… Brit and I are into the same girl, Amy. Amy’s in my Medieval Lit class. She’s a bit short with Professor Alton. My buddy Max insists she’s autistic. Every morning Amy rides a two-mile loop around campus on her Surly mountain bike. One time, as I headed to an 8:30 meditation by the art building, she grunted a hello at me. With a smile.
She’s got long black hair and muscled arms. One night at a junior party in town, we arm-wrestled and Amy won. We hugged goodbye at the bus stop on campus. On our walk back to our dorm room, Max said I had hugged her a long time. He said he thought she’d broken up with Glen. That he’d seen them fighting. I shrugged.
I met Brit through Connor. Connor was one of my first friends at school. He’s got a sick sense of humor and drives an old Subaru. Brit is his roommate. One time in their room, she came home and asked if I’d like to play Super Smash Bros Melee. Brit’s really good at it.
There was a show last Thursday night. Valentine’s Day themed. A Wesleyan band opens for Clairo, of “Pretty Girl” fame. Max doesn’t think Clairo will go anywhere. Pete from Booking Club told him she doesn’t have a proper mix for her songs. That it’s just Garageband. So what, I say.
The Wesleyan band is moody. The bassline thuds along. They must like Interpol. I see Amy and Brit talking in the corner of the room, but Brit walks off. Amy sways to the music, taking swigs from a torn-up water bottle. She closes her eyes and nods along. My cheeks swell with blood; she’s pretty.
The band finishes their set. The drummer is friends with Max from high school, in the city. After breakdown, I meet the band outside. I am zoning out a bit, wondering about their cigarettes when I get a tap on the shoulder. It’s Amy. She asks how I am doing and if I liked the band. She says they were okay, in their earshot.
Clairo is okay; I only catch a few songs. Amy pulls me outside. It’s warm for February. Sit for a second, she says. Pete and I shared a six-pack and I had four. Amy is drunk, too. Her face gets close to mine.
We are sitting on the grassy hill across the road from the venue and we are kissing. Her lips are big and it’s like she has a lot of teeth. We are still kissing when the show lets out. By now, she is gripping my penis through my Dickies, hard. My hand floats up her shirt, settling. She asks me to pinch her. Someone across the road says something.
There is a dirt road back to her dorm. We stumble alongside each other. Amy’s roommate dates a townie, so the room’s dark. Amy pulls my shirt off and pulls me to bed. She smells like sweat and dirt. She works on the farm. Her work boots are muddied, in the corner. She puts on Duster.
The condom doesn’t fit. The next one does but I go soft. I am starting to get more than a bit embarrassed. Amy has me go down on her. A pube gets stuck in my permanent retainer on my bottom teeth. I bring Amy to orgasm. I came, she says, matter-of-factly. Then I go to put it in again.
It won’t go in. That fucking smarts, Amy says. It’s my fault, she says. We give it a few tries before I pull the condom off and lie down beside her, a tight fit in the twin bed. She grips my penis and remarks that she has never seen an uncircumcised one. We kiss for a while. I sit back.
We talk about fucking. I haven’t fucked that much. Amy’s had a dry spell lately. I am the first black person she’s been with. You are not the first Jewish girl I’ve been with, I joke. What, Amy says, laughing that there are not many black people in Langley, Virginia. Then she remembers something.
She’s squatting, reaching underneath her bed. Her body is gangly and her breasts are like teardrops. I say her tits are cool. She looks up and laughs. My face burns. I fidget, naked on her comforter. Amy slides out a big, floppy sexual education book.
For next time, she says, to which I smile. We are flicking through it when Pill Friends begins to lilt out of Amy’s bookshelf speaker. I really like this song, I say. Me too, she says. I flub a line, then she starts to sing along. Now we are singing to each other. This is so silly, Amy says, after a bit.
We wake up, arms entwined. I wake up first and I stare at Amy’s sleeping form for what feels like an hour. Without thinking, I kiss her on the forehead. She kisses me, her eyes still closed. We attempt sex again, to different results. She says something like woah when she cums. I just smile.
What’s your middle name, she says, as we get dressed. Mark, I say. Mine is Rose, she says. Like the- Yes, she cuts me off, like in Sonic. Heard it a million times. Aw, I say.
okay man be coool about this. its been five years this is my art here. no one even remembers this stuff hopefully. i had a funky idea about something to write. like a freshman year workshop assignment. ive been listening to this weirdass podcast about Bennington college in the 80s. did you know vanden from american psycho and <0 and rules is a real person? thinking about how fuunny college was. i didnt have a bank account til second semester why did my parents let me out the house. i had a fake id and a need to party. I was a hormonal little pest, okay and everyone does remember that bit.