Solo Cup | 1 July 2021
She walked into the room and she saw him leaning against the wall under the peeling and tattered Jimi Hendrix poster looking down into his seemingly empty red solo cup. The sense of deja vu was overwhelming. This happened often and she'd learned to pay attention, so as she walked in his direction, she paid close attention to her internal reaction, and it spoke volumes. "Hey," she said. He looked up slowly and met her gaze. "Hey yourself," he said. "Are we gonna do this?" he added. She wasn't sure what he meant, but she said yes and accepted the hand reaching out to her.
BNR Response
He tried to pull her down to sit beside him but she countered his weight and pulled him up. She didn’t know what he had in mind, but she didn’t want to stay here to find out. As he rose he was a bit unstable on his feet, which she hated to admit she had been hoping for. If he’d had a bit too much to drink then he would need a ride home. After a few almost imperceptible stumbles, he instinctually handed her the keys and they made their way single-file down the narrow attic staircase to the second floor of the frat house. The party hadn’t raged that night, thank god, and instead had quickly migrated to the hellish home of the tri-delts (those sluts). The floor they were on was mostly bedrooms and was totally empty. It was weird to be here at night and for it to be desolate and so eerily quiet. They now disembarked down the broad grand staircase in the middle of the house into the area with the foosball table and where the beer pong seemed to be eternally ready for play. She imagined this house 40 or 50 years ago, the pride of some trapped housewife. This would have been the transitional room between the front parlor and the more casual dining room and telephone nook. The house had remarkably guarded much of its original charm: the hardwood floors still shone red under the dull scuffs from furniture moved clumsily, the original doorknobs were either glass and patinaed brass, the tile in the bathrooms was tiffany turquoise with matching vanity and commode. She wondered if local residents were ever able to wrest away and reclaim these historical properties, restoring them to their original luster, or if they were doomed to a slow, inevitable decay.
They walked out the back door and the still, summer air was close and hit them like a dead-end street. The sweet smell of cut grass, freshly mowed earlier that day, lingered with the fragrant ozone from recent rain. Lightning bugs created romantic atmosphere. Oh, if only she could reach out to his unattended hand, so close to her, and squeeze it.
They hopped in his pick-up, all the windows already down, and began the 4-minute drive to his apartment. They cruised through the blinking yellow streetlights, and Don Henley drifted on the airwaves from the AM/FM radio, “I thought I knew what love was, what did I know? Those days are gone forever, I should just let them go but…” and her chest felt hollowed out with longing. She knew her only real alone time with him was during stolen moments like these: his guard lowered by his being overtired or drunk, and when none of his bros were around to shoo her away. She had cobbled together a collage of these glimpses at happiness: that night after the movie in the park when his bike had been stolen. After cramming for an O Chem exam until the library closed, followed by a last call warm beer at the campus bar aptly named Study Hall. When his dog got run over and none of his roommates could deal. She sifted through these cherished memories and felt desperation in the realization that it might be months before she was alone with him again. The lyrics of Boys of Summer stuck with her in their haunting prophecy as she pulled up to his curb and they slowly climbed out from the cab, “I feel it in the air, the summer’s out of reach. Empty lake, empty beach, the sun goes down alone. I’m driving by your house, though I know you’re not home.” Would this be the last time she’d get this chance? Should she take it?
HCH Response
There’s a quality about guys like him I can sense from across the room. I sometimes wonder if I could find them blindfolded — that’s how accurate the radar is. Maybe it’s just experience? I’ve had years of practice after all, I thought with a smirk as I approached this one.
Shy, obviously. Duh. Alone helps. Ill-fitting clothes on a frame that’s been wasted by bad posture and worse self-esteem. Body language that suggests a desperate attempt to escape into one’s mortal shell, yet miraculously summoning the courage deep within a nerd’s heart to go to a gathering instead. Not a gathering like Magic: The Gathering — like, a party.
You might not think a woman would want a reputation like mine. But fuck em. I’m a benevolent angel of light. I’m the goddamn Mother Theresa of virginity’s oily shelf life. I’m providing a public service. And, to be petty, you will never feel hotter than I do when I am with my mark. So everybody can suck it.
What do I get out of it? Sure, fair question.
They are tender. I always have the upper hand; they can never hurt me. On the rare occasion when one steps out of bounds, he finds out immediately, like a shock collar or an electric fence. And, as any good performer who leaves the audience wanting more can relate, I know that he will compare every future encounter to ours. Last (and most mushily) of all, I feel that our trysts set these guys on a path of confidence. Slap em on the tighty-whitey ass. Go forth, young genius. You’ve just leveled up on the way to being a man. Bonus +100 XP and all.
I guess that’s why I was taken aback by his question, “Are we gonna do this?” Well, that was bold. He required no flattery, flirtation, or leading. I immediately thought to counter with, “Heyyy, bucko. I’m actually fuckin Batman, and that makes you Robin, but more naked.” Come on. We all love a good homoerotic superhero fantasy. Anyway, either my senses had misled me, and I was about to wrestle my way out of an unfortunate situation, or I was about to train this pup in some manners. Or...? Door number 3. I’d said I would listen to my internal reaction, and now here I was. In all honesty, I was curious. I had to find out what this dude’s deal was.
I followed him down the hall, lined with necking couples deluded enough to think it was a private nook. I shrugged. Private enough, right? Needs must. The closer we got to the end, the less clothed the gallery got. I stepped over bras, hoodies, and at one point a pair of jeans. Wow, I thought, these are some Olympic-grade makeouts. God bless you and I hope you are on birth control. I’d never been to an event at this particular house, and I kicked myself for not having done a full reconnaissance mission when I arrived. Sloppy. The gauntlet I’d just walked, following his hunched shoulders the whole way, left me feeling more vulnerable than I cared to admit.
We stopped short of the bathroom to face the last door on the right. He must have felt the giant question mark over my head when he knocked instead of just entering.
“Password?” A small voice inside beseeched.
“Uzra,” he said, his voice lowered considerably and louder than our initial exchange. He might as well have been saying “Oohrah” like he was a Marine.
The door creaked open.
Inside was the brightest room in the house, if I had to bet. One overhead light, one desk lamp, one standing lamp and one lava lamp all glowed blindingly at me. A circle of faces collectively gave me a side-eyed glance, then returned to their cards in hand.
He shut the door behind me and broke the silence we’d held since I approached him.
“You play Magic, right? You… seem like the type.”