Sunday Blues

by Paul Stevens

 

Sunday started well, with me and my roomy, Ed, coming back from a late breakfast.  I was talking as we crossed the lobby of the dorm and not watching where I was going.  That was how I got on the wrong elevator.  Our dorm has three elevators, two go to the men’s wing and one goes to the women’s.  Unless you’re escorted, guys aren’t supposed to get on the chick lift.  Somehow, I managed to follow a guy into the wrong elevator.  Turns out, he’s the maintenance man.

I could tell I’d blown it when I went to push the third floor button and saw there were seven floors — the men’s dorm only has six.  I figured I’d just wait till the guy got out and head back to the lobby.  Instead, he put a key from the ten pound ring hanging on his belt into one of those secret locking switches on the panel and we went through the roof — literally.  We ended up in the machinery area on the top of the building.

“Don’t know what you had planned,” the man said with a twang that seemed more at home in Vermont than Atlanta, “but this here lift is scheduled for routine maintenance.  You’re going to have to take the stairs down.”  The guy was short, skinny in an unhealthy way, had two days growth of graying beard and a ball cap that looked like it had never been washed in the decade he’d owned it.

“Can I just take it back to the lobby?”

He shook his head with a finality that matched his no-nonsense New England accent.  “Nope.  Not my doing you took the wrong lift.”  The door opened and he stared at me.  It was Atlanta hot on the roof, but his stare had the ice of a Nor’easter.  I exited.  “Stairs that way,” he said with a jerk of his thumb.

In the not too distant past, a guy had snuck into the girl’s dorm and raped a co-ed, so unaccompanied males are not allowed.  It was mid-morning Sunday — nobody should notice.  I’d just head down to the fifth floor, grab my girlfriend, Chris, and let her escort me out.  Maybe we could have some lunch before we had to hit the books.

The stairwell wasn’t a problem although I could hear voices from the floors below.  I peeked through the door into the fifth floor hallway and the coast looked clear all the way to Chris’s room.  I walked in slowly letting the door close gently behind me.  Halfway down the hall a hand came down hard on my shoulder and spun me around, slapping me against the wall and pinning my left shoulder with her elbow.

I’m not a big guy, but at 5′ 10″ I’m not small either.  I lift weights enough to keep me looking fit but I’m no bodybuilder.  I recognized the woman who had my left shoulder pinned from the weight room.  She always looked like she was preparing for Olympic weightlifting.  My hair is fairly long and full (full enough to piss off Ed whose hairline is receding), and she grabbed a handful with the hand that was pinning my left shoulder and smacked my head against the wall.  Then she pinned my right shoulder to the wall with her shoulder and used her free hand to grab my crotch.  She moved her face up to mine with only my nose (Ed calls it big, I like to think of it as prominent) keeping us from being eye to eye.  I could tell she likes her coffee strong and hadn’t brushed her teeth yet.  The overall effect was remarkably painful.

“What the fuck you doin’ here?”

“I caught the wrong elevator and the janitor put it out of service.  I was getting my girlfriend to escort me down.”  It’s been eight years since my voice changed, but it sure sounded like I was 13 again.

“Likely fucking excuse.”  She tightened her grip on my crotch and the jewels tried to retract into my body.

I noticed a hand reach up and grab her ear, twisting it nearly 180 degrees.  She screamed.  A small voice said, “Let him go, Matilda.”  Matilda did and I nearly slid down the wall with relief.

The tiny woman attached to the hand on Matilda’s ear moved Matilda to the opposite wall.  I recognized the gray-haired woman as fifth floor dorm mother.  She approached me with an accusing stare.

I held up my hands.  “Honest, I got on the wrong elevator just as the maintenance guy was shutting it down for service.  He wouldn’t let me take it back to the lobby.  Chris is in 536.  I was going to get her to escort me back to the lobby.”

The dorm mother nodded, went to the end of the hall and pushed the elevator button.  Nothing happened.  “Well, that part of your story checks out.”  She motioned for me to follow and knocked on the door of 536.

Lena came to the door.  “Hi, Mrs. Pettigrew.  Hi, Petey.”

“I take it,” Mrs. Pettigrew said, “that you recognize this young man?”

“Yeah, Petey is Chris’s boyfriend.”  She turned to the room.  “Hey, Chris, Petey’s here.”

Chris came to the door.  “Hi, Pete.”

“Please,” Mrs. Pettigrew said, “escort your young man out of the dorm.”

“Sure thing, Mrs. Pettigrew.”  Chris turned to me.  “What perfect timing.  I need to pick some stuff up at the store.”  She grabbed her purse and keys and took my arm.  We walked past Matilda who scowled at me.  I was pleased to see her ear was still red.

I took Chris’s hand and she smiled at me.  I am so lucky to have Chris.  She’s beautiful, but even more, she has a sense of humor.  I’d dated a couple of beautiful women but they took themselves so seriously they weren’t fun to be with.  Chris is beautiful — dark eyes you could fall into, long brown hair, even longer legs, nice ass, not huge but well proportioned breasts — but she wears schlumpy clothes so it’s not obvious and finds the funny side of everything.  It’s a fantastic combination.

Chris and I took the stairs to the lobby and exited to the parking lot where her rusting piece of junk rested in a far corner.  She parks it there because her battery doesn’t work reliably so she needs some space in front of the car for someone to jump it or for me to push the clunker far enough to get it to turn over.  It looked like I’d be the starter motor today.   Like I should complain, I don’t even have a car.  I’m stuck on a bike in Atlanta traffic.  Anyway, it was a small price for liberation from Matilda.

She got in, turned the key and nothing happened — typical.  I got behind the wreck (she calls it a “classic” — a 55 T-Bird is a classic, a twenty-year-old Corolla is a wreck) and hunkered down.  Times like this I wish I were bigger or worked out more.  The parking lot slopes down, but it still takes all I’ve got to get that heap up to speed.  I got it moving as fast as my legs could push it, stood up, signaled her and she popped the clutch.  Luckily it turned over on the first try.  I ran to the passenger’s door, hopped in and we were off.

The first five minutes are critical.  If she comes to a stop sign, she pops the transmission into neutral and pumps the gas to keep it from stalling.  God help us if it stalls on the wrong side of a hill, and there are plenty of hills in Atlanta.

The car was running as well as it ever does by the time we got off campus, so she could finally talk.  “So what were you doing in the girl’s dorm?”

“I played space case and got into the wrong elevator just as it was being taken out of service.”

Chris smiled.  “I see you encountered the local neighborhood watch.”

“That Amazon nearly neutered me.  She had the family jewels in a death grip.”

Chris moved her right hand from the car’s gear shift to mine.  “So will it never work again?”

I leaned back in the seat.  “I don’t know.  That weightlifter might have done me some serious damage.”  Chris quickly shifted me from neutral into gear.  After momentary discomfort, I rapidly shifted into high gear.  I was starting to breathe hard.  “You better stop if all we’re doing is going to the store.”

“I know a place by the meadow where we can park on a downhill slope.”

I was moaning by then.  “Oh, yeah.”

The meadow is a spot set among the trees on one of the other campuses in Atlanta.  There’s a hedge of bushes eight feet high that seem to form a solid mass between three trees, but if you push through the bushes next to one of the trees, you find a lovely little triangular patch of grass about ten feet on a side.  It’s a great place to make love in nature.  We’ve done it there under the stars and even during some of the warm rains we get here.

True to form, Chris found a parking place on a decent downward slope just blocks from the meadow.  My girl may be from Minnesota but she knows Atlanta like a native.  We got out of the car and ran hand-in-hand.  Stopping at the entrance to the meadow, we listened to make sure we wouldn’t disturb anyone, then I pushed through and held the bush back for Chris.

She gasped as she cleared the bush and looked past me.  I turned to see a couple.  They were getting dressed.  The man was still naked.  He was black, in his early twenties, and built like a football player — a quarterback, not a linebacker — solid, not huge.  Except, of course, that he had more at parade rest than I have standing at attention.  The woman had her panties on and her backside filled them nicely.  She was ample but not fat and her breasts, large and firm, were a delight to see.  The man looked at us and chuckled.  “No need to leave, we were just going.”  He motioned toward me.  “Looks like you’re all ready to go anyway.”  The woman laughed which set her breast giggling.  I wished I was wearing something other than sweatpants.

He put on red bikini underwear that had to stretch to hold his package and helped his girlfriend into her bra.  The help was probably unnecessary, but they both seemed to enjoy it.  Then they got pants and tee-shirts on, stepped into their flip-flops and sauntered past us.  “Y’all enjoy yourself,” she said.  “We sure did.”  I heard them laughing as they walked away.

I grabbed Chris and kissed her hard as we pulled each others clothes off.  We were just about to lie down when we heard a man’s voice from behind us.  “See, I told you they were a nice looking couple.”  We swung around giving the intruders the full frontal view.  The couple we had disturbed were peeking through the bushes.  She waved and they vanished from sight.

We turned to each other.  Chris shrugged.  “Turn about’s fair play.”  She grabbed me and we fell to the ground.

We lingered the second time.

When we emerged it was already past noon.  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

“Famished.”

“Let’s go to the Varsity.”

I shook my head.  “We’ll never get the car started.”

“I’ll go in and you can stay with the car.  We’ll leave it running.”  She took a look at me dressed in tee-shirt, sweatpants and flip-flops.  “You haven’t got your wallet on you, anyway.”  The woman does have a way of putting me in my place.

I gave a push to start the car rolling and had to run down hill to catch it.  I was still breathing hard when we got to the Varsity.  She gave me a peck on the cheek.  “Go take a rest in the back seat.  You need to be ready to study when we get back.”  She walked off, ass swaying deliciously.

I took her advice and lay down in the back seat.  The rumble of the little four-banger lulled me into a doze.  I heard the front door open a few minutes later and the car took off with surprising speed.  I figured Chris had gotten bad service and was pissed.  I’d give her a minute to cool down.

The speed was beginning to bother me when the car barreled around a corner tires squealing.  I decided it was time to intervene.  I sat up and was confronted with the back of the head of a man in his thirties wearing handcuffs.  He snapped his head around and looked as startled as I was.  “What the fuck you doin’ here?”  I was feeling sensations of déjà vu.

“My girlfriend owns this car!”

He swerved to avoid a car as he ran a red light.  I was slammed into the side window.  “Listen guy,” he said, “you see that cop car behind us?”

I looked out the back window and, sure enough, a big black and white with flashing lights was on our tail.  “Yeah.”

“I ain’t letting them catch me.”  He thought for a second.  “Up ahead I’m gonna go ’round a corner.  I gotta slow.  You can bail then.”

“You gonna stop?”

“No.  Just roll when you bail and you’ll be all right.  It’s that or stay here and I ain’t letting them take me alive.”

The only thing crazier than jumping out of a moving car was staying with this maniac.

He steered with his knees as he shifted with cuffed hands.  “Get over to the passenger’s side and open the door.  Just roll.”  He braked hard and started round a sharp corner into an alley.  “Go!”

Fool that I am, I let the momentum of the turn push me through the door and rolled out of the car.

The pavement bit through my tee-shirt.  I tumbled head over heels for what seemed like forever until my left shoulder hit the curb.  I hyperventilated a few seconds before I felt the pain.

“You some kind of stuntman?  This some kind of movie?”  I looked up to see a black woman in her early twenties.  Her hair was red and she wore four inch high heels, a black miniskirt and a tight low-cut lacy blouse that she threatened to overflow from at any second.  Her expression went from excitement to concern.  “You all right, sugar?”

“No.”  I was lying in the gutter in a sluggish stream of something draining out of the alley.  It smelled like an open sewer.  I tried to sit up without using my left arm.

“Here, sugar.” She took my right hand and helped me onto the curb.

I felt around for other injuries and seemed to be basically whole.  “I guess I was carjacked.  The guy told me to bail or stay with him.  It sounded like there was going to be shooting, so I bailed.”

Her eyes were wide.  “You ever do that before?”

“No.”

“Sure sounds like a good way to break your damned fool neck.  You was lucky.”  She helped me pull my tee-shirt up enough to see the shoulder.  “You got a bad road rash on your back and the shoulder’s bruised.  Can you move it?”  I tried and it responded.  “Not broke.  You best get to a doctor.”

“Where am I?”

“One of the finer parts of downtown Atlanta.  Not a fit place for a white boy.  Peachtree is about four blocks that way.”  She pointed to the right.  “Head on down there and stay on it.  You’ll be all right.”

“Thanks.”

She helped me up and went back in search of paying clientele.  I followed her directions.  Of course I was still lost; Peachtree is the name of about half of the streets in Atlanta.  I’d gone about three blocks when a man popped out of an alley and pointed a gun a few feet from my face.  It’s bizarre how big the muzzle of a gun looks when it’s aimed straight at your eyeballs.  The only good part was that the man holding it was a policeman.  “Freeze!  Hands in the air!  Up against the car!”

“I …”

“Shut up!”

I stood, feet apart, hands on the side of a car while I got groped for the second time today.  He grabbed my left arm to cuff me and I screamed.  He was a bit more careful but still cuffed me, read me my Miranda rights, stuffed me into the back of a police car and took me to the station.

I spent the next two hours trying to explain to half a dozen policemen that I was not involved in the escape of a major bank robber.  A medic put antiseptic on my back, gave me an orange prison issue shirt and an ice pack for my shoulder but they still kept me in the plastic cuffs.  Without an ID, they were convinced I was an accomplice.

Then, from across the room I heard a familiar voice.  “Pete!”  Chris ran over and embraced me.  I winced.

The officer questioning me parlayed with the officer who had been taking the stolen car report from Chris.  “Ma’am,” my officer said, “we’ll still need to get some positive ID for him.”

Our voices must have carried across the bullpen because another policeman approached.  “Petey?  What the hell are you doing here?”

“Sergeant Winslow.  Man, am I glad to see you.”  I turned to my questioning officer.  “He can verify who I am.”

Everyone on campus has to do a public service project.  I volunteered for a summer basketball program sponsored by the local police.  You see, when I was twelve, I was tall.  I’d gone through my growth spurt early, so, for a couple of years, I was the star basketball player in my grade school.  By junior high, everyone had caught up with me.  I still liked pick-up games, but I wasn’t varsity class.  I’d coached the eight-year-olds in the police league.  It was a blast.  Sergeant Winslow was in charge of the program.

He vouched for me, drove me to the hospital where they x-rayed the shoulder.  No fracture.  Then he drove us back to campus.

It was nighttime before Chris walked me to my room.  I got to the door only to find a tie hanging on it.  That’s the signal Ed and I use to tell each other we have our girlfriend over for the night and to get lost.  Chris was all for barging in, but I figured I could grab Fred and Denny’s couch.  I’ve been friends with them since Freshman year; I knew I could count on those two.

We walked down the hall to their room and I knocked on the door.  Fred opened it a minute later and put his head around the edge of the door.  “Hey Pete.  Hi, Chris.  What’s happening?”

“It’s a long story,” I said, “but I got tossed out of Chris’s car by a carjacker.  My shoulder’s killing me and Ed has his girlfriend over for the night.  Can I crash on your couch?”

“Damn!  Sure thing.”  He looked at Chris.  “I’d invite you in, too, but Denny and I sleep in the buff.”

“That’s Okay.”  She turned to me and winked.  “I think I’ve seen enough for one day.”  She gave me a kiss.  “Get some sleep.”

“You too.”

I walked into their room.  It was a typical dorm room with one of those bunks with a twin bed on top and double on bottom, a couch, ancient TV, desks piled high with work, and clothes everywhere.  The two were naked, but that wasn’t a problem — the floor shares a shower room, so we’d all seen each other plenty of times.  It’s always funny seeing the two of them side-by-side when they’re naked — Fred is tall, dark, skinny and as hairy as any guy I’ve ever seen while Denny is short, blond, stocky and has minimal body hair. I like to think I have a nice balance of body hair that’s manly with my shirt off without the annoyance of back hair.

As I entered, Denny turned up his nose.  “Man, you smell like shit.”

“I landed in a gutter where all the piss from an alley drains.”

Denny grabbed a plastic trash bag.  “Get those nasty things off.  You need to take a shower.”

“I’m too tired.”

“We’ll get you through this.”

I stripped and put the clothes in the bag.  They found me a towel and all three of us, wrapped in towels, went to the shower room.  Fred gently washed my back and I took care of the rest.  In half an hour, I was clean and tucked onto their couch.  I fell asleep immediately.

Somewhere in the middle of the night I woke from a dream of Chris and me in the meadow.  By the light of the full moon coming through the windows, I could see that Fred and Denny were both in the bottom bunk and it looked like they were locked in an embrace.  “What the …?”

The two of them stopped.  They turned on a light and got out of bed.  Whatever they’d been doing, they both definitely found it exciting.  They came over to the couch and Fred sat next to my head and Denny by my feet.  The proximity of an excited Fred to my head made me cringe.

“You both have girlfriends,” I said.

Denny shrugged.  “Yeah, but they’re not here now.  We’d rather have them, but, hey, we manage to have fun on our own.”  He looked at the blanket covering me.  The effects of the dream hadn’t worn off.  “Just look at you.  How many times did you and Chris make it today?”

“Twice.”

“And even with your hurt shoulder, you’re still ready again.  The girl’s aren’t ready as often as we are, so we take care of each other.  It’s more fun than taking care of yourself.”  Denny grabbed me through the blanket.  For the third time today, I was being groped.  I tried to reach down to remove his hand but Fred gently held my arms.  Denny pulled the blanket off and started stroking me.  In spite of everything, it felt good.  He gripped me hard and when I caught my breath he smiled.  “You’re not trying to tell me you never did anything with a guy before, are you?”  I hesitated and he went back to stroking me.  “Come on.”

I hedged.  I told them about when I was thirteen and we visited my uncle and his family.  I shared my fifteen-year-old cousin’s bedroom.  The first morning, he saw that I was about to go to breakfast with a definite bulge in my pajamas.  He discovered that, in spite of an active and messy dream life, I didn’t know what to do about it, and he didn’t want to field a round of embarrassing questions from his three younger sisters, so, after I promised never to talk about it, we stripped, got into the shower together and he showed me how to take matters in hand while ensuring the evidence washed down the drain.  (I started taking long morning showers after that.  One morning Mom asked what was taking me so long; Dad changed the subject.)

Denny’s ministrations were having more effect than I would have liked.  Fred had let go of my arms and was caressing my chest.  He leaned forward tracing the path of hair from chest to navel and then let his hands slide beneath my butt cheeks. He commenced massaging them as he whispered into my ear.  “Come on.  That’s not all.”

I felt my inhibitions melting and let out a long sigh.  “There was this time I shared a tent at Boy Scout camp.”

Denny nodded.  “Tell us all about it.”  And with that, he buried his face in my crotch.  In short order I was leaning against Fred’s fuzzy chest, moaning and telling them all the details of that week.

I was 15 with a moustache that made my upper lip look dirty.  He was 16 with a sparse beard and a patch of chest hair. That summer it had been too hot in the tent for a sleeping bag, so we bedded down in just our boxers.  We woke the next morning as teenage boys invariably do with no way to hide the fact.  After a lot of kidding about how we were going to be this way all day, he’d taken the lead and we’d handled it the way teenage boys invariably do, only this time with an audience.  That night, he suggested a little mutuality and the week became memorable.

By the time Denny finished with me, I was wrapped in Fred’s arms and not objecting.  “See,” Denny said as he wiped his mouth, “it’s just good fun.  You’re welcome to join us any time we’re not with our girlfriends.”

With that, they went back to their bed and resumed what they’d started earlier, only without turning out the light or bothering with the blanket or holding down the noise.  I watched them, fascinated and a little frightened.  I’d suppressed most memories of that camping trip until tonight.  I remembered, in the year that followed the trip, being worried about how much I’d enjoyed that week.  Then one day the next summer when I was out mowing the lawn in just cutoffs, a bored college girl who was housesitting next door took a shine to skinny, sixteen-year-old me.  My enthusiasm must have compensated for my inexperience because she kept calling me over to come and help with things she needed a “man” to do, and I, being a good neighbor, obliged. (Mom was wary, Dad was pleased.)  From then on I was hooked on the real thing.

It amazed me how malleable my whole makeup felt as I lay there in the afterglow playing voyeur for the second time today.  I loved Chris, I wanted Chris, but I had enjoyed this.

When Fred and Denny finished with each other, they walked back over to the couch, sweaty and happy, and asked if I was ready for more fun.  I said I was too tired, but the blanket betrayed me again and they led me to the bed.  Half an hour later they tucked me back in on the couch and turned out the light.  I dozed off thinking that I’d never realized how much randomness there is in life — your future can pivot on one seemingly insignificant event like stepping onto the wrong elevator.

Around 4:30, I woke again.  I quietly got up, opened the door and looked down the hall.  The tie was gone from the door.  I grabbed the bag of clothes and looked at my two sleeping friends.  They were still together in the bottom bunk, spooning.  Fred had his arm over Denny and the two were snoring lightly.  I didn’t think I wanted to take them up on their invitation, but I knew I wouldn’t say anything about it to anyone else, either.

Figuring that at this hour it would be all right to wander a short distance down the hall naked, I made a dash for my room.  I walked in only to find Ed still kissing Amy goodbye.  She gave me the once over and smiled as I attempted to back out of the room.  “So this is what you’ve been trying to keep me from seeing.”  I tried to hold the bag in front of me, but she took it from my hand and walked around me.  I only hoped she couldn’t detect a residual whiff of last night’s merriment.  “Nice ass,” she said and gave it a good slap.  Then she stopped.  “What happened to your shoulder?”

“Chris’s car was carjacked with me in it.  I had to jump out.”

“Oh my god,” she said, “are you all right.” and she touched me gently on the shoulder.

“Just bruised.”  I was beginning to feel uncomfortable and really didn’t want to show her any more than she’d already seen.  I’d already shown it to four people I wasn’t planning to yesterday.

“Well,” Ed said, “I’ll take care of him.  You’ve probably seen enough of him by now.”

She gave Ed one last kiss.  “True.”  She walked past me and gave me one more gentle slap.  “But it is a nice little ass.”

Ed closed the door behind her.  “Were you kidding?”

“Nope.  I’ve had a very weird Sunday.”  I went to my bed and crawled under the covers.

“By any chance,” Ed said, “did you find time to study for the Calc exam during your adventures?”

I buried my face in the pillow.  “Crap!”

Ed put a hand on my good shoulder.  “Go take a quick shower and wake up.  I’ll make coffee.”

So much for Monday.

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