Aimee Light was in the graduate department at the college and, though not a student of mine, was doing her thesis on my work, despite the consternation of her advisor, who had tried unsuccessfully to talk her out of it. We met at that same party I relapsed at. She was enamored of me but coolly, objectively, and this distance made her far more alluring than the usual round of sycophants I was accustomed to. I played my own role distractedly, which I could tell subtly frustrated her. Yes, it was back to the youthful game playing I experienced as a college student and I felt younger because of it. Aimee Light was lithe and agile and had the perfect body of a big-breasted, small-boned teenager even though she was nearing twenty-four. Blond hair with hard blue eyes and a steely attitude—she was exactly my type and I had been trying to get her into bed for about a month now, but so far had managed only a few makeout sessions in my office at school and one in her off-campus apartment. She kept pretending that her purpose was obscure. As with so many things in my life she just appeared from nowhere.
She was standing with a friend by the bar and chatting up the werewolf while the Eagles’ “One of These Nights” blasted out and I started to dance across the room toward her. Seeing my approach she quickly whispered something to her companion—a girlish gesture that betrayed her innocence—just as I appeared directly in front of her, flushed and beaming in the purple light, lip-synching the song, gyrating my hips, strumming the guitar. It was a risk inviting her, but she took a bigger risk by actually showing up. I winked at her discreetly.
After Aimee introduced us—“This is Melissa—she’s a harridan,” and pretty hot as well—I looked around the packed living room and saw Jayne taking David Duchovny outside to show him the fake graveyard.
“Was that wink your idea of an icebreaker?” Aimee asked.
“Wanna play Pass the Pumpkin?” I asked back.
“I like the shirt,” she said, lifting the guitar up.
“I like the whole package,” I said, looking her over. “What are you going as?”
“Sylvia Plath’s divorce attorney.”
I took her hand and asked the harridan, “Will you excuse us?”
“Bret—” Aimee warned, but her grip on my hand didn’t loosen.
“Hey, we need to talk about your thesis.”
She turned back to her friend and made a pleading face.
Still dancing to the Eagles I dragged her through the maze of the party until we reached a bathroom that I made sure was empty before dancing us both inside and locking the door. It was so hushed in there that we might have been the only two people in the house. She leaned against a wall—casual, sly, not really there. I took a long pull from my beer can and then spit out a small lime green spider.
“I thought you weren’t going to come,” I said accusingly.
“Well, neither did I . . .” She paused. “But, sigh, I wanted to see you.”
I took out a gram and asked, “Wanna bump?”
She stared at me, amused, her arms folded across her chest. “Bret, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“What are these reluctance issues you have?” I asked, annoyed. “Where do they come from—that uptight little town in Connecticut you escaped?” I busied myself with the gram and poured a small pile onto the counter by the sink. “I’m just offering you a line. How difficult a decision is that?” Then, in a bachelor’s voice: “Who’s your hot friend?”
She ignored my tactic. “It’s not the line.”
“Well, good, then I’ll do yours.”
“It’s your wife.”
“My wife? Hey, I’ve only been married three months. Give me a break. We’re still testing the waters—”
“Your wife is here plus you’re a little blotto.” She reached for a black and orange hand towel and wiped my forehead.
“When has that ever stopped us?” I asked “sadly.”
“From what?” she asked with mock outrage, but then smiled lasciviously.
I hunched over the sink and Hoovered up both lines with a straw and then immediately turned around and pressed into her, the guitar dividing us. When I kissed her mouth, it opened with no resistance and we fell against a wall. I swung the guitar over my shoulder and kept pushing up against her, an erection pulsing in my jeans, while she kept pretending to push me away, but not really. Somewhere during all of this my sombrero fell off.
“You’re so hot I can’t keep my hands off you,” I panted. “Have you ever played doctor?”