Chapter 13

Trip met Kendall and me for breakfast on Monday morning.

“Did you have fun on Saturday?” Kendall asked him. She was trying to be sly, but I saw through her act.

“Yeah, I did,” Trip said. “Thanks again for inviting me to the party at your parents’ RV.”

Needless to say, Kendall had invited Abby to the party as well. Gina also came by, but she didn’t stay long. She had to meet Jessica, her sorority big sister, for the game itself. (Sorority girls seemed to travel in packs.)

Kendall, Abby, Trip, Drew, and I had a fun time at the football game; UT beat Georgia Tech, 10–7. Afterward, Drew headed off with his ΣΑΕ friends, and the rest of us hung out at Kendall and Abby’s apartment.

Trip and I also ended up studying with Kendall and Abby on Sunday (once again, by Kendall’s design).

“Maybe you and Paul could come hang out with us again sometime,” Kendall said, interrupting my retrospection.

When I returned my attention to the present, it took me a moment to realize that she was talking to Trip. I shot her a meaningful look, which she blithely ignored.

“Sure,” Trip said. “That’d be fun. But...”

“But...?” Kendall prompted.

“I don’t know when I can,” he said. “I’ve got four midterms this week. And I’ve got an English paper to finish.” Then he glanced at me. “Just be lucky you don’t have to take it.”

“Oh,” I said, “don’t think I’m getting off easy. I may not be taking freshman English, but that doesn’t mean I’m not taking any English. I’ve got a paper due in my American Lit. class.”

“You mean you volunteered to take more English than you have to?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ve gotta have an elective, and it might as well be something I enjoy. Why? What’re you taking for your elective?”

“Accounting,” he said.

“See? I can’t imagine wanting to take Accounting.”

“Well, I think I’m going to minor in business. With all that I want to do, it’ll come in handy someday.”

I nodded. I’d been thinking of getting an English minor, or maybe an Art History minor.

“I kind of stumbled upon my minors,” Kendall said. “I couldn’t decide what I wanted to take—it all sounded so interesting. I’ve always known I wanted to be a psychiatrist, and I wanted my undergrad degree to be psychology, but I also wanted to take English, philosophy, sociology, religious studies, and women’s studies classes. I couldn’t take them all, but I am going to end up with minors in English and women’s studies. On top of that, though, I’ve got to take classes for medical school, like Organic Chemistry.”

“You are entirely too educated for your own good,” I said.

“But I thought you liked smart women,” she said.

“I do,” I teased. “But not too smart.”

Trip and I chuckled at Kendall’s faux-pained look. At that point, the conversation turned to everyday things. When we finished eating, we headed out. Trip walked with us as far as the Humanities building and then said goodbye.

Outside Ayers Hall, Kendall and I stopped for a moment.

“Are you coming over after modeling?” she asked.

“Gina and I were supposed to go to the library together. Why don’t you come with us?”

“I can’t,” she said evasively. “I’ve got a paper to write for Child Psych.”

I wanted to argue with her that she could write the paper in the library just as well as in her apartment, but that wasn’t the point. She simply didn’t want to be around Gina. She knew it, and I knew it.

“It’s quieter in the apartment,” she said, sensing my dark thoughts.

It’s a library, for cryin’ out loud! I thought.

“I’d better get to class,” she said at last.

I kissed her goodbye and then watched as she walked down the back side of the Hill.

With a sigh, I walked into Ayers and headed upstairs to my Calculus class.

After Design class, I headed down to Studio 6. In the hallway, I took out my sketchpad and sat down. I was in the mood for something different from Italy or Greece, so I sifted through my memories. One building immediately sprang to mind.

During our time in Paris, Gina and I had simply explored and enjoyed ourselves. We were in the City of Light, the home of some of the most beautiful art and architecture in all of Europe.

One breezy afternoon—the weather was unseasonably cool for summer—our waiter overheard us speaking English. He was a student at the American University of Paris, he explained, and he was delighted for the chance to speak English. We struck up a conversation, much to the consternation of the maître d’. When we asked what sights we should see, the waiter immediately recommended one. Then he gave us directions. Gina and I thanked him and headed for the Metro.

When we arrived at the Place de l’Opéra, the Paris Opera House, I stood at the end of the street and simply stared. The building was magnificent. At the time, I had no idea what architectural style it was or who had designed it. All I knew was that it took my breath away. Without a doubt, it’s one of the most beautiful buildings in the world.

As my mind drew back to the present, I smiled at the memory. Gina had teased me about my sense of wonder, but I think she shared some of it, and she definitely delighted in my enthusiasm. She had even gone to the library with me after we returned to the U.S.—so I could check out books on all the architecture we’d seen in Europe.

Still smiling, I flipped to a new page in my sketchpad and began to draw. The opera house’s Neo-Baroque façade was incredibly complicated. Vaulted arcades supported pairs of columns, while the columns themselves framed large french windows. A bronze sculpture—patinaed with age—crowned the low dome, and the building’s flanking pediments were topped by still more sculpture.

With the building firmly in my mind’s eye, I drew meticulously, reproducing details I didn’t know I remembered. As I began to shade the arcades, I sensed someone beside me. When I glanced up, Christy smiled at me. I smiled in reply and then returned to my drawing. I could’ve spent hours on it, simply filling in details, but the bell rang before I was half-finished.

“The Paris Opera House, right?” Christy asked.

I nodded.

“That’s The Dance, by Carpeaux,” she said, pointing to my roughed-in sketch of the sculpture at ground level. “He was a French Realist,” she added. “I love his sculpture.”

“I guess I paid more attention to the building than the sculpture,” I said.

“Why?” she asked, genuinely perplexed. “The sculpture is part of the building. One beauty lends itself to another.”

“I guess I never thought of it that way.”

“Carpeaux studied at the École des Beaux-Arts. Didn’t a lot of architects study there as well?”

“Yeah,” I said, somewhat amazed at her knowledge. Then I pointed to my drawing. “This is sometimes called the Garnier Opera House. The architect, Charles Garnier, was a Beaux-Arts student. Lots of famous architects studied there. As a matter of fact, most of the large public buildings in New York and Chicago are Beaux-Arts style,” I finished.

“See?” she said with a grin. “Art and architecture go hand in hand.” As if to illustrate her point, she gestured at the building around us—the Art & Architecture building. “Without architects,” she added whimsically, “artists wouldn’t have anyplace to display our art. And without artists, architects wouldn’t have anything worthwhile to display in their buildings.”

I fought not to grin, but ultimately lost the battle.

“It’s true,” she said.

“You two again,” Siobhan interrupted from the studio doorway.

We stood.

“Christy tells me you’re an architecture student,” Siobhan said to me. “I thought you’d be an art student,” she added. Then she noticed my sketchpad. She gestured and I let her look at my half-finished drawing. “Impressive detail,” she said. “Christy said you were talented, and she was right.”

Beside me, the blonde shifted nervously, and I felt my face heat.

“Are you a third-year student?” Siobhan asked. “Fourth-year?”

“Actually, I’m a freshman,” I said, somewhat sheepishly.

“Oh, splendid. Then you’re still in the wide-eyed wonder stage. Which architecture professors do you have?”

“Spielman for Intro, Ledbetter for Drawing, and Joska for Design,” I finished sourly.

“I don’t know Professor Spielman,” she said, “but Don Ledbetter is good. And you’re lucky to have Professor Joska.”

I merely blinked at her. She obviously didn’t know Laszlo Joska or his disagreeable personality.

“The university itself is very lucky to have him,” she added.

“Are we talking about the same Professor Joska?” I asked. How many could there be? I wondered rhetorically.

“Oh, yes,” Siobhan said. “He and I came here at the same time. The School of Art did quite a bit to persuade me to join the faculty. The College of Architecture undoubtedly did the same for him.”

“Siobhan’s a world-famous sculptress,” Christy explained. “She’s officially an Artist in Residence.”

“Hold on a second,” I interrupted. I mentally cringed at being rude, but I was dying to know what Siobhan meant by “the university itself is very lucky to have” Joska. So I asked her.

“You don’t know?” she replied.

I shook my head.

“He’s won a number of design awards,” she said. “And he gave up a position at MIT to come here.”

“Hold on, he was a professor at MIT?”

She nodded.

“And he’s a famous architect?”

“Oh, yes. The dean practically turned over UT’s design curriculum to him. In fact, Professor Joska teaches most of the first-year design classes.”

“Most of the— You mean I’ll have him for the rest of the year?!”

“If you’re lucky, yes,” Siobhan said.

I don’t think she understood why I let out a hopeless cry of frustration.

A few minutes later, clad only in my robe, I sat on the stool in the center of the circle of easels. As I stared at the female model’s empty stool, I sullenly pondered my future.

“I can’t fucking believe it,” I muttered.

I was so preoccupied that I didn’t even notice when the female model entered the studio. I wouldn’t have seen much anyway; she simply breezed into the office.

When I looked up, Christy was grinning at me. I didn’t know what she had to grin about, but I tried to smile in return.

“Sorry I’m late,” the female model said as she emerged from the office.

I didn’t even look up as she walked to her stool (although I did notice that she had nice legs and painted toenails).

When she turned toward me, she gasped.

At the sound, I looked up and got the shock of my life.

“Are we ready?” Siobhan asked.

I swallowed hard. When Siobhan held out her hand, I paused for a moment. Then, in a daze, I untied my robe.

“Paul, meet Wren,” Siobhan said. “Wren, meet Paul.”

Holy shit, I railed silently. First Christy, and now Wren.

Why hadn’t Christy told me? For that matter, Wren looked as shocked as I felt, so Christy probably hadn’t told her friend either. When I glanced up at the blonde, her eyes twinkled mischievously. Then she inclined her head, her grin turning whimsical. Finally, she turned back to her drawing, but she never stopped smiling.

Wren shifted and I was tempted to look at her, but I didn’t dare. I already thought she was attractive, and if I let my mind wander, I wasn’t sure I could keep from getting an erection.

Treacherous organ.

In self-defense, I turned my thoughts to something sure to keep my dick limp: Joska.

I wondered how I’d survive—if I’d survive—another two quarters of his hectoring. He wanted me to be perfect, and I just wasn’t living up to his standards.

Well, I thought, screw him. If he wants me to be perfect, I’ll be perfect. I’ll learn everything I can about architecture. And then I’ll show him.

In the past, if I wanted to learn something, I read a book. With Joska, I got the feeling that simple book-learning wouldn’t be enough. Nor would it be enough to create a picture-perfect drawing of anyplace I’d seen.

As I morosely pondered my fate, I came to a sudden and startling conclusion.

I knew what the inside of the Paris Opera House smelled like. I’d felt the travertine blocks of the Colosseum under my feet. I could vividly remember the sun-blasted white of the buildings on the Acropolis.

But that wasn’t enough.

As much as I hated to admit it, Joska was right. I couldn’t sail through life drawing pretty pictures.

How was the Paris Opera House built? It was a marvel of design and elegance, as beautiful within as it was without. Yet it was built on a cramped site, atop a natural spring and an underground lake.

Why didn’t the Colosseum collapse under its own weight? The building was massive, designed to hold more than 50,000 spectators. But it had eighty exits, which could disgorge all those spectators in fifteen minutes. And it was built in the first century A.D.

What had the Parthenon looked like in its heyday? The temple was a perfect example of Doric architecture, but it was also replete with optical illusions, all designed to make the building look even more impressive. The Greeks had known all those little tricks, nearly 2,500 years ago.

As beautiful as those buildings were, someone had purposefully designed them. An architect had created them from his imagination and, more importantly, from his experience.

I was a good artist, and I knew I could draw beautiful buildings. But could I design a stunning building on top of an underground lake? Could I design a massive building, capable of withstanding its own weight, as well as the test of time? Could I design a building to seamlessly combine tricks of light, dimension, scale, and proportion?

Unfortunately, I knew the answers to those questions: no, no, and no.

Then I thought about Professor Joska’s quote from Michelangelo, “If people knew how hard I have to work to gain my mastery, it wouldn’t seem wonderful at all.”

I knew how hard Michelangelo had to work, and it did seem wonderful.

I knew that I’d never achieve even a fraction of Michelangelo’s fame, but deep down, I was willing to work that hard. I was willing to set my goals higher than I thought I could achieve. I was willing to...

“Paul?”

I looked up suddenly and shook my head to clear it.

Siobhan stood close, holding my robe. Class was over.

Wren looked at me, her head cocked to the side.

Christy’s eyes darted between me and her easel as she feverishly added details to her drawing.

“Are you okay, Paul?” Siobhan asked.

Still staring at me, Wren put on her robe and tied it. In a semi-stupor, I took my robe from Siobhan and donned it.

“Why don’t you use the office first,” I suggested to Wren.

“O-okay.”

A few minutes later, when she emerged, I was still in my own little world. Without looking up, I walked into the office and shut the door behind me. I got dressed mechanically, my thoughts tumultuous. Then, as I tied my shoes, I came to a decision.

No matter what Joska demanded, I’d do it. No matter how hard he tried to beat me down, I’d keep standing up. No matter how much he criticized me, I’d keep coming back for more.

Surprisingly, I felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders. I don’t know why, but I didn’t really care, either. I knew what I wanted to do, and I was going to do it.

With a headshake at my own reckless determination, I slung my backpack over my shoulder.

I felt good—really good—for the first time in weeks.

When I opened the office door, Siobhan was bidding farewell to Christy and Wren. A moment later, she left. The two girls were halfway around the circle of easels, and they hadn’t heard me open the door. On a whim, I pushed it most of the way closed. Then I stepped out of sight and paused to listen. The girls’ voices were low, but if I concentrated, I could just make them out.

“Why didn’t you tell me the guy was Mysterious?” Wren hissed. “You just said he was cute.”

“I guess it was your turn to be tongue-tied,” Christy said evenly. “And his name is Paul.”

“But if you’d’ve told me, I could’ve done something.”

“Like what?” Christy asked. “Flirt with him?”

I grinned at the teasing in her voice. Then I leaned closer to the door, straining to hear.

“It’s kinda hard to do that when you don’t have anything to hide,” Christy added. “Don’t you think?”

“But still...,” Wren said. “I could’ve made him ... I dunno... something. Now I’ll never get the upper hand back.”

“Oh, get over it,” Christy said. “He’s a nice guy.”

“Oh?” Wren countered. “And how do you know that?”

“I’ve talked to him a lot. And he walked me back to the dorm all last week.”

“I’ll bet.”

“He’s got a girlfriend,” Christy said. “And he’s been a perfect gentleman. Besides, you know how I feel about Simon.”

“Simon?” Wren mocked. “Simon’s just— Oh, never mind. Forget I said anything. Let’s figure out how I can keep teasing Mysterious.”

“His name is Paul,” Christy said deliberately.

“Okay. Jeez. You’d think you’ve got the hots for him or something.”

“I told you, he’s a nice guy. And ... well...”

After a moment of silence, they both giggled.

“He’s really cute,” Christy said.

“And he’s got a great body,” Wren added. “Did you see the size of his...”

At that point, their voices dropped to a whisper.

I leaned forward, desperate to pick up their faint conversation.

As I strained, I felt my arm shifting. I was using a table to brace myself, and it had started moving. In a slow-motion panic, I fell forward. My face hit the door jamb before I could catch myself. My nose flattened and then my shoulder hit the door.

It closed with a distinctive click-clack.

My face hot with embarrassment, I pushed away from the wall and stood upright. For a fraction of a second, I panicked. What should I do? Had the girls heard the door close? Would they realize that I’d been eavesdropping? What would they...?

With an act of will, I took a deep, calming breath. My nose still throbbed, and my face felt flushed, but I had to do something. After all, I didn’t want to seem like I’d been eavesdropping (which is exactly what I’d been doing, of course).

After another deep breath, I swallowed hard and then opened the door.

When I stepped into view, the girls glanced at me. Christy held my eyes and smiled. Wren tried to look coquettish, but when she realized that I wasn’t flustered, she gave up. Fortunately, she didn’t realize that I was too nervous to be flustered. With each step, however, my pulse steadied and my composure slowly returned. When I reached the girls, I had my emotions mostly under control.

“You’re still Mysterious,” Wren said, as if she were trying to convince herself as much as me.

“And you’re still Beautiful,” I shot back.

Christy chuckled softly. Then she looked at me and smiled. After a moment, she hesitantly asked if I wanted to see her drawing.

I nodded.

She had drawn us from the shoulders up, and I could almost feel the emotions as I looked at the drawing. In it, Wren’s eyes were averted, but she seemed to be looking at me on the sly. Then I looked at my face; Christy had perfectly captured my expression of anxiety and sullen frustration. But as I looked at my eyes, I realized that she had also captured a sense of resolve and self-confidence that I hadn’t known was there.

“Do I really look like that?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I don’t know what you were thinking, but you became ... I don’t know ... defiant.”

“About what?” Wren asked, her curiosity overwhelming her desire to remain aloof.

For a long moment, I simply stared at her, wondering how much to tell her about Professor Joska. Finally, I admitted to myself what I’d been thinking all along.

“I guess I decided that I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anyone come between me and what I want to do with my life,” I said with calm intensity.

Later, Gina and I ate dinner together and then studied in the library until it closed. It was almost like we were in high school again, and we enjoyed ourselves (even though we both had our noses buried in our books).

She asked why Kendall didn’t join us, and I made up an excuse. I didn’t like lying to her, but she’d get upset if she knew the truth. Worse, I couldn’t blame her.

When I got back to my room, I lay awake in bed, thinking about my three-way relationship. It used to be hard enough juggling two girlfriends. But lately, I seemed to be doing two separate juggling acts. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t know what to do about it either.

Finally, with a conscious effort, I put Kendall and Gina out of my mind. When I did, my thoughts turned to the Art History girls.

I liked Christy; she was easy to talk to. We had a lot in common, and she was friendly as well. She was pretty, but more importantly, she seemed pretty on the inside. (Gina’s friend Regan was attractive, but I still didn’t like her.)

As I replayed the overheard conversation between Christy and Wren, I wondered who Simon was. I figured he was Christy’s boyfriend, but Wren didn’t like him. Curious.

Wren was still a bit of a mystery herself. She seemed to have a wild streak, much like Gina. I usually liked that sense of adventure, but I reminded myself that I didn’t need another adventurous girl in my life (not as anything more than a friend, at least).

As I thought about Wren’s body, however, I felt my dick swell. Even though I hadn’t spent much time looking directly at her, I did have a good memory. So I closed my eyes and pictured her.

She was shorter than Gina, by about an inch. And like Gina, her breasts were full and round (although her nipples were light brown, compared to Gina’s dark ones). Her stomach was soft and smooth, and she trimmed her pubic hair. Surprisingly, she had the remnants of a good tan (and no tan lines—very interesting). She didn’t have any hard angles or well-defined muscles, but she certainly wasn’t soft.

As I pictured Wren’s body, I let out a soft chuckle. In a way, I owed a debt of gratitude to Professor Joska; if I hadn’t been preoccupied, I would’ve had a tough time keeping my thoughts away from sex. The privacy of my dorm room, however, was a different matter altogether. (Billy’s play was entering the final stage of preparation, and the crew was working all night for the next day’s dress rehearsal.)

Since I had the room to myself, I threw back my sheet and skinned off my underwear. Then I pictured Wren in my mind. I imagined her on her knees before me, her mouth open as I stepped toward her. While I slowly stroked my erection, I imagined her gently kissing the tip.

Next, I pictured her on her back, her legs spread in invitation. In my imagination, her pussy was completely shaved, her lips plump and slick with arousal. I knelt between her thighs and ran my hands over her legs. Then I lifted them and kissed her painted toes. She moaned as I entered her, of course. She was tight, but not too tight; wet, but not too wet.

In the real world, I stroked my dick a little faster and imagined Wren on hands and knees in front of me, her round, firm ass in my hands. She moaned as I slammed into her, and I imagined her breasts swinging with each thrust.

Lost in my fantasy, I stroked myself, my left hand cupping my balls as my right blurred up and down. With my eyes still closed, I imagined Wren begging me to fuck her harder. I gripped her hips and slammed into her, her tight pussy clutching at me every time I pulled back.

A moment later, I felt my orgasm welling up. I imagined pulling my pussy-slick cock from within her and pumping it, aiming it at her ass. Then I pictured an arc of white come spurting over her back. Without opening my eyes, I frantically reached for my box of tissues.

Too late.

I felt the first surge of orgasmic bliss as my flailing left hand finally found the Kleenex. My muscles tensed up and I completely lost interest in anything other than my climax. Hot splatters of come landed on my chest and stomach. The next spurt followed the first, covering my abdomen with droplets of semen.

After several more gushes, my orgasm subsided and I sagged to the bed. My breathing was heavy and my mouth was dry, but a warm, wonderful feeling radiated from my groin. I’d have to clean myself up sooner or later, but at the moment, I didn’t care.

The next morning at breakfast, Kendall looked at me and I wondered if she could tell that I’d “cheated” on her. It wasn’t cheating, of course, but jerking off while fantasizing about another girl wasn’t something I did very often.

I thought about Susan sometimes, or Stacy, but Kendall knew about both of them. Other times, I thought about buxom Heather, or super-sexy Annika. I even thought about Leah or Erin every once in a while. But Kendall knew about all of them as well.

Kendall didn’t know about Wren. And instead of thinking about something from my past, I was imagining something that hadn’t happened (nor would it, if I had any sense). So while it wasn’t cheating, strictly speaking, I still felt a little guilty about it. It’s irrational, I know, but that’s how I am sometimes.

“Is that all you’re eating?” Kendall asked.

I almost sagged in relief at her question. I didn’t really want to defend my choice of toast and an orange, but I also didn’t want her looking across the table and asking, “So, do you really want to have sex with Wren instead of me?”

“Paul, you need to eat something,” she said. “You work out all the time and you never eat. It’s not healthy.”

“I don’t want to gain the ‘Freshman Fifteen,’” I said as calmly as I could.

“You’re going to lose fifteen pounds if you’re not careful,” she said.

“So? I need to lose a few pounds anyway.”

“No, you don’t,” she insisted. “I love you just the way you are.”

“Isn’t that a song?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“You know what I mean.”

“Look, you’re not my mother. And I’m not a kid. All right?” When she looked wounded, I apologized. “Listen,” I said, calmer, “I just need to lose a couple of pounds. I’m not doing wrestling workouts anymore, and I gained too much weight over the summer. I just need to shed a little baby fat. That’s all.”

“I worry about you,” she said.

“I know,” I said, taking her hand.

“And I just want you to be happy.”

I’d be happier if I weighed less, I thought. Fortunately, I had the good sense not to say that aloud.

“I’m sorry,” Kendall said.

“It’s okay. I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

She smiled bleakly. “How was modeling yesterday?” she asked, changing the subject.

“It was good,” I said. After a tentative pause, I decided to tell her about Wren. “You’re not going to believe who the female model is, though.”

“Um ... what’s her name? Christy?”

I shook my head.

With a frown, she gazed at the table, thinking hard. Then she looked up suddenly, her eyes wide.

“Yep,” I said.

“The other Art History girl?!”

“Her name’s Wren,” I said.

“Like the bird?”

“Mmm hmm. She and Christy are roommates.”

“Oh?” she asked, her expression curious (and a little teasing). “And how do you know that?”

“I talked to them after class,” I said.

“You think they’re cute,” she accused.

I tried to hide my emotions, but Kendall was Kendall, and she saw the truth. I cringed, waiting for her to get upset.

To my surprise, she laughed.

I furrowed my brow in confusion.

“They are cute,” she said. “I told you that the first time we saw them.”

“I remember,” I said, blushing as I recalled the pie conversation.

“So,” she asked slyly, “what’s Wren look like?”

“Why?” I asked, wary.

It was Kendall’s turn to blush.

“Oh ho,” I said. “You think she’s cute too.”

“Paul, not so loud,” she chided urgently. Then she looked around to see if anyone had overheard.

“You do,” I said. “You think she’s cute.”

“Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure,” I said with a smug grin. “Like what? Pie?”

Kendall’s eyes widened.

“I bet some pie would taste good right now.”

“Paul!”

“Mmmmm,” I continued. “I’d like to watch you eat some pie.”

“What time’s your football game tonight?” she asked.

“Nice, warm, tasty pie. While you eat some pie, I can fill your pie from behind. You like my pie filling, right?”

“Paul, please.”

“Okay,” I said at last.

“Goodness, is it hot in here?”

With that, we shared a grin at her tacit admission that she was attracted to Wren.