Something Like That

Twenty minutes later and Bill was still drinking and acting like an idiot. As it was, everyone was drinking

and acting like idiots. Except me. I'd been drinking, but I wasn't plastered like everyone else.

Seemingly challenging the consensus of opinion at the time, I was genuinely perplexed by the level of

jubilation present at what I would have impartially characterized as predominantly a Dudefest.

Yet these guys were whooping it up “Carnevale” style. Sort of like “Girls Gone Wild” but without the

girls. Plenty of booze but nary a breast nor bead in sight, save the one Bob Marley necklace, one of our

gracious hosts, Chad, was showcasing, whom I couldn’t help but overhear

- boast, obnoxiously, he was from Scarsdale,

- assert, emphatically, Debbie Gibson was the best new musical artist of the decade,

- and, TWICE, from across the room, LOUDLY, proclaim, vociferously, “Old money is still money!”

Inescapable conclusion: What a jackass!

"How could Bill like these jerks?” I thought out loud. I knew then that it would be a long time, if at all,

before Bill would be ready to go home.

I thought to myself, this was absolutely the last time I would go to a party on another campus and let

someone else drive. I had wanted to get up early the next day to prep for the Boston/Pittsburgh kickoff

at noon. (I needed that game to win that week’s pool.) But instead found myself leaning up against the

wall near a keg of PBR (Pabst Blue Ribbon) at some bozo’s party, bored and tired and stranded. I could

only hope my buddy slash roommate slash ride had had enough stumbling, drooling and slurring of

speech at some point to call it a night.

I had a headache and felt a bit queasy. I wished I'd had some pot then.

Just as I was contemplating hitchhiking home, I noticed a crowd of A-Listers, aka more overindulged

insipid dimwits from affluent homes, pouring through the door. Undoubtedly, they had heard how

incredibly fabulous this party was.

With nothing better to do, I casually scanned the group, “more jerks” I said under my breath. Then I

spotted some girls in the fold. This got my attention.

I caught sight of this one tall girl with funny make-up. Wait a minute - Cleopatra! I met this girl at a

pregame a while back. We had both reached for the last red Solo cup near a keg of some other

inexpensively mass-produced, similarly tasteless pilsner. (Milwaukee's Best maybe.) We flipped for it,

and I had won of course. (I have a method.) After having one beer though, I offered her the cup. She

politely refused it, declaring that she doesn’t share cups with guys she didn’t know.

I tried to hit on her then, but it was to no avail. She wasn’t interested. Admittedly, I was pretty trashed.

Maybe I had been operating in “jerk mode”. Maybe as in “present company jerk mode”. If so, I wouldn’t

have blamed her for rejecting me.

As dispirited as I was with present company, my mood brightened considerably with her arrival; “Chadfest”

had instantly transmogrified into “whole new ballgame”.

She looked good. Damn good.

Tall, thin, blonde and toned with larger than expected breasts. (C cups maybe.)

She was wearing a candy apple red, long sleeved, off-the-shoulder top, matching nail polish and pumps,

and a black leather mini pencil skirt. (And not that I know anything about fashion but WOW.)

An intricate application of eyeliner, shadow and mascara effectuated an exotic cat-like appearance on

‘Elite Model’ bone structure. Other than said application and lip gloss, I could discern no other makeup.

Even from a distance, it was evident

- her eyes were bright and inviting,

- her skin was supple and radiant,

- and her lips were full and shapely with a perfect Cupid’s Bow.

Inescapable conclusion: What a knockout!

I could just make out the impressions of her nipples through her top. And I could just see myself lifting

her skirt up over her hips. Things were looking up. (And going up!)

I must have been staring, because midpoint through lifting of skirt, Bill screamed in my ear, “Who ya’

checking out, Joooooooo!?” Startled, annoyed and choking on brewery breath, I jerked away and

discretely pointed Cleopatra out.

He then sidled up to my ear for round two and deafeningly slobbered, "Nice TITS, maaaannn!"

(Emphasis on ‘TITS’.) Exhaling and wiping my ear, I suggested he have another beer and go far away.

Insulted, he stepped back, indignantly straightened his posture, incoherently mumbled something that a

drunk would mumble, paused for my response, and having heard none, snorted and then aggrievedly

lumbered off to join some of his other friends. Thank God.

I looked back to find this "Cleopatra" girl and I had lost her. I thought to myself, great, then imagined a

series of painful “Kill Bill’ scenarios each culminating in much begging and pleading for life but with

exceedingly satisfyingly no quarter given.

In the course of my arguably too graphic rhapsody of Bill’s suffering, I felt a little nudge behind me. I

turned around to see Cleopatra getting a beer at the keg with her girlfriends. No more than a few feet

away, I could hear her recounting to them how some short frat brother with a receding hairline tried to

pick her up at Theta Chi or Theta Psi; one of those Thetas. (As far as I am concerned, they’re all Theta

dicks.) From her laughter it sounded like she was a little tipsy. Come to think of it, she sounded a lot

tipsy.

One of her friends then spotted a guy across the room, as far as I gathered, from her friend’s “Current

Moral Issues” class. The friend made a beeline for him. They all followed.

I thought to myself, “how should I approach this girl?”

After what I would suggest were overly enthusiastic introductions between the two camps, I noticed

Cleopatra was getting a bit neighborly with one of “Moral Issues Guy”’s wingmen.

Assessment: dweeb. So I wasn’t super concerned but given the then current environment with its

elevated per capita level of intoxication and abysmal filly / fella ratio, I thought I’d better get off my ass

and do something instead of just leering.

Cleopatra told me her name at that other soiree, but I forgot it. What was her name!? Something to do

with a “y”. Audrey or Hailey or Avery; something like that.

Time had come for operation: “Initiate Engagement”. I downed my beer and readied myself to deep six

Wingman’s advances when I saw her turn and head straight toward me.

This caught me off guard. She noticed my staring and without breaking her cadence, responded with a

smile as she walked right past me on her way to the bathroom.

Upon entering the commode, I discreetly observed her placing her cup, which was partially full, on the

nearby vanity counter. Picking up on this opportunity, I quietly made my way over to the area. I emptied

her beer into the sink and quickly tossed the cup onto a pile of dirty laundry haphazardly amassed in the

nearby bedroom.

By the looks of the room, I wondered how long it would be before these slobs discovered it. (It’s

probably still in there.)

Anyway, while carrying out my ingeniously clever plot, in what I thought was a surreptitious manner, I

noticed this full-figured brunette with a sour puss disdainfully eyeballing me. I gave her a nervous smile

and told her that I had placed the cup there to remind myself to do my laundry the next day. She didn’t

buy it. Presumably offended, she soured her puss more so, contemptuously pivoted 180 and

unceremoniously departed.

Once the fat chick had left, I was alone in the hallway.

Cleopatra emerged from the bathroom soon after, looked in the mirror and fussed with her hair for a

moment, all the while ignoring me.

She started walking, stopped and then motioned to pick up her cup she had left on the counter which

wasn’t there.

At that point, I said “You can have MY cup if you’d like.”

Smiling, she asked “Did you take my cup?” Not giving me a chance to answer, she then said “I know you.

You took my cup at that other party. What, do you do this for a living or something?”

“I flipped for that cup and won it fair and square.” I answered back.

“Yeah, whatever, now where’s my cup?” tilting her head and canting her hips, replete with flirtatious

hand gestures.

Smiling, “I told you; you could have my cup. I’ve even got some beer in it.”

Replying in a cutesy voice, “And I told you before that I don’t share cups with guys I don’t know.”

Leaning back against the counter, I replied, “Yeah, I remember, but now you know me, don’t you?”

pause "Besides, it doesn’t look like you need any more to drink anyway.”

Widening her eyes and raising her eyebrows, “What, I don’t need any more to drink? Why do you say

that?

“Well, it seems like you’re already in a good mood. You’ve got that big smile on your face and besides if

you drink anymore, you won’t know who you’re talking to.”

She took a step closer toward me and leaned in, “I know who I’m talking to. I’m talking to the guy who

stole my cup… and how do you know this smile is from the beer?”

She held my gaze and her smile for a long moment.

Wow, great smile. Really. Great. Smile.

Mimicking her movements, I leaned in, “If it’s not from the beer, then what do you think it’s from?”

She took yet another step closer. (I could smell her skin.)

Her, in a softer, more intimate tone, “Maybe I’m happy because I’m talking to this guy who flips for cups

at parties… who I’ve been thinking of ever since.”

Me, in a softer, more intimate tone, “You have? … I don’t believe you. … What’s my name?”

She whispered in my ear, “Your name’s Joe,” kissed my neck, “you’re a senior,” kissed my cheek, “you

live in Brent Apartments,” kissed my chin, “you’re a bio major”.

Our lips met. She tasted as sweet as sugar.

Almost inaudibly, intending to correct her, “bio engineerin…”

I pulled her against me as we kissed again. She brought her right hand up to stroke my face. In the

mirror’s reflection, I could see candy apple red fingernails lightly caressing my cheek. We kissed a third

time, her hand running through my hair. Her breasts felt good pressed against my chest. I felt her

warmth between her thighs.

She was beautiful.

I took in a deep breath, “You smell good, pretty girl.”

Cuddling on my shoulder, she replied, “Thanks, you feel good.”

We stayed like that for a while.

Debbie Gibson’s “Shake Your Love” played in the background.

~~~

After the second chorus of the next track, “Foolish Beat”, I had had enough of the playlist. (Guessing

Chad was jockeying the disks that night.)

“Are you having a good time at this party?” I posed gingerly.

Still leaning against me with her head on my shoulder and eyes closed, Cleopatra snuggled closer, if that

were possible, and somnolently murmured. I was certain she would have fallen asleep on me if I had let

her; literally. I know, dream come true, but I had to get home and, distressingly, I had found myself

harmonizing along to Chad’s playlist.

Second attempt: “I’ve been trying to get home for the past hour, but I think my roommate lost his sense

of time, along with his other senses.”

Not acknowledging my little joke, Cleopatra just adjusted her nestle.

Undeterred, I endeavored once more, “Say, how’d you get here?”

What-the-heck, maybe she drove. I had to get home somehow. No way in hell was I going to miss the

Boston/Pittsburgh game the next day. (Boston was hosting!)

“Let’s go for a little walk.” I insisted, taking her hand and pulling her with me, waking her a bit.

“Do you have to say goodbye to anyone?” I pressed, still not knowing her name.

Cleopatra, now more alert, answered, “Let me just tell my roommate I’m leaving”. With this I assumed

she intended to leave with yours truly AND possessed some form of transportation other than her

thumb. Jackpot!

As Cleopatra was searching, I spotted Bill near the refrigerator engaged in vigorous deliberation with a

fellow inebriated clown I didn’t recognize; not in a belligerent or argumentative manner, more of a

rambling, incoherent, leaning on each other for balance manner. Chad was in close proximity “rocking

out” to “Only in My Dreams”. I stayed clear.

After a minute or so, Cleopatra announced, “I can’t find her anywhere. Oh well.”

“Don’t you have to say goodbye to Wingman?” I heard myself ask aloud before I could stop.

“Who?”

“Uh, no one.”

As we walked out the door and into the hallway, we came upon her roommate. She was with guess who.

If we all agree “neighborly” as the appropriate descriptor of Wingman’s earlier discourse with Cleopatra

then he had seriously stepped up his game to engage in what one would comparatively categorize as

“mi casa, su casa” discourse with her roommate.

They were practically cohabitating in the hallway!

To continue the analogy, he had secured lodging in a tight housing market, albeit in the low rent district.

Nonetheless, kudos due.

Cleopatra said something a coed would say to her roommate in this specific situation. They both giggled.

As we were leaving, her roommate and Wingman resumed their, uh, tenancy agreement. I looked back

and left the hallway with an indifferent “Later, Wing.”

Cleopatra drove us to her place, which is in walking distance to Brent Apartments. Good thing because it

was a white knuckled ordeal. (And that was with six PBRs in me!) At the risk of queering the deal, I had

offered, twice, during the fifteen-minute ride “Hey, I can drive if you’d like.”

First response: “Oh, you’re sweet.”

Translation: “Oh, you’re sweet.”

Second response: “I’m good, thanks.”

Translation: “I said no the first time, buzzkill.”

Superego flashed vague impaired-driving fatality data from a freshman year “Intro to Stats” quiz. Id

reminded Ego how hot the chauffeur was and landed on ‘keep your mouth shut’. Score one for libido.

Astonishingly, we arrived intact.

Her on-campus apartment complex looked as if it was built before the war; the Civil war, that is. She

employed two different keys and a couple of swift kicks to get us through the entry door and into the

excessively illuminated common area. Once inside, we were greeted by two ‘friendly neighborhood

cats’, Tom and Jerry, which I was told, were loved by all of the building’s residents. Petting the two cats,

Cleopatra cooed “Aren’t they precious?”

They were clearly in need of veterinary care and most certainly due for shots. One had a cloudy eye and

both had odd gaits. This time Ego deferred to Superego. I stayed clear and with a forced grin replied,

“Precious as pudding.” They both hissed at me as we walked by.

Not ten feet down the hall, around the corner, I almost tripped over some guy who I feared was possibly

dead. Turns out it was Pete, a first-floor resident whom Cleopatra stated was also loved by all of the

residents of the building. He was fully unconscious in the hallway; I guessed, catching up on some

beauty sleep, which I couldn’t blame him for.

“He always passes out here, it’s his favorite spot.”

(Wait, did she say, FIRST FLOOR resident? Why isn’t his favorite spot, presumably steps away, his bed?!)

“Hi Pete!” Cleopatra jovially exclaimed as we continued on our trek to her abode.

“Say hello to Pete, Joe.” She cheerfully suggested as we passed.

“Hi, Pete (?)” I complied, hesitantly.

“What am I doing?!” I said under my breath. Thinking to myself, “This guy is unconscious, maybe

comatose, and we’re having a conversation with him. Next thing I know, this chick will bring him out a

blanket and pillow.”

I did not like the looks of this place. I do not remember how intoxicated I was, but my Spidey sense was

tingling. I contemplated making a run for it, but I figured those two rats, I mean, cats were patrolling the

perimeter, and I hadn’t had rabies shots recently (like, as in ever, actually.)

“C’mon Joe, don’t you wanna see my place?” she took my hand and pulled me into her apartment.

I found myself in a dimly lit, larger than expected, living area. Once my eyes adjusted to the transition in

lighting, I saw the kitchen table in front of me along the right wall. To my left, simple but functional

furniture positioned with some sense of proper arrangement was thoughtfully oriented for television

viewing on what looked like an antiquated Black & White. This was in stark contrast to my college

apartment that, at the time, resembled the San Diego Zoo’s indoor habitat for primates.

I observed a floor vase in the corner opposite a hanging fern near the window; in between, above a

worn couch, an almost life-sized “Adam and the Ants Prince Charming” promotional poster stared back

at me.

A quick glance of the kitchen table revealed a collage of partially filled glasses of variously colored liquids

and empty lite beer cans, diet Pepsi bottles and peach(?) vodka nips. (Like 20 of them!) Also present, a

visibly utilized bong, scattered marijuana seeds, a number of lighters, (at least one of which were pink),

an almost entirely depleted package of Oreo cookies and other apparent bong-related accoutrements.

And although multiple ashtrays were evident, seemingly most of the lipstick-stained cigarette butts

smoked earlier that evening were chaotically littered about the table.

These ladies must have been toasted before they even got out of the apartment!

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked as she took my coat.

Given the abhorrent spectacle of the kitchen table, noting an over-filled sink and with no tolerably

sanitary drinking vessel as far as the eye can see apparent, I declined the offer.

“Don’t you wanna sit down?”, she took my hand and started toward the couch, “We might be able to

catch the ‘The Twilight Zone’.”

The Twilight Zone!?!! Thinking fast; I countered, “Nooo, ya’ gotta show me the rest of the apartment

first.”, pulling her back toward the kitchen.

“Okaaay, I guess I can show ya’ the rest of the place; it’s kinda messy though.”

“Kinda !?!!”, I *THOUGHT*. (See, I smartened up.)

She led me down the hall and opened the first door on our left, “This is Beth’s and Kim’s room; it’s kinda

messy.”

Again, *KINDA* !?!! Yikes, this bedroom made Chad’s bedroom look like a semiconductor cleanroom.

This room needed TWO plastic cups atop the mounds of detritus.

Further along the hallway before reaching the bathroom, Cleopatra stopped us at her bedroom’s

doorway. I think my heart skipped a beat.

The room was smaller than the refuse dump I had just surveyed but seemed to accommodate

everything neatly. The bed was against the wall opposite the door, with a bureau nearby and a desk in

the corner. The floor was carpeted with 1970s white shag, I kid you not.

The only light source was from the overhead desk lamp effecting a soft and romantic environs. (Not an

easy task given the bargain-basement, drab, cinder block constructed dormitory that more resembled

industrial warehousing than residential accommodations fit for America's best and brightest.)

“You like? It’s small but I’ve got my own privacy.”, she said as she brought me to the bed and sat me

down.

“Sit down and don’t go away, okay? I’ll be right back.”

She bent down and kissed me lightly on the lips, then left for the bathroom.

How many times does a girl have to go to the bathroom in one night?!

I got up and sauntered over to her desk. Above the desk, taped to the wall, was a full-page

advertisement torn from a magazine for ‘Soloflex’. It was the one with the ripped guy wearing Levi’s

with his shirt off. To the left, hung a framed poster, “Pisces Do It Better”. On her desk, were a few

photos of her and some friends and another that appeared to be her and her family. Surveying the

photographs, I realized just how pretty this girl was.

A moment later, “Being nosy?”, I heard Cleopatra tease, standing in the doorway, smiling.

“Just waiting.”

She stood there and continued to smile.

“Come on in, I won’t bite, I promise.”, I propositioned dispassionately, or so I tried, but failed; failed,

unmistakably so.

“Oh really, I was hoping you would.” She said as the distance between us remained fixed.

Another heartbeat skipped.

Maintaining an uninterrupted gaze, she deftly unfastened her skirt and straightened her hips.

The leather mini pencil skirt slid from her hips and fell to the floor revealing lacey red panties. She

stepped out of her skirt and struck a seductive, confident pose in the doorway.

As she stood in the doorway, with the hall light behind her, I could more thoroughly appreciate her

figure. Long legs, full breasts, great ass, thin AND fit AND curvy. This girl was an anomaly; a ‘Victoria’s

Secret’ anomaly.

Wearing a candy apple red top, pumps and panties with matching nail polish, this girl was simply

stunning.

“I’ll bite, I promise.”, I choked out.

“You like?”, she asked, still not any closer to me.

“I really can’t see you that well, you better come a little closer.”

She (finally!) came over to me and we kissed, standing up.

She unbuttoned my shirt and let it fall onto the white shag carpeting. I did the same with her top. Her

breasts were luscious; beautifully shaped and full. She was emanating heat.

There we were, her wearing only panties and pumps and me wearing Levi’s with my shirt off.

I woke up the next morning with the sun shining in my face; someone must have left the curtains open.

The digital clock radio displayed in red 7-segment LED digits 11:03.

I slipped out of bed. Cleopatra stirred.

After a futile attempt of locating my underwear, I slipped my pants on and carried my shoes, socks and

shirt out of the room and into the hallway. The shag carpeting under my bare feet was soft and warm

and afforded a quiet egress. (At that point, I realized shag had won me over.) I closed the door behind

me and finished dressing.

I couldn’t resist taking a peek into Beth’s room. I was curious if Wingman had gotten lucky. Or, rather,

considering the hallway enthusiasm I witnessed the previous night outside of Chad’s apartment, luckier.

I didn’t see anyone, then again they could have been amongst the debris for all I know. I wasn’t inclined

to investigate further.

Considering my alcohol consumption said night and a particularly low blood sugar level at that moment,

I was jonesing for some O.J. I went to the fridge and considered helping myself to the Minute Maid

tempting me but held back. The drinking vessel situation hadn’t miraculously improved over night and

the half gallon carton had been previously opened. Reluctant pass.

Before I left, I went over to the phone and read their number.

I carefully made my way out of the building, not seeing Tom nor Jerry nor Pete, thank God.

Happily, I got home in time for the Boston/Pittsburgh kickoff. Boston College pulled another one out of

their ass in the fourth quarter but, regretfully, didn’t cover the spread so I lost the football pool for an

eighth straight week. (Side note: Tom Bachar won! For the second time! And he's clueless! Couldn’t tell

a GD Hail Mary from an F’ing Flea Flicker!)

I meant to call Cleopatra, but I forgot her number. It was 932-4224 or 2242 or 4422, something like that.

And I was thinking of dropping by, but I figured I’d never make it past those two little rats, I mean cats,

without an escort.

The following week, relaxing on the couch, watching an episode of ABC’s ‘Wide World of Sports’, Bill

emerged from his room.

“What’s up”, I inquired apathetically, not bothering to turn my head.

“I’m going over to Chad’s. He’s having another get together. You wanna come?”

“That clown’s a Jack. Besides I’m tired. I’m gonna do a little studying and crash.”

“C’mon, you picked up at his last party, didn’t you? That tall girl with the nice tits, right?” He paused a

beat and then said with rising intonation, “but if you’re tired, I guess I’ll have to go without you” his

voice trailed off. He started for the door.

“Wait up, let me get my coat.” I jumped up and ran to my room.

“Hey, what was that girl’s name anyway?” Bill called out to me.

“I don’t remember...

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