My father’s college was Ivy League and my mother’s one of the Seven Sisters. They wanted me to go someplace they could mention without embarrassment. However an old friend of the family was a retired chemistry professor who became my mentor in navigating the academic world. He advised me to pick a liberal arts college around the mid-twentieth rank, where the faculty had top qualifications but were forced to teach rather than do research. He convinced me there was no point in spending an extra hundred thousand dollars to be taught by adjuncts and grad students.
I had a reasonable number of friends in high school, but never a steady girlfriend. We serious students tended to hang out in groups rather than go out on dates. I was awkward around girls and never managed more than a few make-out sessions and an unsatisfactory blowjob. My older sister decided I needed some help if I were ever to have a social life in college. The summer before college she got my mother’s cooperation in giving me a make-over. I got laser surgery to get rid of my glasses and Accutane for my pimples. My father decided to pay me to construct a back porch and patio, so I finally got myself in good shape through honest physical labor.
Freshman orientation was mostly a joke. We ignored everything except the rules regarding alcohol, sex and drugs. It took us some time to figure out the consequences of one especially strict school policy. Only roommates were allowed in a dorm room after midnight. The college was all in favor of us having sex, but recognized we had the right to a good night’s sleep. Any violation resulted in exile to the oldest dorm on campus, where students were warehoused three or even four to a room. We all envied the upperclassmen whose single rooms let them entertain all night long. Our school’s hookup culture was made extra frenetic by this Cinderella Rule. It was vital to seal the deal by 11 PM at latest. This meant social events started no later than 8, and the alcoholic “pre-gaming” started right after dinner.
Alcohol was a particular sore point for me. When I was in eighth grade, a lovely, popular girl in my class was crippled in a dreadful auto accident. She was coming back from a movie with her parents when their car was hit head-on. Her father was killed outright and her mother badly hurt. The driver of the other car was the captain of the football team, who had a blood alcohol level three times the limit. His girlfriend went into a coma and died a few weeks later. The football player got a sentence of ten years, which was reduced on appeal to seven and a half. His lawyer asked the court to consider as part of his punishment the boy’s own lasting injury. The EMTs couldn’t find his severed penis at the scene because it had been nearly swallowed by his girlfriend.
Teenage boys aren’t normally very afraid of death, but the gruesome consequences of this accident made us terrified of drinking and driving. We avoided hard alcohol and carefully monitored how many beers we consumed over the course of the evening. I was thus astounded at how much drinking went on in college. Nobody had a car—they weren’t necessary or even allowed—but there were plenty of other ways to get in serious trouble when intoxicated. I was especially shocked by seeing for the first time in my life girls drunk to the point of passing out.
It wasn’t much fun being the only sober guy at my first college party. I of course skipped the “pre-game” boozing. It mostly took place in off-campus houses, since bars checked IDs and the college was pretty grim about open drinking in the dorms. There was plenty of weed available, but it was too introspective and antisocial a high to have much place in pre-gaming. Instead students mixed alcohol with illicit drugs such as Ecstasy or prescription drugs such as oxycodone. Nobody seemed to remember that every year at least one student would die of respiratory failure or cardiac arrest.
The party featured loud music, low lights and flickering strobes. Conversation was barely possible if you shouted in someone’s ear. In the center was a crowd of maybe thirty girls, all in tight, low-cut tops and either short skirts or skin-tight leggings. Whenever some guys approached, the girls turned towards the center and waggled their asses in invitation. It was like something on the Nature Channel, missing only David Attenborough’s voice-over explaining how female baboons were now “presenting the rump.” A guy would thrust his crotch against a girl’s bottom and the girl would look over her shoulder in appraisal. If he seemed adequately “hot”, she would rub against his erection for the rest of the song, then turn around and start making out. Sometimes they stayed on the dance floor for another song, but most often the couple would move out to the edges to grope each other with more freedom, or else leave the party altogether.
I stayed for about an hour, never dancing or approaching a girl. As it got closer to midnight, the crowd thinned to the most overweight girls and least attractive guys. I arrived back at my room with a headache, only to find a necktie around the doorknob, my roommate’s sign he’d managed to get lucky. At twelve-thirty I knocked on the door and said I had to go to bed. Fifteen minutes later a very drunk and disheveled girl came out. She wasn’t particularly attractive, which I took to mean beer goggles only work when viewed through the non-sober side.
A few weeks later my roommate persuaded me to go to a second party, which he promised would be different. It was called a “stoplight” party, where you were supposed to wear red if you were in a relationship, yellow if you weren’t sure, or green if you were “down to fuck”. The lights were bright enough so you could tell what colors people were wearing, and the music was thankfully not too loud for conversation.
I couldn’t see myself in any of the three categories, so I had on a light blue shirt. That didn’t make any real difference, as all the guys were presumed available for casual sex. To my surprise I was approached almost at once by a very attractive girl. Myra was a red-head, although of a shade not normally found in nature. She had high cheekbones and hazel eyes, and her small bust was more than offset by a glorious pair of legs. These flexed back and forth under a short yellow skirt, while her nipples stuck out prominently from her tight green leotard. It was pretty easy to read her traffic signals: ready to get naked but unsure whether she wanted to have sex. Her breath smelled only slightly of alcohol.
I guess my sister was right after all. I saw myself reflected in Myra’s face and manner as a desirable, good-looking guy. It gave me a surge of confidence which loosened my tongue and calmed my nerves better than any amount of alcohol. We danced through two songs face to face, with a lot of smiling but nothing overtly sexual. The third dance was slow. I felt Myra melt against me and brush my neck with her lips. She pushed against my erection, which emboldened me to slide my hand lower over her skirt. She moaned in appreciation when I gently squeezed her ass and pushed it against my crotch.
The dance ended with a deep, open-mouthed kiss. Before the music started again, Myra moved her mouth next to my ear and murmured, “Mike, please take me home now. My roommate’s away for the weekend.” Every half block between the dance and her dorm we would stop to make out. Each stop the fondling got more aggressively sexual, until she had put her hand inside my pants and I slid my fingers under the gusset of her panties.
Once inside she took out a bottle of vodka from her refrigerator and made us both drinks. We finally had a chance to talk. It seemed a bit strange to finally find out where she was from and what she planned as her major, just minutes before we were going to have sex. I stopped Myra from pouring a second round of drinks. I told her I wanted to remember every moment of our night together. She looked at me as though I were nuts, took a hefty swig from the vodka bottle, and peeled off her top. Her nipples were very prominent and got even harder under my tongue.
All those years of internet porn were good preparation. I noted without censure her tattoos, piercings, dyed hair and defoliated labia. I felt like a commando who had trained so thoroughly and realistically, the actual mission was anticlimactic.
Once the rest of our clothes were off, Myra wrapped her lips around my cock. She didn’t bother licking or teasing, but went straight for results. I was barely able to croak out a warning before I felt my muscles tense and my penis swell into the most intense orgasm of my life. I had to force Myra’s head away from me as her sucking became too nerve-racking to bear.
Myra suggested we have another drink while we waited for me to get hard again. I had a better idea. I pushed her back down on the bed, lifted her legs around my head and planted the flat of my tongue on her hairless vulva. She immediately started to struggle, which I mistook for immediate spasms of passion. “No! You shouldn’t do that! You won’t like it. We don’t really know each other,” she cried. Myra had just swallowed my semen, so I figured she was just being either coy or downright weird. I kept slurping up towards her clit, until her cries and struggles became clear signs of arousal.
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