The Best Four Years of Adam Becker - 9. Freshman Year - Chapter 9

Thanksgiving had fallen right into the last week of classes, and then finals. Tripp was practically living in studio by this point, finishing his semester projects--I’d only see him at night, when he’d come back, harried and irritable, to collapse in bed for three or four hours.

Archi-torture.

Social life, though, had skidded to a halt. For all of the raucous partying at Tulane, there was always an undertow of studiousness that ran through the student body--especially when it came to the end of the semester.

Erik and I had no such problems; we spent most of finals week drinking together, playing Battlescar, generally galavanting. Jordan, who seemed to be taking her finals much more seriously than Erik despite having the same major, had sequestered herself in the lobby. Michaela, as a dance and psych major, had breezed back to Dallas during study days, all wrapped up.

For my part, I’d drawn a truly sensational finals schedule: I was done with my finals on Monday of finals week--which put me on the farthest, earliest edge of finishing. And then I was free: I told my parents my last final was Friday, so I could buy more time before going back to Hamlet for a month.

It’s not that I didn’t want to see my family--I did. Of course I missed them. There was just something so stifling about falling back into old ways.

My last day at Tulane for the semester, Chris Baker invited Erik and me to Kevin Malley’s house on Lowerline Street to smoke a bowl.

I’d seen Baker a couple of times since Thanksgiving--once at The Boot, another time for lunch at Bruff--but I hadn’t seen Kevin Malley. I hadn’t really seen him more than in passing since Halloween.

I wasn’t avoiding him, per se. He didn’t seem to care; he would text me, every so often, little observations throughout the day. Sometimes I’d respond, sometimes I wouldn’t respond, and I just didn’t want my crush to get any deeper. He was charming and handsome and utterly unattainable, and I knew that--even if he was gay, and that was a big if considering Halloween, he was lightyears out of my league. Hopeless of hopeless causes.

Of course, when we got to Lowerline Street, I quickly realized Kevin Malley wasn’t included on the invitation--Chris Baker let us in with the key from under the mat.

“It’s fine,” he told us, as he led us inside the dark, empty house. “I do this all the time.”

Kevin’s room was not like I expected. It was exceptionally clean--like, hotel room clean, everything a crisp hospital white--his sheets, his comforter, his walls, even his area rug. I was used to Tripp and my room, or Erik’s room, or even Baker’s room, which were garage sales.

The only color in his room came from posters, all bands and all hung in symmetry, or books. He had a lot of books--a big bookcase, looming across the room from me, next to his desk. They looked mostly like philosophy books, but he was a philosophy major, so that made sense. Plato, Aristotle. The big ones.

Baker beelined straight for the dresser, which had a big bottle of Purell sitting on top of it, and pulled open the top drawer.

Underneath Kevin’s socks were a row of eight orange prescription bottles, each of them filled with weed. Felony status, definitely, intent to distribute because of course that’s exactly what he was doing--it suddenly felt very bad. Bad in a good way, renegade way. Weed always gave me a little bit of a rebellious rush, breaking the law even a little further than just casual drinking.

Chris pulled out one of the bottles, and then rearranged the socks on top of it. “Here we go.”

“So where is Kevin, anyway?” I asked him, as he led us to the kitchen. He pulled out a case of Natty Light.

“Taking a final,” Baker said. “One of those bottles are reserved for me anyway--it’s not a big deal.”

I assumed that meant he had not sought Kevin’s permission before our little crime spree.

Baker led us, newly bejeweled with beer and weed, back to the front of the house, out onto the screen porch, and we settled into the white plastic chairs. It was cold out--even in New Orleans, December was chilly. Baker kicked on the space heater, and it made a dull whirr as it lit up red and blew us with puffs of hot air.

“Kevin always gets the best stuff,” Baker told us, packing the bowl. “I was really freaked out when we lived together last year, but once I realized I had easy access to a dealer’s stash weed whenever I wanted, it was a definite asset.”

He passed the bowl to Erik, who took it to his lips, sucked it in, and exhaled delicate plumes of smoke.

“This is great,” Erik told him, passing the bowl over to me. “Letting the stress of final weeks fall away.”

Erik, for the record, had endured roughly zero modicums of stress during finals week. Not that I had room to talk, but even I--with a schedule loaded with Intro tos and 101s--had done a little studying, here and there.

“Yeah, well,” Baker said, as he handed each of us cans of Natty Light, “you need to drink yourself sick before you face four weeks at home.”

"I'm going to die," Erik said, mournfully, and I had to say I agreed with that sentiment. I hadn’t seen my family since August, when they walked out of Sharp that first night, and it seemed like a lifetime ago: when I’d known Tripp for only a handful of hours, and hadn’t met Erik, hadn’t met Jordan or Michaela, didn’t know what Iota Chi even was.

“Me too,” I said.

“Oh, whatever,” Erik said, rolling his eyes. “You didn’t even go home for Thanksgiving. I just saw my mom two weeks ago.”

“I’m only going home for five days,” Baker said. “Just for Christmas week.”

Erik looked respectfully pleased. “How’d you swing that one?”

“I’m subletting Rowen’s room in the house over break,” he said. “Morton and I have to paint the foyer, but free rent, so there’s that.”

Erik threw his head back. “Now I’m even more jealous.”

“Perks of being an Iota Chi, I guess."

At some point, Chris Baker had stopped wooing us and started bringing around the hard sell, punctuating every minimal benefit of fraternity life with that phase.

He was stepping up his badgering, definitely, as we got closer and closer to next semester’s rush week. In fiction, fraternities are hard to get into--this exalted group that people sacrifice their self-worth to be a part of. But Iota Chi, which was a solidly upper-middle-tier fraternity, was pounding down our door. Or, at least, Chris Baker was. Telling us how much we'd like rushing. Telling us how much we'd like pledging. Buying us beer and inviting us to parties, and parading his hottest female friends around for us.

"Can I crash too?" Erik asked.

Chris shook his head, disdainfully. "Mystic bonds of brotherhood, man."

Erik thought for a moment. "You're going to keep giving us booze and weed when we're pledges?"

"Fuck no," Chris said. He grinned--this was the kind of situation he enjoyed, just a few guys he was comfortable with sitting on a porch with stolen beer and weed. He didn’t like crowds; he liked us; I hoped that would carry us through rush week. "This is the nicest I'll ever be to you. This time next month, you'll be doing my laundry."

"I'm not washing your crusty tube socks," Erik warned.

Chris looked suddenly embarrassed for a second, and I wondered if it was his whole virgin thing. He still didn't know Kevin had told me. I hadn't told anyone else, either, but even so. Word got around. People were incorrigible gossips, and even considering that, Iota Chis were formidable. News whipped through the fraternity like Spanish flu.

"Get off my porch, assholes!" Kevin Malley hollered, charging up the sidewalk. He had a big smile on his face as he came up the stairs, and into the screen porch.

He whipped his backpack off his shoulder, and then threw himself into one of the white plastic chairs. He waited several seconds, before he noticed what we were doing, and then he sat up a bit. “Is that my weed?”

“Yeah,” Baker said casually. “IOU. I texted you.”

Kevin didn’t seem especially concerned. He stretched out his arms, wiggled his fingers, and Erik handed him the simmering bowl.

"Are you done for the semester now?" I asked.

"Yep," Kevin said. He inhaled for a long time, exhaled a forever billow of smoke, relaxed relief stretching across his face. "Who’s ready to rage tonight?”

"I have 'Islam and America' tomorrow," Chris said. "I'm just on a study break."

"Spanish tomorrow," Erik echoed.

“You’re studying?” I asked him, with mock surprise.

Erik did not find that amusing. “For Spanish? Si. I have to learn a whole semester’s worth of shit in a night.”

“Always fun,” Baker said. “Good luck with that.”

“Someone’s got to rage with me tonight,” Kevin said, hanging his head in despair. He looked up at me. “You free, Becker?”

"Oh, come on," Kevin said, hanging his head in despair. "You're a freshman, and it's a Thursday. I go home tomorrow." He looked up at me. "You free, Becker?"

“Oh yeah,” I told him. “Last final was Monday, and I just turned in my creative writing revisions this morning."

Chris glared at me, shocked and hurt as if he only now noticed life wasn’t fair. "How the fuck have you been done since Monday?"

"Two finals Monday," I said. "Take-home due last Friday, in-class final last Wednesday, and then revisions for creative writing.”

"You little turd," Chris said, his shock turning to a proud, envious smile. "I want your life."

Kevin grabbed one of the Natty Light cans, cracked it opened.

“Well, you two are drinking and smoking,” he said. “What’s a few more?”’

“Really, I can’t,” Baker said. “Just a study break. Helps me focus.”

“Me too,” Erik said, something he’d never noticed before, apparently. Not that Erik had done very much focusing thus far in his college career.

“Lame,” Kevin said. “Becker, you’re in, yeah?”

And of course I was still trying to keep my arm’s length from Kevin, but I was already feeling the weed a little bit and, having been mostly stuck in a dorm room for the last few days playing Battlescar, I instead just tilted my can at him. “I’m in.”

“Just Becker,” he said, looking mournfully at Baker and Erik. “On my only day of freedom.”

“You’re a philosophy major,” Baker said. “Everyday is a day of freedom.”

“It’s harder than it looks,” Kevin replied, bitterly. He took a big sip of Natty Light. “So, where’s Tripp?”

“Studio.”

“Shit,” Kevin said, shaking his head. “I forgot he’s an archy. So we’ll see him in January. Where's Morton and Rowen?"

"Organic chemistry," Chris said. "Day one of two--lab final tomorrow."

"Bad, bad times," Kevin said. "So glad I’m philosophy.” He took another sip of beer. “Where every day is freedom, apparently.”

"It's cashed," Erik said, squinting at the smoldering remains in the bowl.

“Time to study,” Baker said, reaching for his backpack. “Heading back, Erik?”

Erik looked at me, and shrugged. Obviously, he could’ve been tempted to stay for another beer or another bowl--or for the entire night, knowing Erik--but he must’ve felt put on the spot, because he just said, “Yeah, I guess so.”

"Cool,” Baker said, standing up. “I’ve got a hot library date with Morton in fifteen minutes."

“Order the lobster,” Kevin replied, in mocking falsetto, taking back his piece. “See you guys.”

Erik and Baker shuffled off, and so then it was just me and Kevin Malley.

We hadn’t ever been alone together, now that I thought of it. Had talked alone, had sectioned ourselves off from the rest of the Iota Chi guys. And we’d had lunch, but in Bruff. This was the first time we were alone, no people around us.

He was awfully adorable, as much as I hated to think that sort of thing.

"I'm going to happy hour at Veracruz in an hour or so," he said, texting someone on his phone. "You in?"

I made a face. “i don’t think so. Happy hour's 21+ there, right?"

"Yeah, for guys," he said. “Twenty-one for guys, eighteen for girls--can you believe that?”I could; we figured that out the hard way one night when we were trying to meet Jordan, Michaela, and the rest of their floor. “Hang on a second.”

He disappeared inside, came back out a few minutes later with a battered cigar box.

“My box of vices,” he said, opening it.

Inside was the spoils of his business: a thick wad of twenties wrapped in a rubber band, and an Iowa driver’s license. He pulled out forty bucks and the license, and dropped the license on my lap.

It had a generic brown haired guy on it. Jason Friedman, age 21.

"This would work, right?” he asked. “It works for me--I'm only 19 myself.”

I looked at it. Dimly lit, fast-moving line, it would probably work. Maple Street bars let just about anyone in with some semblance of an ID anyway. It could’ve been made out of construction paper for all they care.

I held it up to the light. It wasn’t bad. “Do you make these?”

Kevin gave me an irritated sigh. “I’m not a criminal,” he said, snapping the cigar box shut. “Sheesh. I was just seeing if you wanted to use my fake. That’s a real ID.”

"Oh," I said, slowly, mentally kicking myself for adding to Kevin’s rap sheet without evidence. "Yeah, that’ll work. Thanks."

"I'll go in and have Veronica run it back out to you,” he said. "Wouldn't be my first time. Have you met Veronica yet?"

"No," I said. I recognized the name--Chris’s crush from the year before--but actually hadn’t met her. Her reputation preceded her--she currently held the record of screwing more Iota Chis than anyone, at five. I didn’t know who all of the five were, but Tommy Pereira and Rob Winslow were two.

She was, regardless of who she was or had slept with, friends with all of the brothers, which made her some sort of fixture at Iota Chi; she was practically an honorary brother by this point, or so I gathered.

“She's a Tri-Gamma," he said. "Architecture major. Blonde, kind of tall-ish? Doesn’t look Jewish but is?"

"No," I repeated. "I don’t know her."

"She's coming," he said. "She had her final review this afternoon, so she’s ready to drink. Cool girl, though. You’ll like her. Takes me to every Tri-Gamma date party, usually, which is awesome."

"Ring a ding ding," I replied.

"Oh, come on," he said.

Those words hung in the air between us, mamihlapinatapai.

Oh, come on.

Oh, come on, what? That he wasn’t interested in bagging a sorority girl? That he didn’t believe I was interested in that? That neither of us were interested in that sort of thing?

Wasn’t there that Ginger, from Halloween? Was she anything but a girl he leaned on once, at one party? Some stupid thing out of context that I’d run with, unfairly?

My mind was trying to retrace every conversation I’d had with Kevin Malley--there had only been a couple--and tried to figure out what had gone so horribly off the rails in my mind.

"It's not like that," he continued, casually. "Please. She's a great girl, but not exactly my type."

It was the uncertainty I couldn’t take, so I just went for it--full boldness, very un-Peter Adam Becker of me. Maybe it was the weed, or the beers I'd already had, or the fact that we were sitting on his porch alone--maybe I was just so curious, and thought he was so sexy sitting there, smoking his bowl with his shaggy hair and his Tulane sweatshirt, feet up on the deck chair.

"What kind of girls are you into, then?" I asked, slowly, trying to make it sound nonchalant--unfortunately, probably failing.

Kevin thought for a moment, an apprehensive smile on his face, but said nothing.

"I'm just curious,” I told him. “I mean, everyone else talks."

The smile faded slightly, just slightly from his face. “You don't talk,” he pointed out.

I paused for a minute, suddenly confronted with the fact that we were both trying to goad the answer out of each other. I thought I was being so clever, though I was one step ahead of him, but we were really just locked in a foot race--were we? Was he even? Was this just an awkward conversation of two people talking about vastly different things but not realizing it?

"Well, we both don't talk," he added, after an uncomfortably long pause. "I just assumed we were both--" He paused again, searching for the right word.

What on earth was he going to say? Gay? I didn’t know what I’d do if he said gay.

I couldn’t stand the anxiety, the suspense. I bit my lip, braced myself as if I was going to get punched in the face. And, in the split second, so much flashed before me: I pictured him telling Iota Chi, him getting drunk with Chris Baker and saying, “Yeah, that Becker? You’ll never guess.” And I knew Kevin wasn’t that kind of guy--I knew he wasn’t laying a trap for me, that if he was also also, news wouldn’t go far--but I couldn’t imagine.

"--shy."

Shy? Shy.

Shy.

There was that slight uptick of nuance in his voice; he sure as hell didn’t mean introverted. Shy. Okay.

We were both shy.

"I mean, I figured you were," I replied slowly, “shy.”

The anxiety had crested, but now I felt the life being sucked out of me, water through a drainpipe--out of body experience. I wasn’t suffocating, hyperventilating; I just felt like I was watching someone else control my body as it waded through this conversation.

“And you are too.” More of a statement than a question. Too. Both of us shy.

I twisted my face into what I only hoped could resemble confidence. “I can be pretty shy.”

Did I feel relief at coming out to Kevin? Did I even just come out to Kevin? I wasn’t sure on the latter; I was positive that, about the former, I felt nothing but relief. They always said it was like a weight being lifted off your shoulders; for me, it was like an anchor being tied to my ankle. Telling someone, giving them all the ammunition they needed to destroy you? How could you be free, if someone knew something secret about you, the ability to hold it over your head again and again?

Kevin smirked, raised his eyebrows, took a sip of his Natty. "You can always tell when someone else is shy." He paused again, looked out on the sidewalk, and saw Tommy Pereira charging up the sidewalk towards us, holding a six-pack of Abita. "You'll like Veronica, I think. She's a cool girl."

 

Veronica was Ginger from Halloween, which made the entire tableau make a whole lot more sense. So Kevin. Shy. Veronica: platonic gal pal.

Of course. This was Chris Baker’s girl, Chris Baker’s Veronica, not Kevin’s.

She looked familiar to me, though; I’d seen her around Iota Chi, definitely, a background fixture. She was awfully pretty--pale straight hair, even paler skin, mesmerising light blue eyes. Contrary to Kevin’s description, she did look quite a bit Jewish--not as Jewish as Jordan, but more like a smaller-nosed Barbra Streisand from Funny Girl.

“My mom is,” she explained. “My dad’s Episcopalian. But it’s the mother that counts, so.”

She had pushed those phrases out with tremendous effort; she was wasted. She and a few of her Tri-Gamma sisters had clearly been at Veracruz for quite a while, more than a few margaritas in, by the time Kevin, Tommy, and I got there. She was also speaking in the loud staccato of someone tottering on the edge of coherence.

"Veronica's hot," Tommy told me, when the two of us were up at the bar ordering more beers. "She and Kevin have been, like, casual for a while.”

Yeah. Right.

I-know-something-you-don’t-know.

I could see why someone could get the idea that Kevin and Veronica were sleeping together: they had a casual, playful, almost flirty chemistry between the two of them. But it was also not laced with romantic tension, not the actions of two people already having covert sex.

Shy. Did shy mean gay? Did shy mean something on the road to gay, some sort of experimental weigh station?

"How well do you know Kevin?” I asked, instead.

"Oh, pretty well," he said. "I lived down the hall from him and Baker last year. I really want him to pledge this year."

"Yeah,” I said. “I don't think that's going to happen. He’s pretty set against it.”

"You never know," he said. "Baker says you're on the fence, too."

I had never communicated to Baker that I was anywhere near the fence when it came to Iota Chi. Obviously, there was a certain expectation for us hanging out together--that he’d fight to get us a bid--but we hadn’t breached that topic yet.

"Well," I said, as diplomatically as I could without betraying any allegiances, "I'm just playing it by ear. Rush isn’t until January.”

"I was the same way," he said. "You know, you come in with all these pre-conceptions about getting drunk and slaying chicks and hazing and all that, but it's really just about hanging out on a porch with a few beers and your brothers. It's nice. I was on the football team in high school and we were kind of like a family--and I guess I just kind of missed that. I mean, you know what kind of guys we are."

It was awfully rehearsed--the whole thing, like he’d told it to a million other pledges. I didn’t doubt it was true--Tommy mentioned being a cornerback on the football team in high school a few times before--but the structure, the way he just launched right into it at the first sign of wavering.

"I'm going to rush, definitely," I said. "I just don't know if I'll pledge. A lot depends on Tripp and Erik."

"Sure, sure," he said. He handed his credit card to the bartender. "And hey, I got both of these beers.”

Ever the salesman.

"Thanks, man,” I said.

 

"I'm not saying I don't want to go," Kevin was telling Veronica. "I'm just saying it's too early to plan spring break. And I don’t know what the band guys are up to."

It didn’t seem especially productive to argue with Veronica Tandy when she was in this drunken shape, but Kevin wasn’t the kind of guy who shied away from arguments. Philosophy major.

"It is not too early," Veronica said, too loudly. "It's December. It's like three months away."

"Four months," Kevin corrected.

“And no one likes the marching band guys.”

“I like the band guys.”

“Well, you like us better.”

Kevin shrugged in tacit approval.

"I just don't want all of the good houses in Destin to get booked up. Otherwise we'll have to, like, go to Gulf Shores, and you know my feelings about fucking Gulf Shores."

"Veronica's spoiled," Kevin explained to me. "She doesn't do the Alabama coast."

“She doesn’t fucking do the Alabama coast,” she repeated to me, shaking her head mournfully. And then, in a sudden whiplash of emotional change, she grabbed my hand off the table, held it to her heart. “Becker,” she said, excitedly. “I love you. Are you going with us to Destin?”

I had no idea if I was going to Destin, but this didn’t seem a time to really hash out my spring break options. So I just smiled and said, “Hope so!”

She paused for a second, looked at me, then looked back at him. "I like this one, Kev.”

Liked this one how, exactly? That set my anxiety back to fever pitch--did she know about Kevin? Had she deduced about me?

"Becker is Baker's freshman," Kevin explained, quickly, pointedly, best attempt to diffuse the situation. "Not mine. He's going to be an Iota Chi. They were smoking on my porch when I got home and figured I'd drag him along for happy hour."

"Baker!" she gasped, having seemingly lost interest after the third word, and having seemingly just noticed Chris Baker wasn’t at Veracruz. "Where the fuck is he?"

"Studying."

"Oh," she said, deflated. "Yeah, he told me that.” She perked up, went back to me. “Look, Becker, you're going to love Iota Chi. You have to promise me you'll pledge them. Okay?"

 

"She's better sober," Kevin explained, as we headed back from Maple Street--everyone else had piled into a cab to go to F&M’s on Tchoupitoulas Street, but Kevin didn’t feel like going, and I had an early flight anyway--and I was eager to pursue the end of our shyness conversation. “What girl isn’t better sober, really?”

"No, I liked her.”

I was struggling to keep up, in my inebriated state--Kevin was an exceptionally fast walker, and he would dart out into the street without even looking.

"You should come with us for spring break, though," he said. "I mean, if you're an Iota Chi."

"Invitation's rescinded otherwise?"

"Yeah, kind of," he said, matter-of-fact, without any kind of the lightness I was expecting in a response. “They won’t tell you this, but they’re rushing you. So if you get a bid and then don’t pledge them, things are going to get really awkward. Like, I’m still cool with Morton and Baker and Tommy and everyone, but that’s because I knew them before--they’re my friends. There’s a bunch of older guys who still give me shit looks when I come to their parties and drink their free booze.”

I hadn’t considered it from that angle. I thought Baker and I were friends--we were friends--but it made sense that it would come with a contingency clause, that he’d do everything he could to make sure I got a bid to Iota Chi, and I’d dutifully accept it.

Friends with an ulterior motive. He was wooing me. It felt oddly uncomfortable, and yet extremely flattering that I was being courted by a fraternity. Adam Becker.

"So wait,” Kevin said, just realizing this now. “You’re a shy Republican?”

I was a bit taken aback, because it was so out of the blue. I couldn’t imagine his thought process at how he arrived at that.

I had been Treasurer of the Young Republicans my sophomore year of high school, but I was impeached for not supporting the Iraq War. Beltway conservatives didn't mess around, even their progeny. "More of a libertarian," I said, diplomatically. “Free markets, free minds.”

"Oh, God, so you're actually an insane person then," he replied, throwing his head back. "Not evil and self-loathing, but just run-of-the-mill insane.” He paused. “Okay, yeah. I can work with that. I'm a socialist."

"Well that’s not insane," I deadpanned.

"Not as insane as a libertarian," he replied, with a smirk. "Let's not talk about the plight of the poor. I don't want to ruin the night."

We hit Zimpel Street--Tulane was one way, Lowerline was the other; we were both immediately cognizant of the fact that the casual conversation had abruptly stopped, that it was time for the rest of the conversation neither of us seemed to keen on having.

"Well, I'm this way," he said, pointing down one direction. There was a long pause, as he tried to wrap the words correctly for the next part: "Unless you want to, like, have another beer with me at my place."

He said that last part, that perfectly innocent last part, a touch coyly. And I wondered that, if I went back for a beer, would he have certain expectations. I certainly did.

And yet I was pretty drunk and pretty horny and, even though I was nervous as hell, I bit my lip and said, "Sure, why not."

He grinned. "Awesome." We started walking down Zimpel, in the most uncomfortable silence, until he started back up with the small talk. “Did you know,” he said, pointing up at the street signs, “no one knows how to spell Zimpel?”

I didn’t follow.

“No, it’s supposed to be Z-I-M-P-E-L,” he said. He pointed to one of the street signs at the corner. “And see that one?”

I squinted in the distance; it was dark.

“Z-I-M-P-L-E,” I spelled.

“And that one,” he said, pointing further down the street. “E-L.” He shook his head. “Vintage New Orleans, right?”

“Right,” I said.

And then conversation died once more, and we continued our walk, side by side down the broken sidewalk, like pallbearers.

"So, we're both shy," he said again, slowly. Here it was.

Both shy. Both, yeah, into that sort of thing.

“Guess so,” I said, finally. "Do people know you're, like, shy?"

We kept walking. He showed no intention of answering that question for a few seconds, which lingered painfully between us. "Yeah, well," he said, "Veronica does, but that’s just because she barged into my room while I was, like--" He paused. I guessed he wanted to get this part just right too, like he’d be doing all evening when we breached this topic. "--in the act of being shy.”

I gave a little giggle, then threw my hand over my mouth--that sufficiently broke the tension. "Sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to laugh. Just, you know, picturing that."

"It was the worst thing ever," he said, lightly. "Worked out okay in the end, I guess, but it's still embarrassing as fuck. I have my own room now though. And a lock." He paused. "Not to be presumptuous. Anyone know about you being shy?"

"Just the people I was," I said, "you know, shy around."

"Your dad doesn't?" he asked. I shook my head. "What does he think about marriage stuff?"

"States' rights," I replied huffily. I didn't like to engage on politics, especially someone like Kevin Malley who I knew had a very high opinion of his own intellect and would grind the conversation into powder until I agreed with him.

"Right," he said. "You can't hide it from people forever. They start to figure it out. Like, freshman year, you could just be a guy who doesn’t really hook up, but people know when you’ve never done it by sophomore or junior year. And everyone talks, and decides that if you're not boning a girl every weekend, you're... shy."

I hadn’t thought of it that way--that, eventually, people would noticed I wasn’t bagging girls from The Boot. I wondered if they’d noticed already--even Tripp had bagged a girl from The Boot and he had zero game. “Do people talk about you?”

“Oh, I imagine so,” he said. “People thought me and Veronica were fucking for a while, because we’re together a lot, but I think they all figured out that didn’t happen.”

“Beard.”

“Not a beard,” he said, quickly, a little defensively. “I don’t pretend she’s my girlfriend. I just let people think what they want. There’s a huge moral difference between omitting relevant facts and outright lying.”

Was there? Actively telling someone you had a girlfriend was definitely worse, but I couldn’t image you were too absolved if you let people think you were getting some with Veronica Tandy when you weren’t.

I didn’t want to dwell on that topic, and we were almost back to the house on Lowerline anyway. So I asked another question that had been nagging me:

“Is Chris Baker shy?” I couldn’t say why I asked that, aside from curiosity, because it seemed invasive, but it always struck me as so bizarre that a guy who looked like Chris, who could pal around with guys in Iota Chi, and command the attention of a room, could be so hopeless around women.

“I doubt it,” Kevin replied. “I mean, he’s shy in the dictionary definition sense, but he’ll find the right girl. It’ll take for-fucking-ever, but he will.”

We got to his house, I followed him up the stairs, to the screen porch.

“Inside or outside?” he asked.

“Inside,” I said. “It’s colder than I thought it be.”

Kevin didn’t say anything; he just unlocked the front door, staring straight ahead.

The house inside was completely dark. He didn’t turn the lights on; we stumbled our way into the kitchen, where he finally turned the lights on, and then he opened the fridge.

“Abita okay?”

“Sure.”

"We could drink this out here," he said, handing me one, "or in my room."

And, with that, all pretense vanished. Suddenly at firm crossroads, for the first night in an evening full of minor crossroads.

Was this happening? Kevin Malley--gay and interested? Inviting me to his stark white room to mess it up a little bit?

Bedroom. It was such a huge commitment. Once I agreed, I couldn’t go back--I couldn’t talk my way out of it. Living room, I could--"Oh, I thought you meant actually shy, dude"--but not the bedroom, where we'd be sitting on the bed, side by side, no TV or anything to entertain us.

And yet, it seemed like not the worst idea ever. This portion of the evening, where mental capacity started getting progressively delegated to my penis--like what happened on Halloween with Brandon or that first night with Patrick ManFind--made it seem like a good idea, actually.

So: "Okay," I said.

He grinned, raised his eyebrows a bit. "I didn’t ask a yes or no question."

Hadn’t he? "Oh--your room, I meant."

His grin got wider, and we went off to his bedroom.

I sat down on the bed--I felt like I was wrinkling the stark comforter, but I didn’t know what else to do. He locked the door behind us, and sat down next to me, our knees brushing up against each other.

We sat like that for a few seconds, or maybe longer--time had stopped running at regular intervals. We stared, we sat, we stared, and then he slowly put one hand on my thigh.

“Is that okay?” he asked.

I let out a pleasured sigh, which was supposed to be words but didn’t seem to get that far, but we were speaking the same language. He leaned in, slowly, for a kiss. Just a short kiss, a quick one. There was a delicacy to his kissing. Not passive, just--delicate. He kissed with a finesse, an experience-laden practice that Patrick ManFind or even Brandon from Loyola didn’t have.

He drew back, a big smile on his face. "Okay," he said. "So I was like 95% sure we both knew we weren't talking about actual shyness, but I'm glad, you know, we're for sure on the same page."

"Only 95%?" I said. "How would someone walk in on you in the act of being, like, introverted?"

"Well, I'm not the sharpest knife," he whispered, and leaned in again.

This time the kiss was longer, less delicate, and I was somehow okay with that. We broke for air a couple times, kept kissing, until he went down my neck. He smelled like pot smoke and laundry detergent, clean and filthy.

And then he broke the kissing, still smiling at me. He had his hand on my shoulder, put a little more pressure on it and guided me down to the bed.

I was horizontal, he was sitting next to me. He had popcorn ceilings, an ugly ceiling fan over the bed, not turned on, and the my view was disrupted; Kevin tossed one leg over my body, straddled me.

He leaned in for more. He had one hand under my shirt, on my stomach, rubbing just below my bellybutton. It was aggressive, entitled. Somehow, I was okay with that. I wouldn’t have been from Brandon or Patrick, but this was Kevin. I knew Kevin.

He moved his mouth to my neck, right behind my ear, and I let out an involuntary moan. I was suddenly hard, or at least suddenly aware that I was hard, strangled in my jeans. It usually took me a bit to get hard, but I could feel the blood racing down, like cops in a bad neighborhood.

His hand left my stomach, undid my pants, and unzipped my fly.

“Well, hello there,” he whispered, rubbing it gingerly. “You’re pretty big, man.” With a smirk, he added, “And here I was, thinking the biggest thing about you was your vocabulary.”

Maybe I was too nervous to let the mood be lightened, or maybe it wasn’t a very funny joke; I didn’t laugh. I couldn’t imagine laughing in a situation like this.

He sat back up, and pulled off his polo. He had a nice body--I’d seen it before, on Halloween weekend when he rushed out of the shower, but this was my first time I admired. It was better up close, more contoured, just the beginnings of muscles beginning to poke through. He was pale--his torso was a kind of Navajo white, bisected by a thick brown happy trail, which I couldn’t get enough of. His shoulders were freckled, which I found hot, for some reason, even though I didn’t think I ever would.

I moved one tentative hand to his stomach, and he exhaled deeply, sensually. He stopped flexing and the six pack dissolved back into an opaque stomach.

Slowly, I moved my hand up his chest, which was firm and solid, even though it didn’t look too defined. Ran it over one of his nipples, he exhaled again, and I smiled, and he smiled back and said, “What, I like that.” And then he knocked me back down onto the bed, began kissing me again, this time more aggressive, this time reeling me back in and taking charge of the bed. This time he was raring to go. This time he knew what he wanted.

We broke the kiss, and he straddled my hips again as he pulled me up. He grabbed the bottom of my polo, yanked it off in one quick, graceful motion, and threw it across the room. Shirt now off, he began kissing me again, our chests touching. His skin was warm. It all felt warm. I always saw in movies or porn, where everyone got sweaty, and I never thought it would start from warm skin or aggressive kissing, but our chests were both a little damp, slick, sliding against each other.

His hand had now come to a permanent rest on my dick. He wasn’t jacking it--it was just resting on top of it--until he broke the kiss for one last time, slid off my thighs and onto the floor.

He pulled my jeans off. My boxer briefs slid down after them, halfway to my knees, and my dick sprung up against my stomach, rock hard.

And there. Kevin Malley had seen me naked, hard, vulnerable on his bed.

He leaned in, jacked it a few times, smiled at me naughtily, then went down on me.

Kevin Malley could take the whole thing in his mouth, which was an unexpected bonus. I panted a bit, squirmed, his mouth moving up and down. It was just a few seconds in, but I felt too close to keep going at this, and I wasn’t going to be that freshman Kevin Malley sucked off in five seconds. I grabbed a handful of his hair, pulled him up slowly, and on top of me for another kiss.

My hand crept down to his pants. He was hard too. I started to undo the belt, but I couldn’t get it. He grinned at me, then went down to help me. Belt went across the room. Pants slid down. He was wearing black briefs. I always found briefs sexy on a guy.

I felt his dick. Rested my hand, like he had done. He was hard. Very hard. And his dick seemed to go on forever.

“Holy shit,” I said.

He gave a breathy giggle, yanked down his briefs, and I came face to face with an elephant.

“Yeah, it’s about eight inches,” he said, giving it a few self-satisfied strokes. “Well, just about. Everyone rounds up a little.”

Both naked now, he leaned back over me, and we began kissing again. Our bare dicks were knocking against each other, rubbing back and forth, which I thought was the most perplexing feeling ever. I’d always thought two dicks would get in the way of each other, but they didn’t--they fit together perfectly, nestled side by side, as we continued to kiss.

And then Kevin rolled off me, laid back down next to me on the bed, and put his hands around the back of his head to prop himself up a little bit. The universal sign for “my turn.”

I rolled over, on top of him. Kissed his neck, kissed down his stomach, like he’d done to me. Grabbed his dick and, briefly, considered how to approach this kind of thing. I started with the balls, which seemed less intimidating. I could fit each one in my mouth, click it around my tongue, and he seemed to enjoy that.

Turning to the shaft, I licked up the side. Licked back down the side. Aimed the thing square at my face, and figured I’d go down as far as I could. Which turned out to not be very far, so I just started sucking as much of it as I could, as fast as I could. He was giving moans of appreciation. I couldn’t tell if they were faked or not. I hadn’t been that experience. But I just kept going, until I figured I had put on a good enough show, and went back to making out with him.

He rolled me off of him, straddled me again. “What do you think about me fucking you?” he whispered.

“I’m a top,” I said, quickly, although that wasn’t entirely true, was it? I hadn’t done much of anything, but I knew I didn’t want to soil this moment with anything outside of my wheelhouse. “I mean, I’ve only ever topped.”

“Yeah, but,” he purred, his voice gravelly and quiet, “you have an amazing ass, and I have this big dick, and I just think we should play to our comparative strengths given those circumstances.”

The thought of taking his enormous dick up what I could only imagine was a frighteningly narrow passageway seemed more terrifying than anything. And not even like sexily pushing the envelope, like coming back to his place or talking about our mutual shyness. A bad terrifying, an ominous, panicked dread.

“Let’s just,” I said. “Well, I don’t like to fuck the first time.”

Not necessarily true, but it could be. Especially if I was expected to be on the receiving end of something that imposing.

“So,” he said, “I have to wait?”

He didn’t wait for a response. He kissed me again, then moved to my neck, down my jawline. I moaned. Down to my nipples, where he lingered and I moaned again, and then down to my dick.

He took the whole thing again, sucked for about thirty seconds, and I said, “I’m close. I’m really close.”

And he gave me a thumbs up. I could see the corners of his mouth twisting into a smile, and he started sucking faster, until I launched a torrent of cum into the back of his throat like a machine gun.

My dick fell out of his mouth when he started coughing, choking a little. The last of my cum landed on his nose, cheeks, and chin.

“God,” he said, coughs turned to giggling, as he wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Nice little show there.”

“It’s not usually that much,” I said. And, feeling actually not entirely uncomfortable, I added, “But that’s because my sock isn’t usually as sexy as you are.”

That line sounded so ridiculous, but post-coitus I didn’t think anyone was too picky.

“Well,” he said, smirking, “sometimes you get a nice sock. Argyle. Maybe even a Gold-Toe.”

“Nothing turns me on like a good Gold-Toe,” I told him, and he gave a polite laugh at that, but I felt suddenly awkward, as that horrible post-sexual silence lingered between the two of us. I always felt awkward after I came. It suddenly dawned on me, which I had somehow ignored in my inebriated, horny state thirty minutes ago, that this wasn’t some guy--this was Kevin Malley, close friend to everyone who would get me into Iota Chi. And, sure, they didn’t know he was gay, but Veronica did. What, would Malley go over to Veronica’s and say, “Guess who I banged last night.”

Nerves started trickling back in. I thought I’d managed to avoid them--I hadn’t cum before and not felt guilt and shame wash over me like a tidal wave, and I couldn’t tell if it was the same thing this time--it was just nerves, really, anxiety, that I’d crossed a line.

He was a friend. This guy texted me, invited me to bars, had me and Erik and Tripp over to his house for beers. I didn’t care that he wanted to sleep with me the whole time--I wasn’t naive enough to think a few months of friendship was a ploy to get in my pants, especially because I had, sort of, wanted to sleep with him too. It was just weird sleeping with a friend. Weird sleeping with someone who I was Facebook friends with, who was way too intimately involved with the comings and goings of the college life of Adam Becker.

I don’t know if Kevin could sense my anxiety, but he didn’t seem to care. It was still his turn; he mounted my thighs again, and jacked himself off until his cum landed in a neat puddle right above my pubes.

“That was hot,” he said, throwing his head back. “Wow, yeah, you suck really good dick. That was unexpected.” I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult, and he must’ve realized that, because he giggled a bit, then correct: “No, it was really good, I meant.”

“Thanks,” I said. I didn’t know what else was left for me to compliment--was a compliment even necessary? I was only thinking in chintzy song lyrics: you give good love?--so after a few seconds, after the moment had passed, I just added: “Do you have a towel?”

He nodded, stood up, and walked over to the bedroom door, where he pulled off one of his towels. White, still smelled like detergent. He tossed it to me.

His dick was shriveling up flaccid very quickly, but it still hung low between his legs. It didn’t look nearly as ominous or imposing in its natural state.

“I’m going to hop in the shower,” he said. “Real quick.”

I wasn’t sure if that was an invitation or an announcement but he must’ve sniffed out my confusion. “Just me,” he added. “Sorry. Having a shared bathroom precludes sexual antics, alas.”

I mopped up my stomach with the towel, although all it seemed to be doing was spreading it around, glazing me like a donut. “So, I should go, then?”

“No, no,” he said, grabbing the second white towel off the back of the bathroom door. “I want you to stay. I mean, if you want to stay. I just. I just need to shower afterwards, you know? I have a little bit of a thing. I’ll be two minutes, tops.” He opened the bedroom door, then turned around for extra emphasis. “Stay.”

He wasn’t nearly as eloquent this soon after.

“Okay,” I said, and he disappeared into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.

I thought for a second, whether I should get dressed and go home or, at the very least, get dressed and wait for him to say a formal goodbye. When I was with Patrick or Brandon, I couldn’t wait to get out of his room, to return to the comforts of my well-constructed life with Tripp and Jordan and Erik, but I didn’t feel that with Kevin Malley. Maybe because of how drunk I still was. Or just because it was Kevin Malley, who was so attractive, and because I knew him, and I felt so comfortable around him, even before we fooled around, even after we fooled around. Somehow, this situation didn’t seem quite as tawdry as a clandestine ManFind meeting in Monroe or at Loyola, a straight roommate threatening to stampede into the picture at any second. It was just Kevin Malley.

The shower lurched on in the next room, humming through the wall.

I pretended to debate whether or not I would stay or go, but I knew I would stay. I had an early flight, Kevin had an early flight; we could go a month, would go a month, without seeing each other, letting this encounter recess back into the dreamlike weavings of memory. And I didn’t not want that, but I wanted to linger, I wanted to keep this alive for just a little while longer.

But I didn’t want to be naked, conspicuously naked, so I put my underwear back on. Keep things in the moment, but a little more demure. I’d felt awfully exposed, naked and shriveled and shellacked in semen, lying alone in Kevin Malley’s bed.

I heard Kevin Malley’s smooth baritone singing the chorus of “Borderline,” bleeding through the wall. He had a decent enough voice, but I had to laugh at that, just a little--Madonna? After gay sex? Cliche.

Somehow, it didn’t seem like a far stretch that Kevin would be the kind of guy who would sing after getting his rocks off, a little perk in his step as he moved around, freshly satiated.

Then threads of “Borderline” abruptly stopped--he only sang a few bars of the chorus; it wasn’t a performance--and the water followed a second later. I went back to the bed, under the covers, and tried to look as nonchalant as I could as I waited for him.

For my part, I had absolutely no idea what to expect when the cleansed Kevin came back into the room. He’d asked me to stay but--for what, exactly?

Suddenly, part of me regretted staying. Was it too late to leave undetected? He’d told me not to leave, but I now couldn’t decide if that was politeness or an invitation for something else. I couldn’t spend the night. I had that six o’clock flight home in the morning. I hadn't even packed.

The door opened back up. Kevin was smiling broadly, looking like he, indeed, had acquired that spring in his step.

I was glad I stayed. Kevin, in a towel, with that smile--one that couldn’t help but make me smile too. This was what I wanted, him goofily smirking and signing like a post-coital idiot, as tentatively excited to be here as I was.

“See?” he said, ripping off the towel from his waist so he was naked again, and hanging it back up on the back of the door. He was still dripping, like he didn’t even bother to dry himself off past a quick glancing. “Two minutes. I told you.”

“I see,” I replied, propping myself up on my elbow, as his naked body stomped over to the dresser. “And I got that great rendition of ‘Borderline’ which made the whole thing worth it.”

He bit his lip, looked a little embarrassed, and then pulled out a fresh pair of underwear, another pair of black briefs. “Oh, heh,” he said, forcing a narrow smile, as he tugged them on. “This house sometimes echoes.”

“So, do you always sing after sex or was I just that good?”

He rolled his eyes, made a face.

“Fine, I’ll stop,” I grinned. “Didn’t mean to...” I paused, for dramatic effect. “Keep on pushing.”

“Feels like I’m going to lose my mind,” Kevin half-sung, half-said. And then he belly-flopped his wet body down onto the other half of the bed, the whole bed bouncing and creaking under his weight.

“So,” he said finally, his face muffled in the white comforter, “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I am too. I really have to be on my way.”

“Yeah, no, I know,” he said, turning his head to look at me. He leaned in, gave me a peck on the lips, and then took the towel back from me to wipe the cum off his face. “That wasn’t meant to, I don’t know, make you leave. I just meant, like, you know.”

I didn’t know. Kevin Malley had this babbling quality when he was uncomfortable, which was pretty endearing, but it left conversation mired in mud. I didn’t really care if he finished the end of the sentence. No. That wasn’t not true. I didn’t want him to finish it, because the only thing he could say was something like, “I’m going to miss seeing you,” which would’ve been way too much commitment for me to handle at that particular juncture.

“I don’t know,” he said. He paused. “You know, I don’t broadcast shit like this, so please don’t get weird on me.”

“Okay,” I said, slowly. That was reassuring, I guess, even though I couldn’t imagine that Kevin would be broadcasting this all over Iota Chi, especially if none of them knew about him in the first place. “Yeah, I mean, I wouldn’t want this to get out to, like, anyone.”

Kevin bit his lip in a half-smile. “Yeah, me neither,” he said, scratching the back of his head. There was another long pause. “Do you mind if I text you sometime? Not because of this, I mean--just as friends.”

He was adorable like this, really.

“Sure,” I told him, slowly. “You text me all the time already.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, lips curving into a bigger smile--relief. “You just never know with some people after.”