Chapter 1 Student Orientation #2
Tonight, though, required his attention here.
He knew he couldn’t stand in the foyer any longer without looking socially awkward.
Nor did he want to get trapped in the shadowed clusters along the hall’s perimeter.
He surveilled the tables, not so much reading their posterboard signage as scanning for the hottest upperclassman.
If he had to be here (MCU in general, this mixer in particular), the least he could do to kill time was to make small talk with a hottie.
Bingo! A square-jawed guy with a mop of dark brown hair and a wrestler’s compact body smiled at Matt and, with a slight upnod, signaled for him to come to his table.
Matt headed mop-top’s way, intending to bypass the punch and cookies.
A pillowy matron, probably the same lady who had planned this event, blocked his way. She smiled and offered him a cup of Nyquil-colored liquid. “Here sweetheart, welcome to MCU! Have some punch.”
Matt returned the smile but held up a hand to decline the drink. “Sadly no. No drinks for me,” he said conspiratorially. “I’m the designated driver.”
It took a moment for the joke to register, but when it did the lady gigglesnorted. “Oh honey! You are a pistol, that’s for sure!”
Matt smiled awkwardly. He wanted to be chatting with mop-top, not this woman old enough to be his mother.
But he didn’t want to be rude either. Something about this woman telegraphed deep loneliness.
He didn’t know if it was the lack of a wedding ring, a sad undertone in her overloud voice, or something about her posture. But she was lonely.
The proffered punch took on a different meaning. He took the cup and thanked her. “This is a great party! Someone went to a lot of work!”
The woman smiled so wide her eyes crinkled.
“That was me! I blew up all them balloons single-handedly.” With her now empty hands, she mimed inflating a balloon.
“That was the easy part. Gluing them to the ceiling while straddling a ladder was the hard part.” She laughed loudly at her own joke.
Her fleshy breasts quivered in their industrial strength brassiere.
Matt laughed and took a tiny sip of the punch. It was sticky sweet, like melted cotton candy. He fought the urge to grimace.
He stole a glance at mop-top, straining to see the guy’s ass. Sadly, there were too many people milling around, blocking his view.
Mop-top’s ass (or the inability to ogle it) reminded Matt of his other mission this evening. He’d wanted to test a hypothesis. A 1992 Newsweek article had reported about a possible gay gene.
Scientific studies showed that roughly 2% of males were gay. That news had given Matt hope—even after his dreams of going to OU were dashed. Because if it were true, that meant that even at MCU there had to be other gays!
Matt was good at Math. He planned to major in Finance.
His hypothesis was this: there should be 20 gay men among MCU’s students.
(Student body: 2,000. Half of those male = 1,000.
Two percent of 1,000 = 20.) He just had to find the other 19.
Tonight’s smaller sample of 500-ish should mean there were four other gays in this room besides himself.
One had to have hope, right? Maybe mop-top was one of those other gays.
Matt could take him back to his no-roommate room, wrestle his clothes off, and fuck him—facedown the first time.
This was what consumed Matt’s thoughts: how tight was a manhole compared to his fist?
“I’m Debbie, by the way,” the pillowy woman said, yanking Matt out of his fantasy and back to the present. “I work in the Registrar’s office. Been there fourteen years.”
Matt introduced himself. He was trying to think of a way to politely extricate himself from this conversation when a new voice sang out. “HI DEBBIE!”
Debbie brightened. She stood taller and straighter. “William Tyler Jennings! What are you doing here? You’re not a freshman!”
“I’m working the Drama Club table,” said William Tyler Jennings.
Matt believed (based on William Tyler Jennings’s lilting voice) that he was about to meet one of the expected other gays in the room.
He cursed his luck that this guy would be one of them.
Matt’s only framework for picturing a fellow gay was gleaned from TV: cartoonishly effeminate or Paul Lynde sassy, either way having leached out any testosterone.
Matt studied the body that went with William Tyler Jennings’s voice. The guy was about 3 inches shorter than he, so 5’10”. No ass. No chest. Just a popsicle stick with a big head. On the plus side, he had a pretty face, with dark, soulful eyes, a nice jawline, and soft, pouty lips.
Debbie made the introductions, nodding to each in turn: “Matt, William. William, Matt.”
William Tyler Jennings extended his hand, palm down, like some starlet offering it to be kissed.
Matt played along reluctantly. He returned William’s gesture with a curt bow. Hoped no one was watching. “Nice to meet you, Bill.”
Debbie howled. “Get a load of this guy! ‘Bill,’ he says! He’s a real pistol, that’s for sure!”
“That remains to be seen,” William said archly. His eyes darted to Matt’s crotch. “But he certainly needs to sign up for Drama Club, don’t you agree?”
Debbie nodded.
“That’s decided then.” William swept out an arm and guided Matt away. “See you later, Debbie!” he called over his shoulder.
Matt was not interested in Drama Club, even less so in William Tyler Jennings, but did not want to make a scene. William was attracting enough attention on his own—and not the good kind. This was a guy for whom a hundred Dallas Cheerleaders posters would do nothing to bolster hetero credentials.
William steered him towards the Drama Club table.
As they passed mop-top’s table, which Matt now saw was for intramural sports, he stole a glance, still unable to glimpse the guy’s ass.
“He’s straight,” William hissed. “You can window shop all you want, but that Ken doll is looking for Barbie.”
Matt’s knees almost buckled. He had assumed his straight act was impeccable.
What had given him away? How had William seen through him so readily?
A cold knot of fear and anxiety settled in Matt’s chest. Less than five minutes earlier, he’d been so eager to meet the other gays in this room. Here he was in the company of one of them and already regretting it.
They arrived at the Drama Club table, which was currently free of milling, curious students.
Matt set down the cup of punch.
William handed him a Drama Club flyer. “Pretend like you’re reading it, considering joining the club,” he whispered. “Nod if you understand.”
Matt nodded.
“Good. Now listen closely. In a minute, you’re going to ask me a couple of questions about the club.
Loudly. We want that part to be overheard.
After I answer, give me a polite brush off, something like you’ll ‘think about it.’ Then walk away.
Go visit the Ken doll. His name’s Chad, by the way.
But then leave. Get in your car and meet me at Johnnie’s Charcoal Broiler in thirty minutes. Got it?”
Matt nodded, pretending to be studying the brochure. “Why would I want to do that?” he asked softly.
William batted his long eyelashes. “Because, dahling, you need my help to survive around here. Because you’re dying to kiss boys, and I’m going to teach you how.
Because, while you and I will briefly be lovers, we will also become friends.
Oh, and finally, my name’s ‘William.’ Don’t ever call me ‘Bill’ again. ”