The short answer is that I came home one night and he was in my bed.
The much longer answer starts the day we moved into the dorms. It was nearing a hundred degrees and, in true College fashion, everybody that was going to live in my 800 person dorm building was standing in the barren lawn in a massive line, probably for a graduate experiment in heat stroke. For some reason, Kate and I were holding everything I owned in our arms, I think because my (not so) irrational fear of white neighborhoods made me think it couldn’t be kept in the car.
At some point, I made my way to the building at the front of the line for a piss, and on my way back I saw what I can only describe as “my type” standing about 200 light years closer to the registration desk than we were. I tried to tell Kate that I’d seen a cute boy, but I’m pretty sure her exact words were “I don’t care.”
So that was that until about week or so later when I came home to my dorm room completely exhausted from a late night of whatever bullshit I did late at night at age 18 to find the same cute boy sprawled across my bed. Like he owned it. I was, of course, instantly resentful of cute white boys who think that they can just drape themselves wherever the fuck they fucking please like the world was simply handed up their asses with a silver asshole spoon. So I decided I hated him.
It didn’t help that he actually told me at one point that he “was probably a communist,” but he “hadn’t read the book.” “You mean the Manifesto?” I asked. “Yeah, that” he answered.
For those not in the know, the Communist Manifesto is 100 pages including the two forwards and a “Questions for the Classroom” section. A healthy American can start and finish it while taking a naturally timed morning shit. My own pocket sized copy was, at that time, heavily and cynically notated with a vengeance. And now this middle class bed colonist thinks he might be something as naive as a communist except that he just hasn’t been able to find the time to read the postage-card sized document that defines the entire movement?
I think I actually wrote in my paper journal about what a dummy he was. A giant, sexually attractive dummy.
Like most people I hate on site, we eventually became friends. We bonded over thrift store fashion, and I took him under my wing because I thought he was gay. I never was one of those silly straight girls who gets a crush on her gay friends, but I was totally into him. I thought it was maybe some kind of college phase. You know, go to college, fall for a gay boy, realize you’re into emotionally unavailable men, fall into a loveless, sexless lesbian farce, graduate, settle down with an accountant, build a home dungeon and pretend to care about PTA. Every girl’s dream.
I only realized my error when he told me about going on a date with another girl. A markedly less smart girl. Which, I know, smarts aren’t traditionally the thing college freshmen associate with boner-time, but that’s what I had to work with, okay?
At some point, I lied and said I needed extra credit for this cheesecake film class that I was already getting an A in, and asked him if he’d watch Close Encounters of the Third Kind with me. To this day I do feel a little bit bad that I misrepresented my academic abilities in order to get him into bed (or beds, as the case later turned out to be), but he obviously had a little bit of a hard on for the dumb ones. And, lets be honest, it’s hardly the worst thing I ever did in order to touch a dick.
So, we’re making out on my roommate’s bed with Close Encounters happening in the background when I suddenly remembered that she’d left explicit instructions not to fuck on her bed. So we moved to my bed.