"That is the biggest crock of shit I have ever heard." Tom's roommate slammed down his beer can in disgust, punctuating his disapproval with a deep belch. "You're gonna to skip out the game for a what?"
"An Earth Day festival. Look Sam, I promised Sally. She'll be really pissed if I don't show up."
"Pissed? You're going to have thirty frat brothers really pissed at you if we lose this game. We need your bat, bro. Where are your priorities?"
"It's a big deal. Her dance class is doing some sort of special presentation. She's going to be Gaia."
"She's going to be gay? I'm telling you bro, those Wellesley bitches are all dykes. You're just wasting your time."
"Not gay, Gaia. Mother Earth."
"Great. What does that make you, a mother fucker?"
"Maybe." Tom tried to keep a poker face. Sally had done everything so far except actually fuck. The couple of times she'd let him try to take her virginity, she'd gone into a spasm of terror, and he'd wilted. But Sam didn't need to know that.
"Pussy whipped," Sam muttered. Sid walked in at that moment, and helped himself to their last beer. "Say Sid, did you know Tom is going to miss the game so he can go out to a fucking Earth Day party?"
"Exactly," Tom had to defend his honor. "A FUCKING Earth Day party."
"What, you're going to cut out on us just so you can get laid? What kind of friend is that." Sid took a sip of the beer and made a face. "Where do you get this stuff?" Keystone was not to his taste.
"Brought it from home."
"He's not going to get laid."
"Bullshit." Tom was getting angry now.
"Fifty bucks says you don't get laid."
"Sam, when have you ever had fifty bucks on you?"
Sam went to his dresser. He had a little grey metal box with a combination lock on it. He opened it, and a faint hint of pot wafted into the room. He pulled out five bills, all of them tens. "Right here. Tomorrow I'll have a hundred."
"Bullshit. What I dumb bet. I come back, I tell you I got laid, you pay up."
"He could call your girlfriend for verification," Sid suggested.
"No fucking way. If that's part of it, no way I'm taking that bet."
"Weasel. Fucking chicken shit. Okay." Sam went back into his dresser. He produced a box of Trojans. It had been sitting there patiently waiting for some use the whole semester. He took one out. It was in a little foil package, but he tore a corner out, then used a pen to put a little squiggle on the rubber inside. "You bring this back used, and I'll pay off. If it has your jizz on the inside and her jit on the outside."
"No fucking way." But it was too late. Sid had bolted out the door to spread the word of the challenge. It wasn't just fifty bucks. His manhood was on the line. Sighing, he picked up the package. It was leaking a little. He put some scotch tape over the tear, wrapped it in a hanky, and stuck it into his jeans. "Look, what if she doesn't want to use a rubber? What if she throws it out, flushes it down the toilet?"
"No ticky, no billies."
"Asshole." Tom gave one last sigh of exasperation and went off to catch the shuttle bus. The good thing about Wellesley was that they had free transportation because they cross listed courses with MIT. The bad thing was that it was almost an hour to get out there. The bus was almost empty. Three guys he didn't know, one or two girls he might have liked to know, but they were making a point of not paying attention to him. The stupidity of his situation was more apparent to him with each mile into the countryside. By the end of the evening he was going to be fifty bucks poorer and a laughingstock to boot. The sunlight was flickering through the still bare branches of the trees along the road, like a strobe light, giving him a headache.
But when he stepped off the bus, it was walking into paradise. On the great lawn, the grass was soft and green, the trees were in flower, and the natives were sunning themselves in various states of undress. A sweater had been abandoned here, over there a skirt was hiked up just far enough to suggest that there was nothing underneath it. Some of the girls were even in bikinis, lying on their stomachs with the straps undone, propped up on their elbows that way, nipples just brushing the ground. Not too far away was a couple, the girl dozing on her stomach. The boy had teased her bikini bottom all the way off her cheeks. She woke up, startled at her exposure, and sat up, breasts flying free, until she was soothed back into slumber.
Tom sighed, and tore himself away to walk over to Sally's dorm. Up on the roof, he could just see a few heads -- the bodies beneath them, rumor had it, were naked in the sun. But he had never been to the roof. Well, he would be seeing Sally naked, soon, maybe not too soon if he had to go through with the Earth Day bullshit. There was a camera crew coming, from WBZ. They were going to be on TV. It was a big deal. Not worth fifty bucks though.
"You're late!" She was pretty pissed when she came down to get him.
"I got here when the bus got me here." That wasn't precisely true. He had dawdled for a few minutes at the great lawn. Only a few though. Not enough that she would notice.
"Bullshit. I saw the bus come. I saw you get off it."
"You saw me?"
"Yes, I saw you. I was up on the roof."
Up on the roof. She did look a little flushed, and he wondered how much of her was how sunburned. He hadn't really paid much attention to what she was wearing, he'd been so busy defending himself, but he realized now it wasn't a bathrobe, it was some sort of Greek goddess outfit. Gaia, she was dressed up as Gaia. She leaned over a little, and he caught a clear glimpse of a nipple.
"Come on," she said, leading him to the elevator, "hurry up. We've only got twenty minutes before the performance starts."
"Sure." Why weren't they heading there directly? The look she gave him didn't leave room for questions. Down the hall, to her room -- what? She wanted a quickie? "Come on, hurry up, get out of those clothes."
"Sally, we don't have time." He could hardly believe he was saying that. But a certain part of him was not cooperating at all.
"Look, dickhead, you're no good dressed like that."
"Dressed like what?" Blue jeans, Red Sox tee shirt with eighty one on his back, that was his class, not quite as good as class of sixty nine, but something, his Phillies cap ... maybe it was those enemy colors ... "I'll take off the hat before the TV guys come."
"Jesus, fucking, Christ!" He hadn't realized she could swear like that. She looked like an angry Olympian about to strike him down with a lightning bolt, or turn him into a tree. "Get your fucking clothes off!" She was handing him a dress.
"Dear heart, you are going to be the great god Pan. God knows you've got the legs for it."
It was a little tennis skirt, with straps, but an otherwise open top. It wasn't hers, too big for that, but really small for him even so. It wasn't long enough to cover his boxers.
"Jesus!" She was fuming. "The great god Pan does not wear red checkered boxers."
"I need a larger dress. Maybe lengthen the straps."
"No time! If you'd shown up on time ..."
"I'll roll them up."
"No good. Take them off."
"Take them off! Tom! Please!" There was a note of desperation now. "I'll make it worth your while."
"Worth my while? How worth my while?"
"Tom! We don't have time for this bullshit!"
"Bullshit?" There was a dressing mirror on the back of her door. The two of them would stand in front of it sometimes, naked, he behind her, hands cupping her breasts, dick sliding down between her cheeks. They would stand that way and admire each others beauty and their own. "This is bullshit!" Actually he looked pretty good in the skirt, like something out of Ben Hur. Only his legs were hairy. His torso was smooth, delicately muscled, little ridges tracing his pecs and abs. A dumb jock, she called him, but how dumb could an MIT student be? Not that he knew squat about all that pretension cultural bullshit she was into. But she liked that jock body. She gave a little giggle. He realized he had been preening for the mirror. "I'm not going out in public like this!"
"Tom, everyone is going to be in costume. You'll be fine!"
"No fucking way!"
"What if there was," she pushed a hand under the elastic waist band of the boxers, "a fucking way?" The hand reached down to grab his balls. Then, a little yank, and the boxers were down around his ankles.
"Tom." She stepped on the boxers. She pulled him forward by the shoulders so that he stepped out of them. "You will be fucking this evening. I promise!"
With that, he snatched the handkerchief from his jeans and stuck it into the pocket of the tennis skirt. The rubber was in there, well hidden, he hoped. Well, what did he care if she saw it? She'd promised. A promise was a promise. By the time the night was over he would be carrying that rubber back to Cambridge in triumph. Or, even better, tomorrow morning.
"Cool it. For now."
"What? Oh." The front of the tennis skirt was rising up. "Sorry."
"Now, about the dance."
"The dance? There's a dance tonight?"
"No, the dance for the ceremony. What you have to do is really simple. At the end, all you do is lift your arms up over your head, and turn around on your toes. Like this," she demonstrated. "The girls will be forming a circle. You just walk out, nicely, on your toes, yes, that's good, now lift up your arms -- no, maybe don't lift them up quite so high." The straps were pulling the skirt up above his balls. "Now twirl around like this." She turned quickly, and her own skirt swirled away to reveal sunburned cheeks.
"No way. No spins, no jumps. I'm not a fucking ice queen."
God, he felt naked. The funny thing was, he didn't mind being naked. He would have taken off all his clothes and lounged in the sun with all those girls, if he'd thought he could get away with it. But walking around in the skirt, nothing underneath it -- he could feel the breeze on his balls. It made him want to pee. He went over to her sink and strained, but nothing would come out. That didn't stop the dull ache. Maybe he needed to come, but it was too late for that. Sally was dragging him out the door.
They went to the elevator. There was no one in the hall. They went downstairs. There was no one in the lobby. They went outside, and she tore a couple of strands of ivy off the brick walls of the dorm, and arranged them on his head. There were other girls down there, dressed like her, and one guy, a big black guy, wearing nothing but a loin cloth. It wasn't even a proper loin cloth, it was just two pieces of cloth hanging down front and back, held together with a rope. Tom realized he was spending way too much time staring at the guy's balls. He saw naked guys all the time, it was no big deal. But somehow his skirt was starting to lift up again. The guy was smirking at him. He didn't like the look of that leer. Flushing, he paid more attention to looking down Sally's dress. Really, he could see all the way down, not just her nipples, but her bare belly, a patch of pubic hair below that. The front of his skirt was definitely sticking out now.
"Stop it!" she hissed. "The TV crew is here!"
That was enough to shrivel him, at least for the moment. The ceremony itself was total bullshit. There was an older man, a professor, dressed up in a toga, who gave a rambling speech about spring and flowers and mother earth, and then Sally and the black guy did some sort of pas de deux. He'd never actually seen her dance, well every once in a while she'd do a naked little ballet for his benefit, mincing around on her toes and maybe doing a revealing pliée. So that would make the black guy a male ballerina. Gay, the guy had to be gay. Tom guessed that made it okay for those black hands to be disappearing under Sally's dress as she was lifted overhead. But it made those leers even more unsettling.
The camera man had been catching it all, but Tom wasn't sure how much was going to make the news. There had been a certain National Geographic quality to the performance. Everyone clapped, though. Then Tom's big moment arrived. The other girls skipped out and formed a little circle. "Behold, the great god Pan!" the prof roared, and Sally gave him a little slap on the rump. He tried to skip out on his toes, like the girls, but halfway out he tripped over his own feet.
"The great god Pan is dead!" the prof roared. The other dancers rushed in to pick him up and carry him off to the side. Then they all stood in a line and sang "For the Beauty of the Earth" while the camera man walked in front of them. He was a midget, no more that four and a half feet tall, with the camera on his shoulder, and Tom was sure he was aiming it under everyone's skirt.
It had lasted for fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. The TV crew packed up and left as abruptly as they had arrived. Tom was hoping none of it was making the evening news.
"All right!" There was a cheer. "Time to party!" Tom would have liked to retrieve his clothes and his wallet, but it was too late. Sally had one of his hands, the black guy the other, and they were skipping over the great lawn towards the student center. Well, Sally and the black guy were skipping. Tom was stumbling along trying to keep up. The skirt was too tight, on top of everything else. It kept bunching up around his waist, but no one seemed to care.
Wellesley was a dry town, except for the Holiday Inn and the student center. Drinking age was eighteen, so there was no reason not to serve beer, a lot of beer. There was no need for his wallet, after all. The prof was buying, many pitchers that they carried up to the loft. There was a TV up there. They were going to hang around until the evening news came on. It was cozy, almost private, big purple couches on a bright orange rug. There were even bathrooms, no need to stagger down to the first floor. Just as well, because the pitchers of beer kept coming. Tom lost track. After a while he didn't care how much beer he was drinking. Pizza appeared on the low blond tables, and he ate some, absent mindedly. Sally and the black guy were matching him beer for beer, pizza for pizza, and the two of them were chatting away, on either side of him, giggling like schoolgirls, while Tom just mellowed out. The black guy's name was Dwayne, or something like that. Not that Tom cared. There was some really stupid game show on the TV, and he actually started to pay attention to it.
Finally, six o'clock arrived. Their big moment. The news of the day. A fire in Somerset. Boring! There was always a fire in Somerset. A crash on the Mass Pike. This was news? Ads. Time was passing. It was quarter after already, almost time for the weather, then the sports. There was tension in the loft, as much as they could muster up in their state of inebriation.
Then, there it was! "There were Earth Day festivities today throughout the Boston area ..." and they showed some jugglers on the Common! Bullshit! Maypole dancers in front of Faneuil Hall! How many TV crews did the fucking station have? Boos were erupting throughout the student center. Then, at last, the great lawn in all its glory! "Wellesley College celebrated Earth Day ..." and there they were, two seconds of Sally up over Dwayne's head, a second or so of the girls skipping into the circle. Nothing of Tom. "When we return, Jay will tell us how much longer this amazing weather is going to last."
And that was it. Their fifteen seconds of fame. Everyone was cheering. There were cheers from downstairs, too, and one of the waitresses came up with more beer, on the house. The celebration had just begun.
After a while the beer stopped coming. The professor had other things to do. He was over in one of the huge arm chairs with plush purple wings, sprawled back with a shit faced grin on his face. One of the girls was kneeling in front of him, her head hidden under his toga.
On the couch across from Tom, two of the girls were making out. Outside, it was getting dark, and no one had bothered to turn on the lights in the loft. Happy hour was long gone, the place had cleared out. There were only the five or six of them left upstairs. The girls were doing more than just kiss now. A breast had bobbed out, a nipple was being sucked. There was no more conversation. Sally was staring at them, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. Tom reached in to find a nipple, but she pushed his hand away. There was a hand on his thigh, but it wasn't hers. Creepy, creepy, and he reached down to touch that hand, but he didn't move it away. Dwayne leaned over him and kissed Sally, right in front of him. No, that wasn't right. Dwayne whispered something in her ear, and she giggled, and lay back on the couch, skirt pulled up, knees pulled up, legs spread wide.
Damn! She was going to let Dwayne fuck her, right in front of him! The bitch had been holding out on him, all this shit about how she was a fucking virgin was just fucking bullshit. She'd been fucking Dwayne all along, and holding out on him, stringing him along, trying to make him think things were "serious" when all along she was just another fucking slut.
"Rubber," Dwayne said. He slapped his thighs where pockets should be. "I need a rubber."
"Tom has one. Don't you, Tom? He's such a Boy Scout."
"Be prepared." Her fingers were in his pocket, the rubber was out of his pocket, the rubber was wrapped around Dwayne's dick, before he could protest. Well, he thought wildly, if he could recover it, maybe it would be okay. How the fuck would Sam know whose cum was in it? So he was going to watch his girl friend, make that his ex girl friend, get fucked two feet away from him. So fucking what? He might as well relax and enjoy the show.
Everything was pretty much a haze, in any case. All that beer had made him numb. He admired the fact that Dwayne could still get it up. That hand on his thigh had found his prick a while ago, it was playing with it, but nothing much was happening. Maybe it was just too creepy having a guy jack you off. Actually, it felt good, but it was a long way from feeling good enough to do anything. So, go with the flow. He was even thinking of switching couches. The girls were head to toe now, faces buried in the others groin. He reached out to touch the nearest one, running his hands over her ass. But then the unexpected happened. Sally reached up and pulled his head into her lap.
Well, why not? His tongue was still working. He liked the taste of her, he liked the way she wrapped her thighs around his head. He liked the way her belly tensed, the quiver when he stuck a finger in her asshole. He liked to make her come, not much of a trick this time, it took about ten seconds, but then she kept coming, she kept holding his head down. She had her legs wrapped around his shoulders, pinning him to her.
Someone was kissing his back. Someone with slightly bristly lips. He squirmed, but Sally pulled him even harder into her. She gave a few moans, she started to heave, and he doubled his efforts. The kisses got lower, down his spine. A tongue caressed his balls, then his asshole. Teeth were sliding gently along his prick, all the way up to his balls, and a finger was sliding into him. Oh God! He'd always wanted Sally to do that for him, but she wouldn't.
She had stopped writhing now. He was lying with his head still buried in her thighs, but not licking. Something bigger than a finger was pressing against his asshole. Just the touch of it shot shivers through him. He was terrified. He was horrified. He was enjoying it. A little touch, a hint of pressure, the excitement of his own flesh stretching, and then there it was, inside of him. It felt better than the finger had, and a lot better -- not hard and bony, not sharp and scratchy, but big, soft and firm at the same time.