Before couples met and connected through places like Facebook we were left to meet and fall in love the old fashion way; through friends, associates and happenstance. Liz and I met this way; the old fashioned way. It was all pretty straight forward. It involved a party and it went something like this.
Liz and her roommate, Snap, decided to have a party. Though not invited, it was assumed I would show up along with my roommate, Anthony. During the recent summer I had taken a shining to Liz and she knew it. The feeling was less than mutual and she worked hard to avoid me. I was not deterred.
Her party started at about 9PM so we had plenty of time to prep. Anthony, my friend of nearly a decade, and Max a former sergeant in the Swedish Army with a photographic memory and by far the smartest person I have ever met, were to meet at our apartment for some pre-party drinking. Anthony was an engineer at DEC and Max and I graduate students. Max sported a military grade haircut and always wore black. Black shoes, black socks, black shirts, black pants. At our first meeting I assumed typical Euro-trash. I was wrong. Max was color blind and total black ensured he did not dress like a moron. Max and I studied about 80 hours per week and released our pent up stress and anxiety by drinking to excess each weekend. We pushed ourselves when we studied and we pushed ourselves when we drank. We read Ayn Rand when we waited for the T or when we dropped a deuce. At the end of every week our drinking seemed to wipe our brains clean of excess formulas and case studies we had digested during the work week. Not the most balanced lifestyle but we enjoyed it. Actually, we loved it.
We started preparing for Liz’s party at 7PM with a standard drinking game, “You’re Hammered Number One.” Star Trek Next Generation was on and, like future egghead world beaters, we took a liking to Captain Pickard and his crew. We settled in and, every time Pickard said “Number One” for any reason, we tossed back a shot of Jack. “You have the bridge, Number One. To my ready room, Number One. Make it so, Number One.” I am fucking bombed and think we should pull over and fuck some aliens, number one. After 60 minutes we were hammered.
After drinking with Jean-Luc we moved upstairs to my room. My bedroom was known as “The Tacky Bar”. Friends and foreign students loved my room as it represented all that is tacky and glaring about America. We loved the bar as it was our launch pad into a rather bright future The room spanned an entire attic, with sloped walls covered with circa 1970s white wallpaper featuring a design of reflective, glittering vines. Very tacky. The walls were braced with faux exposed wooden beams which, upon closer inspection, revealed themselves to be Styrofoam fakes. Very, very, tacky.
As you walked up the stairs and entered my room you turned left and were greeted by The Tacky Bar. Encased in a wrought iron arc, which in turn was adorned with random pieces of memorabilia and a variety of panties left by friends, the bar drew you in and compelled you to put an elbow down and gawk. Random trinkets stolen from nightclubs and bars and donated by drunken friends were spread about the Tacky Bar and along the top of a 20 foot built-in bookcase next to the bar. The bookcase itself was packed with hundreds of my books; nonfiction, biographies, philosophy, finance and economics books I enjoyed over the years. Like Anthony and Max, my books were dear friends and I liked spending time in their company. From the bar your eyes were drawn to the collection of titles and the tacky collectibles scatted on top of the bookshelf. You felt compelled to continue gawking, followed the lengthy collection of books as well as the red and black speckled carpet (very tacky) toward the end of the room. At room’s end your eyes settled on an oversized waterbed, positioned like some sort of landing pad. Resting dormant at the beginning of the evening it appeared as a high probability end point to any night at the Tacky Bar. Most folks just burst out laughing when their eyes settled on the bed. Others shook their heads.
The waterbed was well exercised. Placed under a set of large windows overlooking the tightly packed back yards, it drew you in. Over the years the baffles had been worn down and broken so that now certain motions on the bed kicked off large rolling waves. Though unsettling if you were drunk and trying to sleep, if you were intent on not sleeping then one’s partner was often greatly pleased with the ebb and flow of the waves. Word spread and more than a few women wrangled their way to our house for sex at the Tacky Bar. The most people we ever had on the bed was eight. It held. Our home was a good place.
Leaning into the Tacky Bar, Anthony, Max and I chatted away like three old men as we knocked back a few more shots. Though eager to attend the target rich environment at Liz’s place we preferred to enjoy each other’s company. Conversation was unguarded. We mixed drunken banter with serious questions and answers. The default expression during our conversations was a broad grin. Our bar was a good place to chat.
I still had to get dressed as I was in my sweats from an earlier workout at the MIT gym. An old school gym, with tons of free weights placed within a dark sweaty room, the facility represented a perfect counter to the technical nerds scurrying about campus. I went to the closet and pulled off my shirt and sweats as I searched for some clothes.
Though a potential big swinging dick I was currently poor. In exchange for working 15 to 20 hours a week researching Boeing Aircraft production methods I earned about $1,500 a month as a research assistant in school. Through the program Boeing also paid my tuition for which I was and remain eternally grateful. I worked hard to unearth pearls in an effort to give back to the firm so generously helping me. They got their money’s worth. The extra work not only sharpened my pin head brain, it paid my bills. Still though, after expenses I was poor. During the winter months I had to rely on the good graces of Anthony and his full time DEC paycheck to cover the heating bills. As snow blanketed New England the Bank of Anthony covered my heating costs. He was good to me and never left me wanting. Raised in the wild by Democrats, he wanted to help. He was open and warm and his natural inclination was to extend a hand. He kept the fires burning during the lean winter months. I paid him off in the summer as I worked full time. That said, my limited budget meant new clothes were not on my agenda. I looked around and settled on a pair of tight faded jeans with a good sized hole right under my balls.
I found the hole to be a good conversation piece as many women asked “What’s with the hole in your pants?” Acting shocked my standard response was, “What hole? Where?” In response my prospective new friend nodded towards or pointed at my crotch; a good place to start a conversation. In instances were I did not wish to speak with someone, I would position myself in a manner allowing them to see the hole point blank or pull my pants up high so my balls hung out. They usually exited the conversation immediately.
With my jeans on and underwear color apparent, Anthony and Max unleashed a salvo of comments about my dick, my balls, the aeration of my balls, the hideous sight of the shape of my balls and the potential danger of my dick springing out of the hole, perhaps gouging out someone’s eye. This in turn led to an evaluation of the size and mass required to hurt an innocent bystander. Max grabbed a wooden back-scratcher from the bar, poked the carved fingers into the hole and began to scratch my balls, waiting for me to jump back.
“Big deal.” I shrugged. “It’s almost 10. Let’s head out. We can hit the party and then hit the Cantab.”
“Excellent. Let’s get the fuck out of here,” responded the Swede, as he jammed the back-scratcher down the front of his pants.
Anthony drove to Liz’s apartment. Though a hard core engineer by training, he was a distracted driver and we goaded him to press through red lights. Max pulled out the back-scratcher from his pants and began poking it under Anthony’s nose, scratching his mouth, asking, “Baby like?”
Sliding into further distraction, Anthony swung his arms around at Max, yelling “Get that fucking thing away from my face, asshole. It smells like Kinkade’s dirty dick and your Swedish sausage, you fuck.” Max pulled back the back scratcher, smelled it and looked out the window. “Big deal,” was all he said. “My dick’s pretty clean,” I suggested.
Once in Liz’s neighborhood, Anthony slowed, looking for parking. After some painful searching, Max grabbed the steering wheel and jerked it towards a driveway, yelling “Park here.” We plowed into a line of garbage cans, scattering them. Max and I roared as Anthony backed up and took off down the street. We found parking a few blocks from Liz’s place.
Walking towards the party Anthony asked, “Well, Beasley, are you going to ask Liz out tonight.”
“Yup. I’ll ask her out and then we’ll finish the night off at the Cantab. If she says no, we’ll get really drunk.”
Max looked ahead as he continued marching forward, “I hope she says no.”
Liz’s place was on the second floor. We could hear the party from the street as we made our way up the front stairs. Max banged on the door, yelling loudly, “It’s me, Anthony and I am looking to meet some gay guys with big dicks. Open the fuck up!” Max quickly turned and stepped behind me and Anthony. Liz’s roommate, Snap, opened the door as a number of heads turned from inside the party to see Anthony’s face turn beat red. More than one guest whispered, “He’s not gay is he? I thought he was sleeping with Jasmine?”
Properly announced we entered and began our hellos. Liz came over and gave Anthony a hug, then coolly extended her hand to me and Max, “Hi, Beasley. Hi Max. I didn’t know you guys were coming. Come on in and get some food.” Before I could chat her up she turned her attention to another more Liz-worthy guest.
The last time I had spent any time with Liz was during Labor Day weekend in Newport. Labor Day was one of the major party weekends in Rhode Island. Liz, six girlfriends and one of Liz’s workmates, Josh, had rented a house for the summer. They got their money’s worth as they spent every weekend in Newport, partying wildly and crashing on the beaches.
Josh, the only male renter, was Anthony’s Frisbee teammate. Anthony did his best to wrangle his way to Newport on the back of his friendship with Josh. Anthony was what the eight housemates called a leach, effectively spending every weekend at their beautiful summer rental without paying. Such summer rentals were out of my budget, however that did not stop me from leaching onto Anthony. I was a double leach, one step lower than a leach.
To open the summer season, Liz and her friends invited a clatter of folks down for the Memorial Day weekend. Anthony leached on Josh and I leached on Anthony. We made our way to Liz’s Newport rental by noon, dropped off our bags and went straight to the Arc, a restaurant with a quiet bar. By 3PM we were in the ladies’ room with our shirts off. With no bouncer on duty the bartender fielded a complaint regarding two couples in the ladies room and proceeded to shut us off. The Bank of Anthony settled our $100 tab and we returned to Liz’s rental. Half the folks at the house were thoroughly amused by our early start to the summer while others, Liz among them, were mortified.
“If you’re staying at our place this weekend without paying, you better buy all the food and keep your asses out of trouble,” was all she said. She was no nonsense. She was hot.
“You’re pretty,” was my only response.
At 5’10” with a huge smile, giant brown eyes and a beautiful Caribbean figure Liz was smoking hot. She walked with elegance, with a grace. From afar she was cool and aloof. Up close she drew you in with pithy conversation and an aura of confidence. She was also smart; smarter than she knew. As a financer she managed currency positions for a future Microsoft casualty, Lotus Development. She didn’t know it yet but she was smart enough to leave her successful position, go to medical school and become a physician. Shit, that’s from the future smart. In response to my misguided compliment she rolled her eyes and walked away. I was hooked.
“Dude,” I turned to Anthony, “look at her. She is fucking liquid. She is delicious.”
“Good luck with that,” was all he could say.
We finished the opening weekend without incident as Liz succeeded in ignoring me. She kept me at a distance as I tallied a total of 30 minutes in her company. During those 30 minutes, though, I fell further under her spell, a spell that was decidedly one way.
Following the Memorial Day festivities I reported to Seattle to continue work on behalf of Boeing. I worked enormous hours and met a couple of great women, one Ukrainian translator and one very flexible 4” 11” ballerina. I settled into a nice routine in the Northwest mixing work and time with my new friends. I enjoyed the summer gig, though I missed life back east. Every Sunday evening Anthony and I would chat on the phone like two old birds and report on the doings on each coast. During the conversations, I’d casually ask about the Newport crowd, “How’s Snap? How’s Jasmine doing? Has she discovered you suck in bed yet? How’s Liz? She dating anyone…?” Through our conversations, I confirmed Liz was popular among the guys but was not dating. She was a confident woman and did not need a full time man. I liked her even more. The situation was fluid. With this context in mind I returned from Seattle at the end of the summer resolved to move forward.
I returned from Seattle in time for Labor Day. Labor Day represents the time when summer lovers say goodbye and attention turns back towards school or work. As such we partied wildly, passing out and, in one or two instances, getting picked up by the cops. All in good fun. Liz kept her distance as Anthony and I were at the head of the partying crowd. On Saturday, the last party night of the summer, we organized a huge crew and spent the night flirting, dancing, and drinking; first at the summer rental then at a nightclub. We danced wildly. Songs like “I’m so Horny” pounded the dance floor participants into a single pulsing creature. We lost track of time and were shocked when the DJ announced the last dance of the summer. “Pick your partner carefully, folks. This is the last dance of the summer.”
Anthony grabbed Jasmine and I turned to Liz and smiled, “Dance with me?” Looking around (and seeing no available prospects to take my place) she shrugged, “Sure. Just don’t be an animal, Beasley. OK?” I smiled and pulled her close as she put her arms around my neck and rested her warm cheek on my shoulder. She was tall and I could smell her hair. She was utterly beautiful; model beautiful. My hands slid around her waist as we slowly began to enjoy the last dance. I played with her hair as she began to warm up to me. She started rubbing the back of my neck. She picked up her head and looked around. She turned and we locked eyes. She smirked. Slowly I leaned in and kissed her. Softy on the lips. After a moment she pulled back not knowing if she should be horrified or intrigued. She looked around again and then settled her eyes on my lips. She leaned forward and kissed me softly and, just as quickly, returned her head to my shoulder. As the last song ended, I reached for her hand. Not so much.
Jerked back to reality she forced a smile, turned and walked away, ignoring me for the rest of the night. That was the last I would see of her until her party as Anthony and I woke up early the next morning and made our way to Logan to visit Max in Sweden.
In Sweden Anthony and I continued our Newport partying schedule as Max and his friends were serious drinkers. Max met us at the airport, “Welcome to the major leagues, pussies.”
Our Swedish hosts drank themselves into oblivion on an ongoing basis. Each night we hit a bar to drink beer and pound shots with the Swedes. We delighted our hosts and friends as we screamed “mer öl (more beer)” at every opportunity. We were unabashed in approaching Swedish women. I quickly found if I walked my dark skinned hairy-chested Anthony to the prettiest group of woman in the bar, pulled up his shirt, and asked, “Want to pet the monkey?” we made friends. Hairy chests in Sweden were few and far between and the women were curious. Without fail, one woman in each group placed her hands on Anthony’s furry chest. He would turn bright red as the drunker of the girls continued to rub his chest delighting in his tangle of hair. In turn, he would pull my shirt up to expose my smooth chest, “Feel the difference,” he’d suggest to his new friend. Working out and playing hockey left my chest in good shape and the girls enjoyed copping a free feel. We made lots of friends and found many Swedish women enjoy ending the night with a bath. Sweden was even nicer than Seattle.
So I was back from Sweden, back at school and now at Liz’s place trying to figure out when to ask her out. Liz’s friends were mostly Talbots preppies. They seemed to delight in wondering which cheese goes best with each wine. Anthony was hanging with Jasmine; flirting and pawing at each other in a manner appropriate to young lovers. Max and I stood horrified as the continuous stream of preppies circulated through the apartment. We retreated to the buffet table and started gobbling crackers and deli meats.
As we stuffed our faces various sweater-clad ladies flitted about, cautiously eyeing us and pecking at the food. I thought of birds at a bird feeder hung just low enough to allow a waiting cat to spring and maul his hapless prey. They chit chatted in tongues. Trying to keep his cool, Max turned to me, “Let’s get the fuck out of here. Little Joe Cook and the Cantab are calling me to drink.”
“Hold on a minute,” I suggested. I scooped up the last of the sliced Genoa Salami and stuffed it up the gaping hole in my pants, sliding the deli slices between my balls and leg. Max burst out laughing as I pulled out a slice and popped it into my mouth, “Delicious.” He stuck his hand up my pants, grabbed a handful of salami and stuffed it in his face; laughing so hard chewed bits of meat began to fall from his mouth. Two Ann Taylor types approached us asking, “Is that brie?” I shrugged as Max stuck his hand up my pants, pulled out a wad of salami and stuffed it in his mouth. “Try some salami,” he suggested. Mouths agape the Ann Taylor twins slowly backed away.
“Time to go,” Max said. I looked around, catching Liz’s eyes as she stared at me and Max as one would stare at the discovery of a homeless person taking a dump on your front stoop. “Max, go get Anthony while I do something,” I asked as I pushed the slipping salami back up my pants.
I crossed the room and approached Liz. She just starred at me. Hmm… not exactly a stare of interest I thought. “Hey, Liz, thank you so much for the party. This was great. Really good food. Listen, I liked spending time with you in Newport and I was wondering … do you want to go out to dinner with me?”
Liz’s already large eyes widened to a size I did not believe possible. Except for the look of mortification on her face she was utterly beautiful. My eyes floated down to her lips. Her mouth was broad and sexy. Very sexy. Perhaps we would kiss again.
“What?” she blurted out as her eyes narrowed, “On a date, with you? Are you for real? Are you kidding me?”
“Hey, no need to decide now. I’ll call you Wednesday and you can decide then. OK? Thanks, for the party, I’m heading to the Cantab. I’ll call you.” I turned, pulled Anthony from his groping session and tried to stop Max from laughing in my face. He had been standing right behind me, chewing salami, apparently with his mouth open as bits of chewed Genoa were scattered across his black sweater, and had thoroughly enjoyed the spectacle of my conversation with Liz.
“You dumb fuck. She thinks you’re a fuck’n animal. She’s never going to go out with you, you fucking idiot. Let’s get drunk.” We made our way to the Cantab and did just that.
Wednesday came and went and I held off on calling Liz. I had enjoyed a nice run in Seattle and Sweden so I did not feel compelled to give Liz the immediate satisfaction of slamming me with another “Are you kidding me?” Max had repeated the phrase every time he saw me.
As I was studying in my room for exams Thursday evening, Anthony yelled up the stairs, “Dude, phone. It’s Liz.” Anthony handed me the phone. I shrugged, assuming it was Max.
“Hello, this is Beasley.”
“Hey,” said Liz in her familiar voice, “You said you were going to call me and you didn’t. What gives?”
“I, er, I got busy with school and I, ah, have a test tomorrow so I didn’t have time to call you. Sorry ‘bout that.” Silence.
“So,” she asked, “do you still want to take me out for dinner?”
“Ah … yes, yes. That would be great, Liz. I’d really like that.”
“Jasmine and Snap told you you’re not an animal all the time and you’re really nice and that you’re actually pretty smart. Well, I trust them. So pick me up next Wednesday outside my office at 7PM. And don’t wear the pants you wore to my party. OK?”
“OK,” I smiled. Click.
I went downstairs and returned the phone to Anthony, “That was Liz. Can you believe it; she wants to go out with me. I’m telling you, we’re gonna fall in love, dude. I am going to marry that girl.”
We did. I did and … I still love her.
