Chapter 5

By that afternoon, thanks to Chuck's help, I was moved completely out of the dorms and into the hotel. By nightfall I had seen all of my new neighbors. They were quite a motley crew. There were six other rooms in my little section, and they contained, in order, a Czechoslovakian graduate student of physics, a seventy-year-old seamstress, a Chinese man in his forties, a tall, angular, middle-aged lady librarian, an elderly female White Russian refugee, and a Greek nurse. Quite a conglomeration. The lady librarian, Miss Rooksby, was the only one interested enough to come snow me which shelves in the kitchen and in the refrigerator I was entitled to. She also filled me up with plenty of gossip about the other boarders-the Czech had a mistress who visited him, the seamstress was deaf and intolerant, the White Russian monopolized the apartment's one phone by holding interminably long and loud conversations in Russian with her aged mother, who lived somewhere else in another residence hotel.

Miss Rooksby seemed pleasant enough, if a little old-fashioned and snooty. She told me I looked like a nice quiet boy, not like "the other kind" at all. I didn't know exactly what she meant by "the other kind," but I could guess.

Thursday was my heavy day for classes, starting off with a lab from nine to twelve, then a lunch break, and then a full afternoon schedule too. So I spent Wednesday night in my new room, studying diligently. And on Thursday I was so pooped I came right back to the room after classes. Before I knew it it was Friday, and time for my date with Marge Halloran.

At about quarter to eight Friday night I locked up my room and sauntered over to the Chesley dormitories. I was wearing my best clean khaki pants, white shirt, blue sweater, dirty white buckskins. Nobody was going to accuse me of being a non-conformist. In the lobby of Morton Hall I phoned upstairs to let Marge know I was waiting, and a few minutes later she came down.

If I looked like a typical Metropolitan man, she looked even more typical in her Bermuda shorts, tan trench coat, and man's white blouse open at the collar. At a quick glance she looked fine, with long stretches of well-turned leg visible from mid-thigh to mid-calf, and those exciting breasts ballooning out her blouse. Her face wasn't much-long, and on the horsy side-but who had to look at her face when the rest of her was so easy on the eyes?

She was a little edgy, and so was I. Neither of us really knew the other, and neither knew what direction the evening was going to take.

She smiled at me. "Hello, Jeff. Well, where to?"

I shrugged and said, "I thought maybe the movies. There's a good double bill over at the Uptown-there's this Fernandel picture, and a Brigitte Bardot-"

"I've seen them."

"Oh," I said. There was also a dance being held at school, but we weren't dressed for it. I scrabbled around for another quick suggestion. "What about that old Russian film at the Thalia?"

"Alexander Nevsky? I've seen that too."

"Oh," I said again. "I guess the movies are out, then. Unless you want to take in a show downtown-"

"Why go to the movies? It's such a nice night just for staying around campus."

"In that case," I said, "why don't we start off by going over to the West Side for a couple of drinks? Then maybe we can take a walk down by the park, and-uh-talk about James Joyce-"

"The West Side would be fine for a starter," she said, her eyes glittering already at the thought of getting a drink.

We walked quickly down Broadway. I felt buoyant and bubbly. I'm a six-footer, and yet Marge was practically my height-that itself was a novelty. Another novelty was that I was quite confident I was going to take her to bed before the evening was out. Compared with the Jeff Burnside who had been in existence a week ago, I was a totally different person.

On the way down we talked rapidly-the hurried talk of two people who want to get to know each other at least in passing before they get down to the main business of the evening. We talked about James Joyce first, but got off that topic quickly enough. I learned that Marge came from somewhere out on Long Island, that her parents had money, that her mother was an incurable alcoholic and her younger sister was a freshman at Bryn Mawr. I told her the much less interesting news that I was from Hudson, New York, that my parents didn't have money, that my father was a vegetable jobber and ray mother deplorably sober, and that my one sibling was an older brother who lived in Ohio and had dozens of children.

By the time we reached the bar, we were holding hands. It just sort of happened naturally. It was a good sign for the ultimate success of the evening.

The West Side was packed full, this being a Friday night. Everyone was there-shabby neighborhood drunks who liked to watch the television, earnest graduate students who met here to discuss epistemology or nuclear physics, and even undergrads like myself with their girls or without. Somehow we found an empty table at the very back, where there was no view of the television set.

The waiter scurried over and said, "What'll it be?"

I looked inquiringly at Marge. She batted her eyelids and said, "Dry martini."

I gulped a little. A martini was at least seventy-five cents, maybe more. If she was in a thirsty mood she could wreck my budget, even though I had received a check from home that morning.

"Beer," I said. "Make it a Schlitz." I smiled apologetically at Marge and said, "I'm not much of a cocktail drinker. Give me beer any time."

"My mother taught me to drink martinis when I was nine," she said simply. "I love them."

The drinks arrived. I shrugged and told myself what the hell; if we had gone to the movies it would have cost more, and in any case I might be getting something out of the evening for a lot less than the five dollars I had paid out a few nights back.

Marge put half her martini away in a single gulp. Evidently her mother hadn't taught her how to sip. "Do you live in the dorms, Jeff?"

"Nope. I have' a little room on 214th Street."

"How interesting." I saw her eyes light up again. "Do you find it more convenient than the dormitories?"

"Much," I said gravely.

"I've often thought of moving off-campus," she said. "The Chesley dorm curfews are so annoying! Imagine, asking grown girls to be in their rooms by one-thirty!'

"Is that what time I'm supposed to bring you in tonight."

"Oh, no," she said demurely. "I've applied for an overnight pass. I told them I was going home to visit my parents."

I nearly choked on my beer. Either she thought I was a fool, or she had as much as invited me to make a heavy pass at her. Well, I was willing to oblige.

We finished our drinks and then I said, "Look, I've got an idea. Instead of throwing more money away here, why don't we buy a bottle of wine and go up to my place? We could listen to some of my records and-"

I stopped short, aghast at the baldness of my proposition. The unlamented Jeff Burnside of a week ago would sooner have sung bawdy ballads in church than openly invite a girl to come to his room, with the obvious intention of fornication. But Marge shared none of my embarrassment. She smiled and said, "That's a swell idea, Jeff. This place is too crowded anyway."

I was walking about six inches off the ground as we left the bar. Our first stop was in a liquor store on the next block, where I invested ninety-seven cents in a flask of adequate chianti. A hardware store nearby, open late on a Friday night, sold me two wine glasses at fifteen cents apiece. Then we made tracks for the hotel.

Apologizing all over the place for the shabbiness of my lodgings, I opened the outer door, and we entered. The Tight was on in the community kitchen and I saw Miss Rooksby stick her head out, scowl disapprovingly at Marge, and pull her head back in. I had a hunch I had just become one of "the other kind" in Miss Rooksby's book.

"I like it," Marge said, looking around at my modest domicile.

"You wait here. I'll get the bottle open." She settled down on the bed and I went down the hall to the kitchen. The day before I had bought a few kitchen utensils, including a combination can-opener and corkscrew. I opened my drawer, took out the corkscrew, closed the drawer. Miss Rooksby was washing her dishes at the sink, and glancing sourly at me. I bet she wanted to tell me in loud tones not to do anything sinful, but she said nothing.

When I returned to the room I found that Marge had pulled a couple of records out of my meager stack of LPs, and had put one on my portable player. I recognized it as a Bach harpsichord music record.

"I adore Bach," Marge murmured. "And Landowska is so-so musical."

"Yes, she is," I agreed solemnly. I privately thought the record was something of a drag, but why look for trouble? I pulled the cork out of the chianti bottle and poured wine into the glasses. After a moment I got up, locked my door, and pulled down the window shade.

Outside I heard booming thunder, and an instant later rain began to fall. "We were just in time," I said. "It's pouring."

Marge leaned back against the wall, dangling her long legs over the side of my bed and smiling with her eyes shut. "It's wonderful to be all dry and safe in here, isn't it? With wine, and music, and everything."

I had to admit it was a hell of a romantic situation. As a matter-of-fact, it was all I had daydreamed about, in essence. We had the wine, we had Bach tinkling away, and there on my bed was the girl with big knockers, waiting for me to come ravish her.

But I bided my time, and as a matter-of-fact Bach was off the player and Chopin was going before I made the first aggressive move. By this time about half the wine was gone, and I could see by the glazed look in Marge's eyes that the wine and the previous martini had had the expected synergistic reaction. She was potted. I wasn't completely sober myself, but I was sober enough to know what I was doing and what I wanted to do.

I sat next to her on the bed and put my arm around her shoulders, and for a few moments both of us pretended to a fine esthetic frenzy over Chopin. Then I wriggled my hand a little lower so it cupped her breast. Unlike the girl of my dreams, Marge was wearing a bra, but still I could feel the warm fullness of her flesh through the material. She let out a little gasp and stretched her legs out tight in front of her. I pulled her close to me and slipped my other hand into the front of her blouse, working it into her bra until the tips of my fingers just touched her nipple. It was hard as a rock.

After that everything proceeded in a smooth and orderly fashion. She pulled me down next to her on the bed, and while her tongue explored the inside of my mouth I carefully opened her blouse, button by button. My hands shook only a little. I had to remind myself that this was real, that it was actually me who had a girl in his room and was taking her clothes off.

There were five buttons altogether, and when I had succeeded in opening the last of them she arched her body to enable me to slip her blouse off. This I accomplished without too much trouble. It was harder to open her bra, since I had never experienced that sort of hook before, but after a redfaced bit of fumbling I got it open. The straps tumbled forward and the cups fell away from her breasts. She shook the bra off.

Her breasts were magnificent. Never in all my daydreams had I ever envisioned anything quite so breathtaking. They were perfectly white, except for the dark reddish-brown of her nipples, and they rose in steep cones from her chest. They were firm and close together, and big enough to quiver slightly. But though they were big, they weren't gross in any way. They were just perfect. I thought to myself that it was a cruel trick of fate to attach such awesomely beautiful boobs to such an ordinary face. Perhaps that explained much of Marge's personality troubles. But I didn't give that much thought at the moment. I had brought her here not to psychoanalyze her but to make her.

And there she was, lying back on my bed with her eyes shut, panting so hard her breasts jiggled. She was wearing only Bermuda shorts and long socks now. Gently I slipped my hand up over her kneecap and headed northward along her cool thigh. She began to moan and whimper. Her fingers tore at the zipper of her shorts, and practically ripped them off.

I stood up, partly to get a better look and partly to get my own clothes off. She was stretched nearly the full length of the bed, and her body was a rich creamy color, her breasts and hips paler than the rest.

"Hurry," she murmured.

I undressed as fast as I could, leaving my clothes where they fell, and she drew me down to her. The piano music was still going. I was thankful for the gadget that shuts the phonograph off at the end of the last record.

Marge was writhing and wriggling on the bed as though she had some oriental disease. I pressed myself against her, burying my head between those twin upjutting breasts, while my hands slid underneath her body and gripped her buttocks. Time seemed to stand still as we explored each other's bodies.

And then Marge seemed to really catch fire. Her mouth drooped open; she struggled for breath. Her long legs wrapped themselves around me.

"Now! Now, Jeff!" she gasped. Her teeth nearly met in my earlobe. In surprise, I reacted by thrusting myself forward. And that was what she wanted. We clung together tightly while Marge gyrated and panted, and our bodies both became slippery with sweat. I closed my eyes suddenly and we both went floating away to nowhere on a sea of love.

Maybe it was an hour before I became aware of the universe again. All I know was that I must have dozed, because at some time later in the evening I woke up and discovered, to my amazement, that I was lying next to a sleeping naked girl on my bed, with my face nestling between her superb breasts. It took me a couple of seconds more before I remembered what I had been doing.

Marge was asleep, with a smile of contentment on her face. That made me feel good. Hell, I knew she had slept with half the undergraduate body of Metropolitan University, but I was egotistical enough to hope that maybe I had satisfied her more than most of the others. After all, in most cases she had made love with them furtively in the back seats of autos, or even under the bushes in Riverside Park. At least I could offer her such relatively civilized things as a room, a bed, wine, music.

She opened her eyes sleepily, wriggled closer to me, and draped her arm over my shoulder.

"There any wine left?" she asked in a sleepy purr.

"A little. Quarter of a bottle, maybe. Or more."

"Mmm. What time is it?"

I reached down for my watch, which lay in the middle of my heap of discarded clothing. "Quarter after eleven," I said.

"Put some more music on."

I got up, took the Chopin record off the turntable, and selected some Mozart. It was still raining outside; a good night to be indoors, I thought. I felt very tired, and satisfied.

Pouring out some wine for both of us, I said, "It's a good thing we didn't go down to the park. We'd have been drenched."

"Uh-huh." Marge sat up as I handed her the wine. She drank it quickly, nodding her head in time to the gay music. "Honest, when I applied for that overnight pass I didn't know you lived off-campus. I just wanted to be able to stay out as late as I could."

"Do you want to sleep over?" I asked. The bed was pretty narrow for two people, but it looked like it would be fun to share it with her.

"You won't get into any trouble?" she asked. "I mean, is this allowed here?"

"Theoretically, no. But nobody will say anything."

"Then I'll stay," she said. She drained her wine glass. "You know what I'd like to do? I'd like to take a shower. Then we can go to bed."

"The shower room is right next to the kitchen," I said. "I'll give you my robe."

She got up, stretching luxuriously and turning all the way around. Her buttocks were gorgeous, slim and curved, with little dimples in them. And her back was lovely. I got the picture clearly-plain face, sensational body, confused home life. She probably thought she had to put out to be popular.

I gave her a towel, some soap, and my bathrobe-it fitted her pretty well-and she went down the hall to shower. While she was gone I tidied the place up a little, hanging up my clothes, draping hers over a chair. I shook my head in quiet amazement as I witnessed myself draping a girl's size forty bra over the back of a chair in my own bedroom. Me, Jeff Burnside!

She returned about fifteen minutes later, damp and sweet-smelling. "You know what happened? I started to go into the John, and some old bat with her head in pin-curlers stuck her head out her door and looked at me and said something about how immoral young people are, and slammed her door." Marge giggled. "You have funny neighbors."

"That was Mis Rooksby," I said. "A spinster librarian. Probably thinks sex should be practiced only in marriage, and then only for the purpose of procreation. Hell with her."

I slipped into my robe, which was still excitingly moist from Marge's body. "I'm going to grab a shower myself. Turn the record over when it ends."

I was back in less than ten minutes, and this time Miss Rooksby stayed in her room-maybe composing a nasty letter to the Society for the Suppression of Vice, or something. When I returned, Marge was curled up under the covers, looking at my Advanced Psychology textbook. She closed it in a hurry when I came in, but I was willing to bet she'd been reading the section on nymphomania.

"All set for bed?" I said.

"All set." She put the book on the chair near the bed.

I turned the lights off and got into bed. She was waiting with open arms.

It was quite a night. I don't think I got more than three hours' sleep, but it was quite a night, I may say. Quite.