wishing that Dr. Hagerman would start class on time. Caught again -- well, sorta.

Though I faced front, my ears tuned into the conversation. Boring jock chit-chat. After Duncan asked nonchalantly about his girl, Non-Descript (the football player) droned on about Nicky (or perhaps it was Nickie or, worse, Nikki).

"She's still a bitch, but I love her," Non-Descript repeated, ad nasuem, with small variations. I pictured a nasty brunette with attitude, from New Jersey, with a blue convertible of some sort, and a membership in some brainless sorority, the epitome of the URI girl I detested, if only out of jealousy.

Duncan remained silent during his friend's monologue, which disappointed me (he wasn't talking, ergo I couldn't hear his voice) yet gave me hope (there was no mention of a "bitch" of his own).

As Non-Descript was about to delve into the details of the hoops Nicky/Nickie/Nikki was making him jump through to make up for a drunken incident, Hagerman thankfully entered the lecture hall to save both Duncan and I from his drone. Five minutes late as usual, the joyless professor instructed the class to take our seats and listen up as she began her latest tangential tirade against the school's administration.

Non-Descript concluded his rant and Duncan, as he moved to face front, offered his friend an invitation.

"There's a party at the house tonight," he revealed.

He said it loud enough that I would've heard even if I wasn't eavesdropping, so I justifiably turned my head back toward the boys, finding a slightly different scene. Non-Descript was now back in his seat, rummaging through his backpack, and if he was listening, he gave no indication. And Dunc, facing front, had his head cocked slightly to his left.

He darted his eyes to meet mine. "You should come."

I blinked a couple times as I realized what was going on, and then the eye contact was gone.

"Thanks, man," Non-Descript muttered.

Duncan watched the front as I attempted to inconspicuously study his face. It was expressionless, offering no clues to whether what I thought had just happened really did. Finding nothing, I stared at his chest one more time, committing those letters to memory. I joined his gaze on the professor and kept it for most of the class, except for a few more stolen, fruitless glances at him.

That night I dragged my reluctant best friend Allison out to the party with me. It was our first official function as gay man and wife, as I had only officially come out to her at the end of the fall semester. Before that, she was often -- well, always -- my platonic date to parties like this one. This was the first time I had purposefully sought her out as my "beard." With such a beautiful blonde girl at my side, I was likely to slink around the frat party with ease, pretending to be one of them, effectively camouflaging myself amongst the breeders in the frat house, that averagely-handsome straight guy from my psych class with the pretty girlfriend. Hopefully the whole charade could score some cool points with my crush.

When I spotted him across the drink line, I got giddy. I tried not to act too gay in such a hetero-male environment, but in that moment I blew my cover and wasted my beautiful blonde façade. I just couldn't contain my excitement as I pointed him out to Ally.

"There he is. There's Duncan."

"Him?" she asked, incredulously.

"Don't tell me you don't think he's cute."

"Sam," she laughed. "That's Adam Duncan."

"So?"

"He's from Melrose. He graduated a year before me."

"No way." I smiled. "So what's his deal?"

"Sammy." She rested her hand on my shoulder. "I sorta dated him in high school."

In Allison's retelling of the night, I actually dropped my red plastic cup of nasty-ass frat-keg beer. I have no memory of that particular incident. I do recall being shocked by the revelation, feeling betrayed by my best friend. The irrational thought crossed my mind to toss the beer into Ally's face and storm off, throwing in a "You Bitch!" for good measure. But I contained it all, managed to control myself.

Still, I was shocked, disappointed. My mental relationship with the jock and frat boy was suddenly over, and it was because of my best friend. How could I not be devastated?

"Well?" I finally managed.

"Well what?"

I took a moment to take in my surroundings, the impossibility of my little situation. And, even though I knew she wouldn't have an answer, and if she did, I wouldn't like it, I asked anyway.

"Is he...?"

She chuckled a little bit. "Oh, I don't know."

I grilled her for details on our ex. Turns out she and Adam dated for almost exactly a month around prom time -- his senior year, her junior -- after he asked her to the dance. I knew she was a respectably popular girl in high school -- a basketball player and occasional student council member -- and I learned that Duncan was quite similar to his current persona.

Most of their dates consisted of prom preparation, although they did go out to the movies once, and spent some time together, both at school and outside of it, getting to know each other. The big night came and went, and apparently Adam was a perfect gentleman. They had a respectable time and went to a killer keg party afterwards. That night, like the rest of their brief romance, Adam didn't try to get in her pants and offered kisses only sparingly. He brought her home a good half-hour before her curfew and Allison knew that was the end of it. They were friendly to each other -- even went on another movie date -- but Adam was always busy with baseball or graduation.

My mind immediately speculated on the meaning of all this -- that two attractive high schoolers had not mated on prom night -- and I began to wonder if my Duncan had used my Allison the same way I was using her now, years before I had met her. Was she his cover? It was the first time Ally had ever considered the possibility. And it was the first moment I had ever truly thought that Duncan could be anything other than a straight, unattainable crush.

"That's it?"

"That's it." (I would find out later, however, that'd she'd held back key details about his kiss and how he looked in a tux.)

"Hmph," I said, just as its spelt, and let the topic die verbally, although Duncan remained at the back of my obsessive little mind the entire night, even as alcohol started to affect it.

Hours and beers later, drunk and desperate, I begged Allison to introduce me to her high school boyfriend. She was resistant, but eventually caved, of course, but I really don't think it was out of a desire to please me. I think she was just curious to see what would happen, if her high school prom date could be a homo, and if her gay boyfriend could make it further with him than she did.

We spotted him again, and she moved in for the kill.

"Hey stranger," she shouted over the beer line and loud music. They stood face-to-face, a little too close for my liking, and began their exchange. I loomed on the perimeter of their connection, an outsider looking in.

"Allison, hey." It wasn't the first time I heard his voice, but it might as well have been; its soft, deep timbre, even over the roar of the party, resonated.

I gazed upon the scene in jealousy as he offered Allison a hug and she accepted (a little too gladly for my taste). His strong arms wrapped around her, and he patted her back with the hand not holding a red plastic beer cup. Her breasts mashed against his broad chest and I noted, perhaps for the first time, that Allison had a great rack. As the hug lingered, I realized how much a straight, unattainable frat boy would love to have a rack like that to call his own.

They're going to get back together, I thought. I'm a re-matchmaker.

"How the hell are you?" he asked.

"Not much," she said without much thought. "You?"

"Not bad. God, I never see you any more. We should get together sometime."

I couldn't tell if it was one of those meaningless comments that you throwaway to long-ago acquaintances, of if he meant it, but I wasn't taking any chances. If Allison and Adam Duncan were to reunite, it wouldn't be without a fight from me. She had dibs on him from high school, but college was a whole new ballgame.

At that moment, I acted like someone knocked into me from behind, pushing me into Allison, breaking her exclusive little bond with Duncan. Don't judge -- if you had the balls, you would've done the same.

"Oh, sorry," I said to no one in particular. "So crowded."

I had not-so-seamlessly joined them. I quickly eyed him and admired his choice of attire for the party: a brilliant blue polo over a long-sleeve white tee-shirt, along with a pair of worn-out jeans that hugged his hips. Outside of class, this was the closest I had ever been to him -- and he didn't seem to be reacting to my presence at all. His face was expressionless, just as it was in class, giving no indication that he recognized me. Allison gave me a pitying look for interrupting. The three of us stood there, not talking, in a close, awkward triangle in the basement of his frat house. And I realized that nothing was going according to my fantasy.

He had invited me to this party, hadn't he? That look, those eyes -- it hadn't been all in my head. Had it? I realized, with some panic, that I was completely out of place. Duncan wouldn't know that I was friends with Allison, his high school girlfriend. And I, the gay boy from his psych class, certainly didn't know him well enough to join their conversation. I was just some freaky stranger interrupting their little chat.

Then it dawned on me. His non-reaction to my presence -- he gazed around the room, looking in every direction but mine, as he took tentative sips of whatever brew his cup contained -- was his uncontrollable reaction. His refusal to acknowledge me, to even look at me, was more suspicious than anything. He had invited me to the party, and he was terrified.

I cocked my eyebrow a little at Ally and pointed my gaze at the fratboy. Thankfully she took the hint as, thankfully, Duncan still refused to look at me.

"Adam Duncan," Allison presented, mocking me a little. He looked right at her. "This is my friend Sam."

He spun his gaze upon me and offered a nervous grimace. "You're in my psych class, right?" It was a fake gesture of sudden recognition, but it was a gesture nonetheless, so I nodded. He quickly extended a hand, which I gladly accepted. I admired his firm, albeit shaky, handshake. "Nice to meet you, Sam."

I took a moment to ponder my name, spoken in his voice. Sadly, it contained no syllables that could be enhanced -- or murdered -- by his slight accent, but still, I liked the sound. He broke our handshake, but not our gaze. He looked expectantly at me, with some combination of confusion, excitement, and fear, I supposed, and I suppose that the look I returned was a reflection of his. How had I really expected this moment to play out, our first official meeting? That he'd see me across a sea of faces and call out to me, proudly greeting his friend from class? That he'd find me in a dark corner and confess to me his deepest secrets? That he'd ask me out on a date, or at least up to his room?

"You too," I finally replied, a few moments too late. The silence had lingered too long. "Nice to meet you, I mean." And now, officially, I was a freak. My bumbling wasn't cute, like some love struck lead in a movie starring Meg Ryan or Julia Roberts; it was just embarrassing and truly pathetic. I quickly downed whatever was left in my red cup and then raised it slightly, for their acknowledgement, pretending to be drunker than I actually was.

"Oh, great," Allison sighed loudly, staring off into some dark part of the room at something neither Duncan or I could see. "I've got to go check on Lindsay."

"Lindsay?" I questioned. She was Ally's roommate, who had stayed in that night, drinking wine alone in the dorm, listening to Sarah McLachlan with only the Christmas lights illuminating their double room. Sure, Linds was stuck in a depressing scene, but there was no need to check on her. I knew that Ally was reluctant to return to her room at all that night.

"My roommate," she told Duncan. Then to both of us: "I just saw her over there. With some sketchy guy." My eyebrows crinkled with confusion, and then went up with revelation. This was a part of the plan we hadn't discussed. She was going to leave me alone with the fratboy. "She looked pretty tanked and probably needs to go home."

"If you want to stay," Duncan offered, "I can have one of the brothers –"

"No!" Ally protested. "No thanks. I have to get up early-ish tomorrow, anyway." She turned to me and, with a wink, instructed: "You stay here. You're good to get home, right?"

I nodded, sobering up from my exaggerated stupor.

"Adam, good to see you." She bid him adieu without any physical contact. "We'll get together soon," she promised. The good-bye barely caused a twinge of jealousy within me. She was off. And I was alone with Duncan.

I noticed that the basement suddenly seemed louder and more crowded, and I was closer to him than I realized. We both held our empty cups high, close to our chests, and, in Ally's absence, we drew nearer to each other, almost touching. I was surprised that he hadn't run off after her exit. But he stayed. And he even attempted small talk.

He mumbled something, completely inaudible over the atrocious hip-hop record the amateur DJ was spinning. The heavy bass beats made the floor tremble.

"What?" I shouted.

He repeated, in a slightly louder voice, what I thought was: "You know Allison."

"So do you," I answered matter-of-factly.

He leaned in closer and corrected me. "I said, How do you know Allison?"

"We both work for the paper. And she lives across the hall from me."

"Oh, cool." A moment later: "She and I went to--"

"I know. I mean, I didn't before tonight. Sorry if that was--"

"Is she your...?"

"She's my best friend."

"Great girl."

"That she is."

The lull returned, but he stayed. We both gazed around the room some, checking out the party, and then our eyes met again. He smiled nervous, knowing, and as the corners of his lips curled in acknowledgement of the awkward moment, my own mouth did the same. He was so damn cute and close to me that I didn't care where things went from there, as long as I could keep that moment in my mind forever. I looked into his eyes for really only the third time in the three weeks I'd been infatuated with him, for the first time allowed to. They told me all that I needed to know.

"Do you have any Guinness?" I asked, suddenly thirsty.

"Fresh out. But I need to go on a beer run, anyway."

"It's like 2a.m.. Nothing's open."

"I know a place." He looked down for a long, deliberate moment and then back up at me. Boldly, he blurted out, "Want to come?"

Within five minutes, we had wrestled our way out of the party and were reunited out in the cool night air on Fraternity Row. I'd forgotten my coat inside the house, but I dared not go back for it. I ignored the cold like I ignored my reservations. I didn't know this boy's intentions, and I didn't care.

We didn't really talk as we crossed the street and headed down the hill, through campus. I didn't mind the silence now that the sounds of the party faded behind us. We encountered random pockets of drunk people as we walked side-by-side to the mystery location, hands shoved in our pockets, breath steaming out in front of us -- but it was just Duncan and me. In my head, I practiced things to say to him on our trip, but ultimately I remained quiet, just like him. I let him lead the way.

"Bressler?" I questioned as we approached the destination. It was an upperclassmen dorm, not far from mine.

"This is the place. With the beer. My room."

So there we were.

"You made it tonight," he whispered. "I didn't know if you would."

"I did."

"I'm glad." And then he just went and blurted it out: "Come up?"

Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part One, Section Three: "Perks"

« Previous (1.2: The Dress Sock) | Next (1.4: I Know a Place) »

This was the moment that made suffering through insomnia worth it: the morning shower. It was the official start of the day and the end of the hours-long battle to sleep. Sure, it was conceding defeat, but there was the nakedness involved, the warm water and soap, and soon breakfast and inevitably video games. I could run on lack of sleep if there was a Pop Tart and some Mario Kart in my immediate future.

I rarely sing in the shower. But today, "Eleanor Rigby," of all things, was stuck in my head.

"Waits at the window," I sang lightly to myself, "wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door, who is it f–-"

The shower curtain was suddenly drawn open and before I could turn to face him, Duncan was behind me, his lean, fuzzy body pressed tight against me in the tiny shower stall.

"You're naked," I observed. And he was.

"Of course," he said, nuzzling my neck. "So are you."

"But we're in the dorm."

"So? Tuesday's your light day, right?" He snuggled his mouth against my neck, kissed. "There's no rush."

With a grin, he spun me around to face him. He was always like this in the morning. Out of control. Usually, I didn't mind. Sleeping with an upperclassman with a single room and private bathroom had its perks.

He hovered his smiling face just inches from my lips. He wouldn't kiss me. "You're back early," I said.

"Lifting got out. You're up early."

"I have a --" Stop looking at me like that! "-- a meeting with my professor at eight." It wasn't a lie. Professor Mullen, one of my journalism teachers, was giving me my final three days early. It was my last academic obligation as a student, and I couldn't be late.

"Plenty of time." He finally planted a rough, passionate kiss on me before I could argue. Suddenly, and for the first time all morning, I wasn't thinking about leaving.

"Besides, in a few days, I won't get to do this to you every morning. Summer break's going to be painful."

And there it was. A reminder from the very lips I just wanted to kiss and caress me, make me forget, surrender, stay.

He playfully pined me against the slippery shower wall. I let him kiss me, and I kissed back, gave in, eyes closed, hands held at my sides by his. Our wet bodies mashed together and I tried to get lost in the moment.

He broke our kiss again, but didn't release me from his clutches.

"Something's wrong," he said into my mouth. I couldn't breathe.

He was right, of course. Despite my body's reaction, despite my obvious desire, I wasn't there. Naked, breathless, defenseless, fingers shriveled into prunes, pinned against that wall, I couldn't hide from him, try as I might.

"Nothing's wrong." I tried to reach for the soap, but he wouldn't budge. "When's your game?"

He frowned a bit. "You're not coming."

"Yes, I am. Ally and I are."

He perked up some. "It's at two."

He gave me a kiss and hoped out of the shower, leaving me to finish up. The shower curtain remained open. I admired his dripping, muscular physique as he reached for a towel and began drying off.

"You're hiding something, Sam. And whatever it is, I bet it's not worth the insomnia." He wrapped the towel around his waist. "Just tell me." And he left.

Maybe he wasn't so clueless after all.

Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part One, Section Two: "The Dress Sock"

« Previous (1.1: Pieces) | Next (1.3: Perks) »

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.