My Weekend With Goya

“What are you gonna wear?”

Not what I had in mind. I left Buffalo to get away from the annual fencing team costume party. Little did I know that Albany’s radio station had the same tradition.

I had thought I had the scheme set out. The past two years I was horribly embarrassed at the whack state of my costumes for the party. I figured I’d save myself the trouble this time around. The problem was I couldn’t just not go. I had to be on my deathbed or out of town. As I was not prepared to die, I figured it might be the right time to go visit Glenda.

As the bus rolled into Albany, the monochrome sucked my will to live. The sky, buildings, and ground were all the same shade of gray. I grabbed a payphone and called Glenda’s dorm. My day brightened when she answered.

Right now you’re thinking “I know where this is going.” You couldn’t be more wrong. Glenda, while indescribably hot, was one of those close friends that give you the incest willies when she sits too close. I had actually just gone to chill with her for a weekend.

She was all too happy to hang with an old high school friend for a weekend, but she had a party to go to. She was on the hunt and her quarry was attending. I was more than invited, actually encouraged to attend, but it required a costume: the very thing I GreyDogged it for 6 hours to avoid wearing this weekend. Fuck.

“Listen, just head over while I call these guys and see if they’ll let you in without a costume.”

“Cool.” I headed across campus to Goth Glenda’s Gray Dorm. What I thought to be another of her adorable Suessisms turned out to be depressingly succinct. That shit was gray like everything else. I rang the bell and was quickly buzzed in. She greeted me at the door as only she could. She was wearing a blindingly white men’s dress shirt four sizes too big with the cuffs loosely rolled up to her elbows. Her chin length black hair was teased fractally into sharp spikes about her head and heavy white pancake makeup obscured her warm, dark olive complexion. Her eyes were blacked and she had a rather convincing latex bullet wound in the middle of her forehead.

“What do you think? I’m Dead Robert Smith!”

Glenda apprised me of her life since she arrived in Albany. She showed me her screech list; a week-by-week list of current fascinations that make her screech and dance about. I noticed I was on it, but I have no story about that.

She introduced me to her best in-house entertainment: her roommate. Glenda took immense pleasure in knowing that her roommates name was Lim Lum. She posted clippings from Lum (a manga) on the door. Lim had a gooseneck lamp on her desk so lacking in stability that the lamp end never rose further than an inch off desktop. Glenda referred to it as Lim Lum’s Limp Lamp. She said this with a delirious cackle frequently throughout the weekend. I should’ve married her.

The main issue was that I could not attend the party without a costume. We contemplated dressing in drag, but I outweighed her by 70 pounds and had feet about 5 sizes too big for any of her 47 available pairs of shoes. We tried anyway thinking the image of my fencers thighs splitting the seam of one of her skirts might be funny, but it was just sad. Ah well, the party was not for me. I now had to make other plans for the partyable portion of Friday night, and Lim Lum was a teetotaler. Fortunately the campus directory yielded the names of several former classmates. Yes the flawlessly headed Lan was still together with Kevin, engaged now in fact. No shit? Darryl Kelly? Too bad he was working.

“Oh my God, Erik! How are you?” Tracey. “You’re in Albany? Bullshit! What are you doing tonight? That sucks! You came all this way and you have nothing to do? Well, my roommates and I are going bar hopping, wanna come along?” Bars in Albany turned out to be cool, but I’m getting way too far ahead of myself. First I had to trudge back out into the October blizzard of television static that was Our Empire State’s capital. Out I went pulling my collar up against the 40-degree frigidity that was funky-assed Albany.

Indian Quad was unsurprisingly the same uniform gray as the rest of the municipality. I slid into the lobby with the usual silent menace of the Urban Commando deploying onto the scene. Seconds after hitting the buzzer Tracey chirped out the up two flights turn left second door on the right necessary to find her suite. Up the steps, around the corner and three knocks later my weekend got interesting.

The door was answered by 115 pounds of bronze. Bare feet with freshly manicured eggplant colored toenails. Ankles tapered gently out to well sculpted runner’s calves. Calves sloped in gently towards knees which shortly thereafter swelled back out to sleek thighs. Thighs continued up forever, oh God still going, still going. My eyes traveled up her legs for an amount of time that made me finally understand the phrase “legs for days.” Just before I needed a visit to the men’s room, her legs ended with the waist-hem of an oversized, very soft and fuzzy looking orange roll neck sweater. Waves of thick hair the color of old pennies sloshed down onto the shoulders of the virgin wool. Gleaming out from that was a gentle emerald-eyed face irradiated with a genuinely pleased-to-meet-you smile. With the window of the four-person suite’s common room behind her, I shit you not, the clouds broke and tongues of early evening fire licked off her silhouette. This wasn’t Tracey.

“Erik? Hi. I’m Rachel.” One mystery solved. “Tracey’s getting dressed, she’ll be right out.” Mystery number two. “Have a seat, make yourself comfortable.” As she waved her arm toward the State University issue couch by the window my attention was drawn to her arm. The soft wool hung off her like silk offering a very vivid profile. The impossibly elongated teardrop of her forearm, the firmness of her upper arm. As my attention drifted farther along her anatomical topography I was reminded of a fact I was told several months earlier by an English lit professor: the original wineglass was given it’s size and shape by some renaissance monarchs ideal of the perfect breast.

The door on my right opened as I tried to unlock my knees and stagger to the couch. “Erik!” Tracey leapt out of her doorway and wrapped her arms around my neck. I was nearly strangled to death, but it was understandable. It was good to see her too. Soon enough everyone except Tracey’s sick suitemate was dressed and ready to go. The cab was called, the night began.

Tracey paid my cover for the first bar; after all I was the escort and emergency sketchy guy failsafe valve for the three of them. Upon entering I sensed the familiar scent of impending mass drunkenness. It turned out to be “Penny ‘Till You Pee” night. This meant that whatever you ordered could be paid for by whatever change you dropped on the bar, provided it was at least one cent per drink. This price was in effect until someone went to the bathroom. In anticipation of this hallowed night a local fraternity had sent two loyal silverback gorillas to guard the restrooms.

We settled in next to the pinball machine and Rachel asked me to go to the bar with her to help her carry back the first round. She ordered three beers and three sex on the beach, paying for the round with a dime. When the bartender returned with the passel of booze Rachel grabbed her fruity drink and started to trot back to the pinball machine. “Hey, aren’t you gonna help me with these?”

“Why?” she replied quizzically over her shoulder. “They’re yours.”

I slammed back two of the undersized watery college bar beers, grabbed the rest of my sentence, and headed back to our station. For the next hour or so conversations flitted back and forth. My shoulder averted it’s fair share of unwanted affection as each girl would wrap her arms around my arm and cuddle her head down into it until the masher faded back into the meat market din. Just as my increasingly drunken awareness convinced me that Rachel was developing an interest in me Tracey dragged me to the side. Synchronicity can be a bitch.

“Listen, can you do me a favor?”

“Yes?”

“There’s this guy I’m into.”

“Okay, I’m on it. Who?”

“No, he’s not here, but I just heard he’s at a different bar.”

“Okay…”

“Can you go there with me? Rachel and Emily are having a good time here and I don’t want to go by myself.”

I scanned the talent in the bar. Though they were far outstripped by their Queen Rachel, there was plenty. I decided that there had to be at least a consolation prize at the next place and agreed to go.

The next bar was similar to the first: dark, lots of smoke, and tons of underage college kids drinking shitty beer and trying to hook up. At the back of the main room there was a doorway to another room from which emanated ass-thumping dance music of the horrible variety. Tracey handed me 10 bucks and asked me to grab a pitcher. I asked the bartender what was on tap and he looked at me like I had three heads before simply responding “Beer.” Okay then. At least it was cold. I strolled back over to Tracey who piped out a high pitched “thanks” and kissed my cheek before pouring herself a cup and vanishing.

I was now in a strange situation. I was in a bar that contained a single person I knew. That person had vanished. I was standing in a throbbing crowd with a pitcher of beer. I did what came naturally and drank from it as I headed back towards the dance floor. After draining it I started to dance. After getting a few phone numbers and a good choice of Saturday night party invitations, Tracy managed to materialize from the crowd. Last call, time to go home. Tracey managed to run into a sober acquaintance and we got a free ride back to campus.

The downside of not having any direct sunlight, ever, is that the ground doesn’t get warm enough to keep the night tolerable. It was fucking cold. I was standing in the gray cinder block lobby of the gray cement dorm building. As I pushed the gray brushed steel intercom button the speaker on the box hissed out a burst of gray static. No answer. I tried again. No answer. I left the lobby and called the room. No answer. Back in the lobby I held the button down for about two minutes. No answer. Albany sucks.

I went outside and walked around. The cold helped me cut through the nights worth of booze pulsing through my synapses. I was wracking my brain trying to figure out where I was going to spend the night in a strange town full of strangers. Thinking of nothing, I thought I was saved when I saw movement in the lobby. I ran to the door in time to at least get into the warmth of the building. Now in the warmth I was starting to feel drowsy. Unfortunately the couch was segregated into single seats by large wooden armrests. It offered no quarter.

Back out in the cold, I figured I might as well try Tracey. I dragged my sloppy self back across the campus hoping I wouldn’t mistake one anonymous gray building for another and ring the wrong buzzer. The thought swam through my head enough to make me hesitate before ringing the buzzer in front of me now. A voice came through the intercom. A sleepy voice. “Yeah?”

It wasn’t Tracey. I cringed and asked “Uhhm, is Tracey there?”

“No.” Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I rang the wrong buzzer and woke up some poor student. She’s probably thinking to herself “who is this drunk asshole waking me up at 4:30 in the morning?” I was slinking towards the door and the bus station far beyond and about to mutter an apology over my shoulder in case whoever it was was still listening when I heard “Erik?

“No, she just called. She’s staying with some dude who gave her a ride home.”

“Rachel?”

“Yeah. What are you doing here?”

“The friend I’m crashing with didn’t come home either. I was hoping I could crash on the couch or something.”

“Shit, that sucks. Of course. Come on up.” Another gray burst of buzzing. This time from the door as the security lock disengaged. It had a distinct tint of red to it this time.

I got to the door and Rachel was there. She was wearing the same rust colored sweater she had answered the door in earlier. The deep indigo jeans she wore under them at the bar were no longer there. I assume she had put the sweater on to answer the door. I thanked her for letting me in and plopped heavily onto the couch. She sat down next to me and struck up polite conversation before heading back to bed. We talked quickly about the rest of our nights. Nah, nothing really, no one interesting anywhere, place was full of goons, etc.

“Okay,” she said as she surprised me by giving me a hug and a kiss on the cheek for a goodnight. “I’m going to bed now. By the way, I doubt Tracey’s coming home tonight, so you don’t have to sleep on the couch.”

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch.” Those are words that everyone likes hearing. Whether it’s your buddy saying there’s a fold out in the den or a hot chick asking about the fold out in your pants, they are always welcome words. I heard a little of both in her voice.

“Need some sweats?”

“Oh yeah, that’d be great.” She tossed me a pair of very soft sweatpants and said goodnight before turning off the light and climbing under her covers. I yanked off my sweater and climbed under the covers of the other narrow dorm bed. Once under the safety of sheets, I shimmied out of my pants and into the sweats before pulling off my socks.

When I was done I heard a soft rustling across the room. Rachel was pulling off her sweater under her covers. She held it for a second before turning to me. “You don’t mind, do you? I don’t normally wear a sweater in bed.”

My mouth had gone dry. Was she wearing anything else? “No. No, it’s cool. It’s your room, be comfortable.”

“Good,” she chuckled. “I’m glad you feel that way, I was planning too.” The comment had an air of friendly sarcasm. “By the way, why are you sleeping over there? This is Tracey’s bed.”

Now I had a whole new set of problems. While that comment should have had me doing my Carl Lewis impression across the room, it rendered my incapable of locomotion. When feeling finally did return to my legs I was pitching an unbelievable tent. In sweats no less. Combining that fact with the sly smile I saw on her face was the proper formula for comprehension. The sweats were meant to function as a sexual litmus test. Her experiment went like this: introduce implied nudity and suggestive comment to subject wearing loose pants. Tenting = willing sexual partner. Further proof was offered as I rose from the bed. Her eyes hit my crotch before she smiled and rolled over pulling the sheet up over her shoulders.

Hunched with embarrassment I took the three strides across the room to her bed and climbed in. As I hit the sheets she rolled over and wrapped her arms around me. She climbed over me as our lips met. Her knees were to either side of my hips and her hands compressed the pillow on each side of my head. She raised herself up on all fours and arched her back. Looking rather like a panther she smiled at me half lidded. “So, you’re here.”

“Yup. Right here.”

“I guess it worked then.”

“What worked?”

“My attempt to get you drunk.”

I looked down under her, across her taught body, to my crotch. I looked back into her face and chuckled. “Luckily, no. But I’m here anyway.” Maybe I oughta give synchronicity a second chance.

She quickly shot her hand down to my swollen tent post. We both laughed as she gave my cock a squeeze making sure I meant what she thought I did.

The look on her face changed as the initial exploratory squeeze changed to something with a bit more intent. I felt the bit of fleece against the tip of my cock get slippery as her hand began to gently undulate and twist. Her mouth came back down to mine.

I grabbed her hand to stop her as we kissed. My other hand gently supported her chin as I broke the slick seal between our mouths. “Wait,” I whispered against her lips. I let go of her wrist as her hand slipped away from my crotch. Both of her hands now held my head lightly as her tongue slowly slipped back past my teeth to embrace mine. My hands wrapped around the smooth, naked skin of her hips. The taught roundness confirmed my theory about the deleted scene from our first meeting.

She kissed my neck and let her mouth meander up towards my ear. Her toes curled into the cuffs of the sweatpants she had loaned me. “Take these off.” She spoke to me like she would an eight year old trying on his father’s ties. The indifferent dismissal of the clothing she’d so recently loaned me and the friendly scolding tone in her voice were too much to resist.

“Aww, but you just gave ‘em to me, ya big Indian giver.” She gave a chuckle as her head hit the pillow to my right. She shot back up onto her extended arms and screwed a smile into my face. “I promise I won’t mess ‘em up or nuthin.”

“Jerk.” She laughed and tickled me at the waist. She straightened up, now kneeling over me, as I shrieked and bucked under her rather than torture me further and avoiding any retaliatory tickling. “I’m serious. Off! Now!” she commanded before her stern expression cracked and melted into a smile. Her hands on her hips, I was too mesmerized by her body to respond. Her breasts floated below her collarbone, nipples hardened into wrinkled garnets. Her chest sloping into a slim waist and back out to the round hips under my hands. Between them was a soft, manicured patch of hair the same rusty auburn as that on her head. “I’m not kidding Buster, if you don’t I will.”

She was amazing, like a kitten at four A.M., hyperactive and wanting to play. I was down. Her hands bolted to the waistband of the sweats and she gave me a cocked look that said “Last chance, I’m gonna do it” as she paused there. The second I lunged forward to grab her wrists the game was on. We rolled around sweating and giggling, wrestling for pajama domination. I didn’t really offer that much resistance, but it was a lot of fun to make her work for it. She managed to yank them down to my ankles and I kicked my legs to prevent her from getting over my ankles and completely off and thusly losing the game. “Sit still,” she warned me playfully, “or I tie ‘em together.” I sat still as she sat on my ankles for assurance and tugged the cuffs over my feet and off. As soon as they were off she spun around and stood over me. Her arms in the air she smiled and shimmied her hips in a victory dance that affected me on so many more levels than the Icky Shuffle ever did.

“Oh my,” she cooed as she looked down. “That’s pretty.” I was flattered. While my upper body wasn’t exactly rippling, fencing had kept the heavy Snow Belt diet from inflating a spare tire around my waist. As she sank slowly down to a crouch I noticed she wasn’t looking anywhere near that high. “Why would you hide this?” One hand wrapped gingerly around my shaft and the other pulled her hair back behind her ear as she inspected me. “Jesus, if I had a cock like this, I’d whip it out in class just to show it off.”

“If you had a cock like that I doubt anyone could get me drunk enough.”

We both laughed again before she shrugged and replied simply “Fair enough.” With that she descended down and wrapped her lips around the top of my shaft. Her tongue slipped out from between her lips and I could feel her warm, viscous saliva running down my shaft. Her fingers circled the base of my cock and pressed into my abdomen extending my erection to full mast.

Her head pumped slowly in and out of my crotch as she levied an excruciatingly slow blowjob onto me. I heard a deliciously sloppy pop as her lips broke over the ridge between my shaft and crown treating yet another sense to the assault of pleasure the others were receiving. I had to stop her but procrastinated. I was dying to eat her pussy but allowed this to continue by virtue of how amazing it was.