Andy Stevenson vs. The Lord of the Loins

by Kage Alan

  A few smartass catcalls later, I had the towel back and was wrestling with adjusting the clip-on tie so it didn't appear like the imposter it really was. Fortunately, the jeans fit perfectly, as did the shirt; but I knew I was going to freeze on the way over to Tristan's apartment, which I had located earlier using the student directory. To compensate, I dug out a pair of thermal underwear and a white undershirt. While the shirt didn't make much of a difference, the underwear really made the jeans snug, and I almost thought I was going to have problems sitting down without splitting the sides. I loosened my belt, but it didn't seem to help much. Finally, after a squirt of Polo, I felt as prepared as I was going to get.

  A quick glance at the clock sent me into panic mode. It was twenty-five after seven! I had to leave right away since it would take me close to half an hour to walk over to his apartment. And wouldn't it just be a load of giggles if I bumped into Kim on the way over? Hello? No, it wouldn't, so I called up to her room.

  "This better be good.” Becky, her freshman roommate answered the phone. “Because I'm eating feta cheese and watching Wheel of Fortune."

  "Hey, Beckster. Is Miss Kim around?” Please please please let her be around!

  "You mean Miss Indiana-Adulteress Jones?"

  "Adulteress?” I got the Indiana part. This didn't bode well for me. “Is she hormonal tonight?"

  "Oh, no,” came the exaggerated reply. “This goes way beyond the word ‘hormonal.’ If you see her, you'll know what I'm talking about. Now, if you don't mind, I have television to watch."

  She hung up on me, but then she was usually that rude to everybody. People like her always ended up working in human resources or the secretarial pool.

  Okay, what was Kim up to, and did I really want to know? Maybe I should leave well enough alone, see if she really did go over there tonight and then find out what happened tomorrow morning. Could I trust Tristan not to fall for her feminine wiles? Duh. Could I trust Kim not to try anyway? Absolutely not, and that settled it!

  I put my tennis shoes on, grabbed my gloves and coat and ran out the door. She wasn't going to be happy to see me, but I'd be damned if she was going to get up my pipe about this. If there was going to be any pipe-upping tonight, she wasn't going to be involved.

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  4

  It turns out that I have unparalleled agility in tennis shoes on icy pathways. With the exception of falling on my well-padded derriere on four separate occasions, sliding three feet into a snowbank, almost getting frostbite and nearly dislocating my wrist, I made the journey without spilling a drop of blood and also in record time. It was two minutes to eight when I knocked on his door and prayed that my mouth had thawed out.

  "Hey!” Tristan looked quite pleased to see me when he answered and found me standing there trying my best not to shiver. “I'm glad you made it."

  "Me, thoo.” Oh, that's rich.

  "What?” He knew what I said, he knew why I said it and I knew he was taking some pleasure in asking it. “Why don't you come in and warm up? I have to finish changing my sheets, and then I'll join the two of you."

  The thoo ... two of us? Swell. My brain was frozen, too, and gee, I wonder who the second person could be. I followed him into the apartment, which turned out to be quite a cozy little place and...

  Who cares? It was warm. He had some art deco paintings on the wall, nice furniture for any college student living on his own away from home and everything was clean. It wasn't an anal kind of immaculate clean, but rather an intimate picked-up-and-put-somewhere, nice-looking kind of clean. He must have money, too, not to have roommates, since very few could afford a place of their own.

  Actually, I only had a glimpse of the second person in the room when I walked in, and I thought it might have been his mother. Good. We might as well get this out of the way now since I was about to become a member of the family.

  Tristan continued on into another room, presumably the bedroom, and I turned to greet the older woman.

  "Oh, my God!” I jumped when I realized who I was star-ing at. “Kim?” Her roommate hadn't been kidding. She looked somewhat ... somehow...

  I don't think I'd ever seen her look this mature.

  "Who did you think it was? Meow meow meow.” She casually sipped some wine and placed the glass down on the coffee table, her mannerisms reminiscent of someone who'd been watching a few too many seduction scenes in cheesy thrillers.

  "Wow, you look ... I mean, you really ... Do you know what you look like?” She couldn't have a clue.

  "If you say a prostitute...” Kim flashed me one of her false smiles. “...Mama gonna pull your scrotum up through your mouth!"

  "No, not a prostitute.” I rolled my eyes, and she felt less threatened. “A madam, maybe.” The flaming red dress she had on looked far too formal for what she had in mind for tonight. “Sweetie, are ... are those shoulder pads? And what is with that makeup?"

  "Excuse me?” Kim pointed a finger at me, and I saw a brand new nail extension that looked like it came right out of The Howling. “You makin’ fun of the way I'm dressed?” She looked towards the bedroom to make sure Tristan was still out of sight then turned back to me and hissed, “Do you have any idea what it took to look this good?"

  "Actually, I think I do.” I'd had my own trials and tribulations to deal with, but then, I didn't feel the need to apply seven layers of makeup in as many shades.

  "Oh, right. That?” She snickered. “I'm trying to appeal to his artistic and worldly tastes, and you're appealing to his nostalgic film memories. Nice Footloose thing going on, honey. Overdosing on the Kevin Bacon game lately?"

  "Footwhat? I've never even heard of that movie ... and why would you say that to me?” The look I chose was supposed to be desirable, not laughable.

  "Oh, maybe the gel in the hair and ... is that a tie I see?” Kim's face suddenly went from amused to dead serious. “I thought you told me you never wear a tie because of some psychological drama from your childhood where your father tried to hang you with one? Didn't you say you can't breathe and get all weirded out?"

  "I might have said that.” I just hated wearing ties, but my father never ... Okay, I lied. That's it. Kim can never meet my parents.

  "Or are you trying to impress a certain someone to-night?” She was still trying to put it together.

  "Wait a minute.” Let's get some stuff straight here! “Who is trying to impress whom here more? I'm wearing a tie, so what? You're wearing perfume, and while it's a nice touch, did you have to marinate yourself in it? And what about that dress and those heels?” I motioned at her feet. “Tell me you didn't walk over here like that. I nearly fractured my wrist, and I had tennis shoes on, plus it's freezing outside!"

  "Don't you think I know that?” Kim hissed. “I had a cold draft going up the crack of my ass like you wouldn't believe, my balls are frozen and I think my toes have frostbite, but it'll be worth it.” She shifted in her seat. People with balls apparently do that after mentioning them. “I know how to light the fuse to his crotch-rocket and I won't have to worry about no chilly shivers the rest of tonight."

  "Crotch what?” There were so many things wrong with her last sentence, but that one particular word took the cake. “I can't believe you're doing this. You always talk about your wanting a guy to love you for who you are and here you are about to ... to embrace his crotch-rocket with your hot pocket. What happened?"

  "Statistics would say that one of us tonight is thinking about sex.” Kim glanced towards the bedroom again. “Guess what? It's me!"

  "Statistics?"

  "Excuse me. He's hot, I'm hormonal and...” She stopped, and a sinister little grin appeared, the kind I hated when it was aimed at me. “Is that a clip-on tie?"

  Tristan came out of his bedroom before I could lie and sat down in a chair facing the two of us.

  "And how are you two getting along?” he asked.

  "Wonderfully, darling.” Kim spoke graciously and crossed her legs like she'd see
n done in some of those British films I'd made her watch with me. “Andy was just telling me that he can't stay very long, though.” Witch! “I believe,” she turned to me, “that you said something about going home and folding your woolies and stockings?” And she also used a phrase we'd heard in some of those very same British movies.

  "No.” I laughed and smiled at the thought of breaking her neck. “You weren't listening. I said the police were looking for you regarding all the wretches you've been stalking."

  "Oh!” Kim smiled back and bared her teeth. “That's funny. Not all men actually have a sense of humor. Some of them are dead!” She laughed wholeheartedly.

  "Ah, wit! Yes, you mentioned you went to school to major in wit and only got halfway through.” I laughed even harder than she did and gestured to Tristan at how funny I thought she was being. He was laughing, too, but I don't think he knew at what.

  "Honey...” Kim put her hand on my knee. “...I only said that because I felt sorry for you. Your slinky never has gone all the way down the stairs, has it?"

  "This girl absolutely cracks me up!” I leaned over and rested my head on her shoulder pad. “Wow! This is soft!” I reached up and pushed down on the pad a few times while her eyes hinted at the things she'd like to be applying pressure to. “Is this what those female commercials are talking about when they say wings?"

  "You...” Kim started to lunge, nails poised to draw blood, but somehow managed to reel it back in at the last moment. “...make me laugh so hard I'm practically crying.” She pretended to calm herself down to a mere giggle. “Do you have something I can wipe my eyes with?"

  Tristan reached for a Kleenex.

  "A putty knife?” I asked.

  "Never mind,” she told him. “I'll just use this.” Kim reached over and snatched the tie off my shirt with a snap of its clip. “That's better.” After a few dabs at her face, the tie was tossed back to me with several colorful stains on it.

  "You two are fun to watch,” Tristan complimented us. “I wish we had more time tonight, but I have an appointment in a few minutes, something I forgot about, and I need to get ready for it."

  "What?” Kim and I said at the same time, obviously both back on the same page. I wanted to ask her to correct me if I was wrong, but hadn't he invited us—me—over around eight this very evening? Now he suddenly had an appointment? What kind of unhappy horseshit was this?

  I could tell by the look on her face that she was thinking the same thing and was equally as crushed. Crushed? Oh, this was pathetic! High school kids had crushes. People my age had affairs, one-night stands or a passion for someone, but not a crush. Hell, we even committed crimes of passion, but I've never heard of a crime of crush before.

  "Well.” Kim tried to mask her disappointment. “We'd hate to make you late. So...” She looked over at me. “...why don't we get our coats and head back to the dorm?"

  I think that since we had both just been given the shaft, and not in the good way, that there was a definite truce between us.

  "Sure.” I stood up and glanced down at her heels again. “I'll race you."

  "Actually...” Tristan took a step towards me. “...I was hoping you might stay for a few minutes and look at a piece I've been working on.” He turned quickly to Kim. “No offense intended, but it's kind of a guy thing."

  "Oh.” She faked one final cordial smile. “Of course."

  He did help her with her coat, a gentleman to the last, and opened the door. Before she left, Kim casually turned back to me.

  "Nookems, why don't you give me a call when you get back, and we can start going over that wretch list."

  "Yeah, okay.” I sighed, then quickly added, “But don't wait up."

  She started towards me, but Tristan closed the door before she could lunge. God knew I was going to pay for that comment later, and I doubted there was anything He could do to protect me. Women were such a volatile species! Men were always quick to respond when they'd been wronged or suspected they'd been wronged, but women played with your mind by making you wait and wonder when vengeance was going to come.

  Tristan waited with his ear to the door until he heard the main entrance of the building shut. Once he was satisfied she was gone, he walked over to the stereo and turned it on. How appropriate the song turned out to be: “I Do What I Do,” the title track from the film .1/2 Weeks.

  "This sounds familiar.” I couldn't think of anything else to say.

  "It should, since you just reviewed it in the Vault section of your music column.” He sat down on the couch next to me. Whew! It was really starting to warm up now. “I really liked how you described the songs as ‘a collection of intimate fantasies capable of being acted out in real life as well as on the screen, only with less mess.’”

  "Well, I don't think the majority of the American people think of sex as involving an item from each of the four food groups.” Oh, good. That was bound to turn him on ... not.

  "You really shouldn't assume something like that without first finding out for yourself.” He leaned closer, and I believe I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my forehead, but just a single bead. “I didn't ask you to stay for a conversation about semantics and definitions, though. I just chose the disc because it seemed more appropriate then say ... Alphaville."

  Okay, so he didn't want to talk. I liked talking, though. It calmed me down, and he was moving a little too fast for my taste.

  "Well, I like Alphaville, but I can see your point. After all, they sang ‘Forever Young,’ not ‘Forever Hung.’”

  "Are you hung?"

  "Hello?” That was blunt. Now I was starting to feel genuinely uncomfortable.

  "Well?” His face was only an inch away now, and I could feel the heat of his breath. I think I also smelled Crest. Why wasn't I responding to him the same way he was to me? This didn't feel the same as when I'd been with Jordan in California. That had been natural. This wasn't, and Tristan's bluntness seemed, well, cheap.

  "Um...” What was the question again? “Did I say hung? I meant ‘Forever Tongue,’ sort of a ballad about Gene Simmons of Kiss and his ... tongue ... and ... and ... What are you doing with my hand?” He'd taken hold of my left hand and started to massage it.

  "I thought I heard you say you fell on it. I'm just trying to make it feel better. Here.” He moved it over and rested it on his thigh, still massaging it. “How's this?"

  "Closer ... to better, sure.” I was sweating up a storm! If I didn't get out of these clothes—room, I'd be a soaking mess in no time flat. “Uh, where is this piece you wanted me to help you with?"

  "Oh, that's right here.” He moved my hand further up his thigh, and I believe I gasped. “You seem a little timid. Why do you think I invited you over here tonight?"

  "I wasn't sure,” I lied. “Things like this don't happen to guys like me."

  "Guys like you?” He continued to massage my hand against his leg. I wasn't sure which leg it was, but it was one of them. “I like guys like you."

  "This is still kind of new to me. I mean ... I ... Well, it's...” Quit stumbling! “I thought you might like me, but I wasn't sure.” In a sense it was true. “This just doesn't feel right, and I'm not looking for a one-night stand."

  "I'm not either ... and I think everything feels right,” he whispered. “Can't you tell?"

  "Well, you did just stick your tongue in my ear and ... ooh...” I involuntarily shivered. “That's giving me goosebumps.” He started nibbling on my earlobe instead. “That's not helping. I think you're also holding my hand against your...” Something moved. “Yep, you are.” Something else moved. Actually, it was me, and I found myself standing straight up. “This is too fast. It feels wrong."

  "You're right.” Tristan stood up, too. “It is wrong. Your clothes are still on."

  Despite what must have sounded like a half-hearted objection, he unbuttoned my shirt, removed it, lifted my T-shirt over my head and tossed them both down on the floor. Every time I'd start to object again, he'd touch me in some
way that would cause the words to come out unintelligibly.

  He stood there for a moment and looked at my chest then cocked his head to one side and looked the rest of me up and down. The next thing I knew, he was taking his shirt off and undoing his jeans as he headed for the bedroom, obviously expecting me to follow. I'd come this far, so...

  So? Tristan was naked and waiting for me in his bedroom. I would feel incredibly stupid for leading him to believe I wanted to do something and then back out. Other people did it, and a whole lot more often than I did. Didn't I deserve the same opportunities they had? Didn't I? I could did this. I mean ... I could do this. I could handle it. Right? Right?

  I kicked my shoes off, undid my jeans, slid those off and took a step towards where he'd gone. Thud! It was an awful sounding noise, even more so when I realized I'd made it. The thermal underwear I'd worn came down with the jeans, but never made it off my feet because I'd tucked them under my socks and forgotten about them. I rolled over, massaged my nose—no blood—and pulled the socks and underwear off. No, this wasn't an omen. This was just me being stupid.

  The first thing I saw when I limped into the bedroom was Tristan's well-defined naked body lying on the bed. The first thing I noticed, however, was the lights were still on. They might have been dimmed, but they were on, nevertheless. Tristan sat up, looked me over again, apparently approved and pulled me down with him.

  The next thing I knew, he was nibbling on my neck, massaging my chest, kissing me and repositioning us on the bed, all at once. This guy was good, and I got the distinct feeling he'd done this at least twice before. Whatever happened to romantic and slow? Did it have to feel like he was placing me where he wanted me, like a rag doll?

  "Aren't you going to turn the lights out?” I asked him when I could actually get his mouth off of mine. What was up with that? The taste of Crest was a touch much, and weren't moments like this supposed to be private and not feel so ... well ... forced?