The Rules Of Attraction Part 7

'How? I mean, why do you think so?'

'Because I have a boyfriend,' she says. 'Remember?'

Actually, I don't, but I blurt out, 'That doesn't matter. You don't have to not screw because of that.'

'Really?' she asks skeptically, but smiling. 'Explain.'

'Well, you see, it's like this.' I sit on the bed. 'It's like this...'

"You're drunk,' Susan says. G.o.d, the name Susan is so ugly. It reminds me of the word sinus. She's daring me. I can almost smell how wet she is. She wants it.

'Where have you been all my life?' I ask.

'Did you know I was born in a Holiday Inn,' I think she says.

I stare at her, really confused, really f.u.c.ked-up. She's next to me on the bed now. I keep staring.

I finally say, 'Just get naked and lay or stand, I don't care, on the bed and, like, it doesn't matter if you were born in a Holiday Inn. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

'Perfectly,' she says. 'Are you still an Art major by any chance?'

'What?' I ask. My eyes are tearing. She's dimming the lights and it's all really happening, boyfriend or no boyfriend. I'm drunk but I'm not drunk enough to say no. In the bathroom in Commons today someone had written 'Robert McGlinn has no p.e.n.i.s and no t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es' about fifteen times above the toilet.

She turns to me, her flesh glowing green because of the lighted words from the computer screen, and says nothing. I lay back and she starts sucking my d.i.c.k and trying to stick a finger up my a.s.s. It feels good and she's really into it and I'm thinking what do you talk about in situations like this? Are you Catholic? Did you ever like the Beatles? Or was it Aerosmith you asked girls? High school girls you met who wore black armbands the day Steven Tyler got married. High school sucked. She's sucking still, her lips moist but hard. I reach under her s.h.i.+rt, ma.s.sage her t.i.ts. She has a little stubble under her arm and it doesn't really turn me off. It doesn't turn me on all that much either, but it doesn't turn me off.

'Wait... wait... ' I try to pull my underwear off all the 124.

way, then the jeans, but I'm on the bed and she's sucking me and trying to push my legs farther apart and even though I'm sort of grossed-out by the whole thing, it feels too good to complain. She lifts her head up. 'Diseases?' she asks. 'Nope,' I say though I should just say yeah crabs and end this. She lays across me and we start kissing, deep, intensely. I lift her s.h.i.+rt up over her head, line of green saliva attached to our lips as she brings her head up. I touch the side of her face, then unb.u.t.ton my s.h.i.+rt, kick my pants off. 'Wait, turn the light off,' I tell her.

She grins. 'I like it on.' She places her hands on my chest.

'Well, like, f.u.c.k that. I want it off. Deal with it.'

'I'll turn it off.' She does. 'Is that better?'

We start kissing again. Now, what's going to happen, I wonder. Who's going to initiate the dreaded f.u.c.king? What would her parents say if they knew that this is all she does here? Write haiku on her Apple, drink vodka like some crazed alcoholic fish, screw constantly? Would they disown her? Would they give her more money? What?

'Oh baby,' she moans.

'You like this?' I whisper.

'No,' she moans again. 'I want the lights on. I want to see you.'

'What? I don't believe this.'

'I want to know what the f.u.c.k I'm doing,' she says.

'I don't see how you can be confused,' I tell her.

'I'm into neon,' she says, but she doesn't turn it back on. I push her head down.

She starts sucking my c.o.c.k again. I start to get her off with my hand. She gives decent head. I tell her 'Wait - I'm 125.

123.

gonna come . . .' She lifts her head. I go down on her, slowly, kiss her t.i.ts (which are sort of too big) and then past her stomach to her c.u.n.t, spread, swollen, three fingers easing into it, licking it at the same time. Bruce is singing about Johnny 69 or someone and then we're f.u.c.king. And I come - spurt spurt - like bad poetry and then what? I hate this aspect of s.e.x. It's always someone wanting and someone giving but the giver and the wanter are hard to deal with. It's hard to deal with even if it goes good. She hasn't come, so I go down on her again and it tastes vaguely seedy and then . . . where do you go once you've come? Disillusionment strikes. I can't stand doing this and I'm still hard so I start to f.u.c.k her again. She's groaning now, humping up, down, up, and I put my hand over her mouth. She comes, licking my palm, snorting: It's over.

'Susan?'

Yeah?'

'Where's the Kleenex?' I ask. 'Do you have a towel or something?'

'Did you come yet?' she asks, confused, lying in the darkness.

I'm still in her and I say, 'Oh yeah, well, I'm gonna come. In fact I'm coming now.' I moan a little, grunt authentically and then pull out. She tries to hold me, but I just ask for some Kleenex.

Susan says, 'I don't have any,' and then the voice cracks, she starts to cry.

'What? What's wrong?' I ask, alarmed. 'Wait. I told you I came.'

126.

LAUREN Victor hasn't called. I've changed my major. Poetry.

What do Franklin and I do? Well, we go to parties: Wet Wednesday, Thirsty Thursday, parties at The Graveyard, at End of the World, Friday night parties, pre-Sat.u.r.day-night party parties, Sunday afternoon parties.

I try to quit smoking. Write letters to Victor in computer cla.s.s that I never send. Franklin always seems to be broke. He wants to sell blood to get some cash, maybe buy some drugs maybe sell some drugs. I sell some clothes and old records in Commons one afternoon. We spend a lot of time in my room since I've got a double bed. I've stopped painting completely. Since Sara left (even though the abortion by her account wasn't traumatic enough to excuse her absence) I watch her cat, Seymour. Franklin hates the cat. I do too, but tell him I like it. We hang out in the Sensory Deprivation Tank. Sometimes Judy and Freshman and me and Franklin go to the movies in town and no one cares. What is going on? I ask myself. We drink a lot of beer. The boy from L.A., still wearing shorts and sungla.s.ses and nothing else, came on to me at one of the parties last week. I almost went home with him but Franklin intervened. Franklin is an idiot, really unintentionally hilarious. I have come to this conclusion, not by reading his writing, which is science fiction, which is 'heavily influenced by astrology,' which is terrible, but by something I don't understand. I tell him I like his stories, I tell him my sign and we discuss the importance of the stories but ... I hate his G.o.dd.a.m.ned incense and I don't know why I'm doing this to myself, why I'm being such a m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t. Though of course it's because of a certain handsome 127.

Horace Mann graduate who's lost in Europe. I try to quit smoking.

( ... no mail from Victor ...) But I like Franklin's body and he's good in bed and easy to have o.r.g.a.s.ms with. But it doesn't feel good and when I try to fantasize about Victor, I can't.

I go to computer cla.s.s. I hate it but need the credit.

'Did I tell you I was strip-searched in Ireland?' Franklin will mention at lunch.

I will look straight ahead and avoid eye contact when he says things like that. I pretend I don't hear him. He doesn't shave sometimes and he gives me beard burns. I am not in love with him, I'll chant under my breath at dinner, with him sitting across from me with other oily Lit majors all dressed in black and exhibiting a dry yet caustic wit and I'll be blown away by how nondescript he is. But can you remember really what Victor looked like? No, you can't, can you? It freaked him out badly that I put a note on my door that said 'If my mother calls I'm not here. Try not to take a message either. Thanks.' I try to stop smoking. I forget to feed the cat.

'I want to trip with my father before he dies,' Franklin said at lunch this afternoon.

I didn't say anything for a very long time and then he asked, 'Are you high?' and I said 'High' and lit another cigarette.

128.

SEAN There is no way I'm driving the dude to the bus station. I can't believe he even asked me. I'm hungover as h.e.l.l and feel like I'm going to throw up blood and I woke up on the floor of someone's room and it's cold and I'm in a bad mood and I owe Rupert five hundred bucks. He's p.i.s.sed off supposedly, and has threatened to kill me. I can't believe I'm up this early. I bought an onion bagel at the snack bar and it's cold but I'm still wolfing it down. He's standing there already, with his bag and sungla.s.ses and long coat, reading some book. I mumble a good morning.

'Just get up?' he asks, smirking.

'Yeah. Missed my guitar tutorial. s.h.i.+t.' I climb on the bike and try to start it. I hand him the onion bagel. I turn the ignition. I decide to just fake it; pretend the bike won't start. He won't be able to tell.

'You shaved,' I say, trying to make conversation; get his attention away from the bike.

Yeah. I was getting a little scruffy there,' he says.

'Doing it for Mom? That's real nice,' I say.

'Uh-huh,' he says.

'Nice,' I say.

'Can I have a bite of your bagel?' he asks.

No way. I don't want to give him a bite of my bagel. I say, 'Sure.'

I start the bike up, jiggle the keys, then let it die again. Put my foot on the accelerator; turn it off with a flick of the wrist. Then start it up again. The bike makes a sputtering sound, the engine dies.

'Oh s.h.i.+t,' I say.

I pretend to try it again. The bike, of course, just won't start.

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's.h.i.+t.' I get off the bike and lean down. He's watching me closely.

'What's wrong?' he asks.

I don't know what to say so 1 say, 'Needs a jumpstart.' Smile to myself.

'Jumpstart? Christ,' he mutters, checking his watch.

I get back on the bike and do the trick again. The bike just will not start.

'It's not gonna start,' I tell him.

'What do I do?' he asks.

I sit there, look out over Commons, finish the cold bagel, yawn. 'What time is it?'

'Eleven,' he says.

He's a liar. It's only ten-forty-five. I go along with it. Your bus leaves at eleven-thirty, right?'

'Right,' he says.

'That's enough time to find someone who'll give me a jumpstart.' I yawn again.

He's looking at his watch. 'I don't know.'

'I'll find someone. Getch'll do it.'

'Getch has Music for the Handicapped now,' he tells me.

I knew that. 'Does he?' I ask.

"Yes.'

'I didn't know that,' I say. 'I didn't know Getch took that,'

Tm taking a cab,' he says.

Thank G.o.d. 'Okay,' I say.

'Don't worry about it,' he says.

'Sorry guy,' I say.

'It's all right.' He's irritated. He gets off the bike and 130.

tucks the copy of the book he's reading in the dufflebag, straightens his sungla.s.ses.

'I'll see you Sunday, okay?' he says, asks.

'Yeah. Bye,' I say.

Go back to my room and drink some Nyquil to get to sleep. I heard that junkies use the stuff when they can't find any heroin or methadone. It does the job. The only problem is that I dream about Lauren, and she's all blue.

PAUL It was a Friday morning and I was waiting by Sean's bike in the student parking lot. It was only ten-thirty and the bus station in town was maybe a five minute drive from campus but I wanted to get there early. When I was sixteen I was supposed to meet my parents in Mexico. They had flown down the week before and told me that if I wanted to come I could get a ticket and meet them down in Las Cruces. When I got to O'Hare to catch the flight down to Mexico City I found out I missed it. When I went back to my car I found a parking ticket on the winds.h.i.+eld. I stayed home and had a party and ruined the couch from 131.

Sloane's and saw eleven movies and skipped school all that week. And that's probably why I get so paranoid before going on a trip. Ever since then, I arrive at airports and train stations and bus terminals much earlier than needed. Even though it was ten-forty and I knew I'd probably make the bus to Boston, I still couldn't concentrate on the copy of The Fountainhead I was reading or anything else. Last summer Mitch.e.l.l told me I was an illiterate and that I should read more. So he gave me a copy of The Fountain-head and I began it, rather reluctantly. When I told Mitch.e.l.l one day at some cafe that I didn't like Howard Roark, he said he had to go to the restroom, and he never came back. I paid the check. I remember that my parents bought me a stuffed iguana and smuggled it through customs for me. Why?

Sean arrived and noticed that I'd shaved, flirting, like a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. His bike wouldn't start, so I decided to take a cab to the bus station. He was nice about it and I felt sorry for him that his bike wouldn't start, and he looked like he was really going to miss me and I decided that I would call him when I got to Boston. Then I remembered The Dressed To Get Screwed party and knew that he was going to get laid; that everyone does. By the time the cab brought me to the bus station I was chain-smoking and bending my copy of The Fountainhead so hard that it became permanently creased. But the bus was late anyway when it arrived at eleven-forty-five, so I had nothing to worry about in terms of making it. Myself, some young fat lady with a blue jacket with dice on the back of it and her blond dirty-faced little boy, and a well-dressed blind man were the only people getting on at Camden. Since there was no one else on the bus I took a seat in the smoking section, near the back. The fat woman got on with her son and they sat up front. It took a while for the blind man to get on and the driver helped guide him slowly to a seat. I hoped that the blind man wouldn't sit next to me. He didn't. I was relieved.

The bus pulled out of Camden and started up Route 9. I was glad that there was no one else on the bus today going to Boston. It would be a nice, calm trip. Opening the book, I stared out the window, and got the feeling that maybe this weekend in Boston wouldn't be too awful. Richard would be there, after all. I was even a little interested in what my mother wanted to talk to me about. Her stolen Cadillac? It was probably a company car anyway. Easy to replace, nothing to worry about. It certainly didn't merit a visit to Ma.s.sachusetts though. I took off the sungla.s.ses since it was overcast and lit a fresh cigarette, tried to read. But it was too nice out not to stare past the window at the mid-October countryside, still signs of fall everywhere. Reds and dark greens and oranges and yellows all pa.s.sed by. I read some more of the book, smoked some more cigarettes, wished that I'd brought my Walkman.

After about an hour the bus pulled into some town and made a stop at a small station where an old couple got on and sat near the front. The bus pulled out of the station and continued back on the highway for a mile or so and then stopped in front of a huge group of people, kids from the college nearby, standing in front of two green benches. I tensed up and realized as the bus slowed down and pulled close to the curb that these students were actually going to board the bus. I panicked for a moment and quickly moved to an aisle seat.

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133.

When the kids from the college got on, I took my sungla.s.ses off and then put them on again and looked down at the book, hoping that they wouldn't realize I was a student from Camden, Fifty or sixty of these kids piled into the bus and it got unbearably loud. Most of them were girls dressed in pinks and blues, Esprit and Benetton sweats.h.i.+rts, snapping sugarless gum, Walkmans on, holding cans of caffeine-free Diet c.o.ke, clutching issues of Vogue and Glamour, looking like they stepped out of a Starburst commercial. The guys, eight or nine of them, were mostly good-looking and they sat in the back, near me, in the smoking section. One was carrying a big Sony ca.s.sette player, the new Talking Heads blasting from it, issues of Rolling Stone and Business Week being pa.s.sed back and forth. Even after all these Pepsi rejects got on, there was still no one sitting next to me. I started feeling completely self-conscious and thought, G.o.d I must look pretentious, sitting in the back, Wayfarers on, black tweed coat ripped at the shoulder, chain-smoking, faded copy of The Fountainhead in my lap. I must scream 'Camden!' But I was still grateful that no one sat next to me.

But just as the bus pulled away I noticed The Boy, looking exactly like Sean, looking very out of place, standing near the front of the bus, trying to make his way to the back. He had tangled longish hair and a week's growth of beard. He was wearing a Billy Squier T-s.h.i.+rt (oh my G.o.d) and holding a bulging pillow sack. I couldn't get over the resemblance and my heart stopped, then skipped a little before it resumed its normal beat. I looked around the bus and got the awful feeling that this Sean look-alike, who also had grease-stained hands, holding a wrinkled copy of Motor 134.

Trend (did this guy go to Hamps.h.i.+re?) was going to have to sit next to me. The boy pa.s.sed the empty seat I was sitting next to and looked around the back of the bus. One of the college boys, wearing a Members Only jacket and leafing through a Sports Ill.u.s.trated, Hi-Tops kicked up on the seat in front of him, talking about how he lost his Walkman in Freshman Econ cla.s.s, shut up, and when he did that all the guys looked over at The Sean Boy and snorted derisively rolling their eyes. I was thinking please don't sit next to me.... He looked so much like Sean.

He knew the college boys were making fun of him and he moved over to me.