Chance Encounters

"What's going on?" Jon asked, returning to the kitchen from a pot run to his bedroom.

"Things . . . just . . . got . . . interesting," Terry intoned, hitting each work like a hammer hits a nail. "Nicky just jumped off a cliff. He accepted a clerkship offer in . . . wait for it . . . wait for it . . . Reno, Nevada."

"Dude, the biggest little city?" Jon asked, pulling me into his hairy chest and giving me a noogie, as if I was his little brother, not his classmate.

They all treated me like a little brother, likely based on my 5'6" stature. Scott was 6'4" tall. He had played basketball for DePauw before law school. From Minnesota, he had blond hair, blue eyes, and was devoutly Lutheran. I was his first Catholic friend. He had grown up not believing Catholics were Christians and was prohibited from playing with them.

Scott had lost his athletic luster at Chicago. Like the rest of us, he ate poorly, drank too much, and spent too much time on his ass studying. It was too bad, as his body had been his best physical feature. His face was non-descript except for his nose, which was too large even for his large frame. Before he became one of the "Horsemen" (what out classmates called the four of us), we had - at least behind his back - called him "Snuffy," short for Snuffleupugus from Sesame Street.

We each had a role. Scott was the funny one. His observational wit was Daniel Tosh before Daniel Tosh was Daniel Tosh. He and I shared a room in our three bedroom Hyde Park apartment. It worked, as he was the only Horseman I did not secretly long to seduce.

I most wanted to seduce Terry. I was smitten with his dark hair, dark eyes, and dark skin. From Austin, Texas, Terry was in a band (he played guitar and sang), was the one who introduced pot into the apartment, and was the most casual of us all, probably because he came from oil money and didn't have a care in the world. While the rest of us were paying obeisance to corporate America, Terry was letting his black hair and beard go, wearing peasant shirts, and training for a marathon to train for his post-graduate trek through Nepal. He didn't have to work; he was in law school only for something to do.

He was trim, but not muscular. His 6'2" inches were lean. When he reclined in his chair and strummed his guitar, he was objectively beautiful. When I masturbated, it was often to images of his scruffy face, scruffy chest, and long fingers.

He was also the most sensual. He caressed how own face the back of his hand. Even the way he held a beer seemed seductive.

Yet, he appeared to be asexual. Throughout our co-habitation and friendship, he never mentioned a romantic interest or made a comment about anyone - female or male - being attractive. Attractions and sex seemed not to exist for him.

Jon ran somewhere in between Scott and Terry. Jon was handsome (curly brown hair, bright blue eyes, a wicked smile that was more of a grin than a smile), but he was also a Miami of Ohio "frat boy." He called everyone "Dude." He greeted people with "yo." He abbreviated everything; complete words were anathema to him.

He was also a world-class hound. About half the time, we listened through the walls as he pounded this or that girl into submission. He was a big boy (also about 6'2", but built like a chunky linebacker), and he bragged he liked to "fuck hard." The squeaking and screaming we heard from his room suggested there was fact to the brag. Listing to him was like listening to a porno at full volume.

Jon lamented TSB, which he said was short for "toxic semen buildup." He claimed he needed to come regularly to avoid it, and self-inflicted cum shots didn't count. He was a charmer, and he charmed his way into a lot of panties. Girls you'd never suspect to yield to his "frat boy" persona wound up screaming and spread beneath him and then slinking away in a "walk of shame."

I'd have been happy to charm my way into his pants, too. As I listened through the wall to him pound this girl or that, I often imagined I was beneath him, my legs spread, and his sweat dripping onto my chest as he ravaged me.

More often, I imagined it was Terry ravaging me. On the many nights when it was just Terry and I in the apartment, I fantasize that his high would make him horny, one thing would lead to another, and I'd wind up satisfying any curiosity he had.

We never did. I don't think the other Horsemen even knew I wanted that sort of thing. I had dated Liz almost from the start of law school, and she was publicly "a very sexual person."

I also betrayed any stereotypes they had. I was an athlete, was generally disinterested in my appearance, and watched almost nothing but sports on television. I was hiding in plain sight.

When we graduated, we dispersed. I headed to DC to intern before heading to Reno to clerk on the Ninth Circuit. Scott headed home to study for the bar before heading to Ann Arbor to clerk on the Sixth Circuit. Jon stayed in Chicago, where he was going to study for the bar and then clerk on the Seventh Circuit. Terry headed back to Austin, where he was going to complete his training before heading to Nepal for a trek of indefinite duration.

Like I said, I spent my internship drinking too much and having a lot of drunken sex. I was indiscriminate in selecting partners. I picked up girls in bars. I picked up a guy in the Soviet Safeway. I picked up another guy in a DuPont Circle bookstore. I seduced one of my fellow interns, an engaged blue blood from Birmingham, Alabama who allowed me to persuade him it was not cheating if all he did was accept a blow job. Of course, that was not all that happened. Once we started, my "Southern Comfort" and I didn't stop. We spent the last three weeks of our internship doing all of the things he swore he'd never do. Our last night in DC, I convinced him to let me penetrate him. I argued he should know what it's going to feel like for his fiancé when he finally penetrated her (they had never had sex; they were waiting for their wedding night). Having done everything else by that point, I didn't have to argue hard. I also didn't have to argue the next morning; he begged me to do it again.

As I drove to Reno over Labor Day weekend, I was riddled with anxiety. It was a dreary drive into a drearier town. During the seventeen hour trip from Denver, I mentally prepared myself for a year of isolation and self-improvement. I could go a year without friends, I thought. I'd read books. I'd join a gym and "hone the temple." I'd return to Church. I'd meditate. I'd do all the things I should've done in college and law school when I was instead partying and doing the minimum I needed to do to make the grades I wanted.

I was still pondering my year of solitary confinement when all thirteen of the new clerks met for lunch on September 08. As I usually did in new groups, I stayed to the side and surveyed the group, like a cat no one knew was watching. For the most part, it was a cookie cutter group. Two people stood out: Michaela, who was from LA, had gone to USC for both college and law school, and appeared to be completely careless about both her appearance and her demeanor; and Adam, who was from Reno, had gone to Willamette for both college and law school, and exhibited a social awkwardness that belied the barbed wire tattoo around one bicep and the motorcycle chain tattoo around the other.

Adam was easily the most attractive male of the group. In my mind, I always played a mental game of "Who would you do?" Adam was the only male qualifier from the group, so I maneuvered to sit next to him as we ate.

It was like pulling teeth, but I discovered over lunch that he was very conservative, raced go-karts, and - to my dismay - was married to his high school sweetheart, Danielle, whom he called "Dani" and who was a grade school librarian.

In light of that news, I spent no time pursuing Adam. Of the remaining male clerks, two were Mormons from BYU, one was an overweight nebbish from Tufts, and the last was an unrepentant nerd from Princeton. I spent no time pursuing any of them, either.

Instead, I wound up with Michaela, who I called Mick. We started off as friends, two peas in a pod who preferred the comfort of small group, if not a single companion. After awhile, Mick decided we should scratch each other's itches and suggested a "no strings attached" sexual relationship. I thought the offer too good to be true. I was wrong. We made the "this and that" of Elaine and Jerry work long before they tried and failed on Seinfeld.

Mick and I forged a strong friendship with Leslie, a hilariously funny clerk from Hastings who had never been east of Reno and so knew no one who went to church, owned a truck, or voted Republican. We also forged a strong friendship with Adam and Dani. When Adam had a little to drink, he abandoned his muteness and was quietly lethal, his one-liners hitting the their targets right in the bullseye.

Dani never abandoned her muteness. She was a mouse, scurrying hither and yon and trying not to be noticed. We wondered whether, when it was just the two of them, they went days without saying a word to each other.

The year turned out 180 degrees differently than I had feared. I wasn't isolated. It was not a year of self-improvement. It was a continuation of the debauchery of my DC internship. I drank a ton. And, I fucked almost as much as I drank. Mick liked to drink, but not as much as she liked to be fucked. She was hornier than Liz, who had earned the UofC moniker "Slamhound."

When our year together was over, we all scattered. Leslie returned to San Francisco, Mick returned to LA, I returned to Chicago, and Adam and Danielle stayed in Reno.

Two years later, we reunited in LA for Mick's wedding. We were all pretty much unchanged, but for Danielle. No one mentioned it, but it was clear that, at some point in the intervening twenty-four months, Danielle had gotten breast implants. Like the Grinch's heart at the end, Danielle's breasts had grown and grown and grown. It was a marvel she did not fall forward as she walked.

In 1997, we reunited in Reno. By then, Leslie was almost married, and I was out. I had shared with Leslie that I had "gone gay," and she apparently trumpeted the news through an email blast to anyone who might care.

"So," Adam had emailed. "Leslie says you've gone gay."

"I didn't 'go gay'," I answered. "I just decided to release the hounds."

"Cool," he answered, surprising me. "Life's hard enough without fighting to keep the hounds penned up."

"No shit," I responded.

"I have some questions."

"I'll answer them in person at the reunion."

I flew to San Francisco and then drove with Leslie to Reno. "Is there anyone you didn't tell?" I asked as she drove.

"I didn't tell anyone I don't know," she answered, laughing.

"Well, there's that," I conceded, half-heartedly.

"Actually, that's not even true. I was totally surprised. I told everyone at work. I couldn't believe it. I mean, you and Mick were pretty thick while we were in Reno."

"Yeah," I answered. "I was still in motion."

"What does that mean?"

"You know, accepting that I preferred boys to girls."

"Had you been with a boy before?"

"Of course."

"Did you like it?"

"No," I answered sarcastically. "I hated it. I decided to do it for the rest of my life. But I hated it. You know us Catholics, it's all about self-loathing."

When we stopped laughing, she asked if I had a type. "Sure," I answered, thinking of Terry. "Unkempt. Dark hair and dark eyes. Like Mathew Fox from Party of Five."

"Or Adam."

"No, not 'or Adam'," I lied. "He's not unkempt."

Leslie and I stayed in Tahoe that night. Adam and Dani met us the next day to climb Mt. Tallac. It was more difficult than we expected, and were exhausted by the end of the day. I noticed Adam looking at me in his rear view mirror before I fell asleep as he drove us down the mountain and into Sparks. He wanted to show us their new home, and we were going to eat and then sleep there that night.

The showers put a little pep back in our step. We drank and laughed as we cooked and then ate. I was next to Adam on the couch, and I noticed for the first time how handsome his feet were. Like his hands, they were strong. Unlike his hands, they wear clean and well-maintained. There were tufts of hair on each toe and a swirl of hair on the instep.

"You have nice feet," I said, not thinking about what I was about to say before I said it.

"Thank you, I guess," he answered.

I had meant it. I find feet attractive, and I had somewhere gotten in my head a correlation of nice feet equals nice meat.

"You know what they say about nice feet?"

"Nice shoes?"

"No. Nice feet equals nice meat." I was venturing out, responding to what I had seen in the rearview mirror.

"Hmmm . . . . . Who are they?"

"You know, the theys. The ones who say things."

"Oh, them. Yeah, I've heard of them. They say a lot of things."

I had never seen even the hint of Adam's meat. He always wore compression shorts, at least as far as I could tell, which by their nature limited any VPL. When I asked why, he responded simply "junk control."

Danielle was the first to bed. Leslie - with whom I was to share the floor of the empty spare bedroom - was not far behind.

Adam asked if I wanted another beer. I said sure. I leaned back into the sofa. Adam sat on the edge, like he was thinking about doing something but couldn't quite figure out how, or saying something but couldn't quite figure out what. Looking down at his feet, he finally said, "You don't have to sleep on the floor if you don't want to."

Obtusely, I thought he was offering the couch. "If anyone gets the couch," I answered, "it should be Leslie. I can sleep anywhere. I'm a world class sleeper."

"I wasn't offering the couch," he stammered. "I was offering our bed . . . . You can sleep with us . . . . If you want."

I was both shocked and surprised. I wasn't sure what to say. It had clearly taken him some effort to work up the gumption to make the offer.

"You guys do that?" I finally asked.

"We do," he answered, earnestly.

"Really?" I asked, my voice betraying my whirling brain more than I wanted it to. You could've knocked me over with a feather. Mute Adam and the more mute librarian took walks on the wild side.

"A little."

"Like, how much?"

"Well," he said, settling back. "We've swapped a few times. We've had other women in a few times. We had another man in once."

I was intrigued. "What happened with the other man?"

"It got pretty intense," he answered. "Dani jacked us both and then sucked us both. Then I watched him have sex with her."

"You watched someone have sex with your wife?" I asked, wondering if this was a game and I was on candid camera. "Didn't it bother you?"

"Not at all . . . . It was pretty hot, actually. Dani likes watching me fuck other women."

"Wow," I answered. "I'd have never thought."

"Still waters run deep," he said, smiling at me.

"I guess they do."

"So . . . .?"

I was reeling from the revelation. While I was intrigued by the thought of sex with Adam, I was repelled by the same thought with Dani.

Like my friends said, I was hidebound and not adventurous. I decided to take a pass and then conjured an excuse to make it look like it was an informed pass, not a diffident one.

"I don't think so. I don't think we could explain my absence to Leslie."

"You're probably right," he said, standing up and revealing that he had become aroused by the prospect of the three way. "Anyway, good night, Danny."

"Good night, Adam."

That night, I was not a world class sleeper. In fact, I didn't sleep a wink. I spent the night wondering what'd be happening if I had taken a walk on the wild side and said yes.

The next day, Adam drove us back up the mountain to Leslie's car. When it was time to part, Leslie hugged Adam good-bye, and then I did. When I did, he whispered "I've been waiting all weekend for this" in my ear.

*****

Years later, we were planning a ski trip to Tahoe over the Martin Luther King, Jr. weekend. I was flying into Reno, and Leslie and her husband were driving over for games on Friday night and to ski with us on Saturday. Adam and I made the plans through email. About two weeks out, I entitled an email "Pontiac" and wrote "I'm excited to see you and Dani. I'm also excited to see Leslie and to meet Greg. Have you met him?"

"I have. He's a bit of a doofus, but he's a kind doofus. Pontiac?"

"Yes, Pontiac. I'm excited, and Pontiac builds excitement," I wrote, borrowing their "We build excitement" advertising slogan.

"Do you want to ski or snowboard on Saturday?"

"Ski. I don't have snowboard equipment."

"You don't have to worry about equipment. Other than my shoes."

"Your shoes?"

"Think about it."

I did, but I was a bit lost. I thought he was talking about snowboarding boots, and I assumed they were for rent like everything else we needed. And, I wasn't sure why I'd need to worry about his boots, but not my own.

A few days later, I received an email from Leslie. "Are you staying at Adam's on Friday night? He said we can't. He said they don't have room because of the construction."

Adam and Danielle had a new house between Carson City and Reno that they were remodeling from the ground up. He had told me it was in a state of disrepair. He had not told me there was not room for me to stay.

"I thought so," I answered. "I'll check. I haven't made other plans."

"You are," Adam responded. "But they're not. There's room for you, as long as you don't mind the floor. There's no room for them."

I wasn't sure, but I started to suspect what he meant when he emailed I was to worry only about "the shoes."

The day before my flight, Adam emailed me. "FYI, Dani won't be here tomorrow or Saturday. She needs to go to Phoenix for a weekend. I told her to go this weekend. She leaves about the time I pick you up and will be back Sunday."

My wonder resolved. Adam's obtuse reference to his "shoes" and "think about it" was a code. He was greasing the skids to act on the "I've been waiting all weekend for this."

To avoid raised expectations to be followed by deeper disappointment, I decided to confront the issue head on. I answered his email about Dani with a direct one of my own:

"I can be a bit dense at times. But, I'm catching a pretext vibe heading into the weekend."

"Finally."

Friday night, the four of us drank beer and played Hearts and Spades. Adam had been right about Greg. He was a doofus, but a kind doofus. He also adored Leslie, which is all that mattered to me. She deserved to be adored.

The pretext vibe was also patent. One, there was plenty of room for Leslie and Greg, if they didn't mind a hint of roughing it. There was a lot of empty floor space.

Two, it was clear Adam was ushering them out: He yawned and stretched. He talked about being tired. He finally intoned "We should wrap up soon, if we are going to ski all day tomorrow."

It was only ten. Historically, our game nights had stretched out. Leslie raised an eyebrow at me. I raised both of my eyebrows back at her.

"I know when I'm not wanted," Leslie said, as she stood and gathered herself to leave. "Let's leave these boys be, Greg."

Adam seemed unconcerned by Leslie's insight. Greg seemed unaware of it.

After ushering them out, Adam returned and stood in front of me. He was clearly aroused, the outline of his erection up and to the left.

"I'm nervous."

"Me, too."

"I wasn't nervous my first time with a girl."

"Jesus," I said. "I was. Like a whore in church."

"How do we start?" he asked.

"Any way you want," I answered. "You orchestrated it."

"Do you like kissing?"

"I do."

"Me, too."

He pulled me up, put his hand on my neck, and lowered his mouth to mine. His lips were full but soft.