Chats in the Stairwell

But I brought my phone with me.

It chirped again after I turned the water off, while I was buffing myself with the towel. I'd left it on the back of the toilet, and it had fallen to the tile floor as it vibrated. "Fuck me," I said disgustedly; I couldn't leave a screen uncracked for longer than a week at the best of times. I wrapped the towel around my hair and crept naked across the tiled floor, crouching to retrieve the phone; I was relieved the see the screen wasn't cracked any worse, but then that would have been difficult to do.

Boyle,

The email system here sometimes flags messages that mention alcohol, so if you need to get ahold of me again you should text me. We can "chat" that way.

S

And there, at the end of the email, was his phone number. I squatted there on my bathroom floor and considered that: it's common, now, to folks to very loosely exchange phone numbers, but neither of us was millennial enough to swap digits without thinking about it first. Or was I just reading too much into all this?

What had my mind spinning, of course, was his choice of the word chat, along with its very suggestive quotation marks. I thought back to Monroe and reflected while I stood up and created Scott as a contact, labeled "Stairwell." The evening was passing again, and I had to think about dinner.

I went downstairs.

* * *

There had been two stairwell chats: Thursday lunchtime, and Friday morning, with a frustrating aborted effort Friday lunchtime. They'd begun through the increasingly racy notes we'd passed by writing in each others' conference binders. The first chat, as I recalled, had been a dare from him to me.

We'd been speculating on the pair of attendees seated across from us, a dour duo from Nebraska who, for some reason, had come all the way out here to do the workshop. Like there were no AP conferences closer. Anyway, one had been an antiseptic-looking man and the other a shriveled woman, and during the icebreakers on Monday they insisted they'd only met at the airport in Lincoln or Omaha or East Bumfuck. Scott, though, had had other ideas.

"I'll bet they're having an affair," he'd written in his quick block capitals. "That's why they came all the way out here; they're doing it in their hotel rooms, and then picking up some professional development along the way."

I'd read that with a smile. "No doubt. Five bucks says they're getting it on in the bathroom during breaks." He'd scoffed at that.

"No way." He'd underlined it for emphasis. "Everyone knows you don't do it in college bathrooms during conferences. There's no privacy; it's a break, so everyone's peeing at the same time."

Good point, that. "You speaking from experience, Scott?" Neat Catholic-school cursive was all I had at that speed. The instructor had been going on about how lead plumbing had most likely led to the loss of vitality in the Roman upper classes during the late Empire.

"Just common sense, Boyle." He'd put his pencil down then, pretending to listen to the Lead Hypothesis. But I hadn't let it go. I'd written a pretty lengthy paragraph, in fact, which he'd read raptly.

"It's not like there's anyplace better," I'd written. "The hallways are wide open, the other rooms are locked; broom closets, same. You'd draw attention at the breakfast nook or at the lunch station." I'd had to cross out nook and rewrite it, I remembered; funny what the mind hangs on to. "You could make out in the stairwell, I guess, but I don't think you could actually fuck there."

He'd blinked at me after reading that; no emotion. He'd snuck his hand back out toward his pencil. "Even you wouldn't try to make out in a stairwell."

Now it had been my turn to scoff, my indignation coming out in heavier penstrokes. "Don't go telling me what I wouldn't do!"

His lips had curled into a challenging grin as he'd read that; on its face, it had been pretty typical of the way we'd been writing each other for days. But now he'd added a simple line: "Dare you."

I'd glanced over at him, smiling despite myself; he'd sat back in the comfortable chair, his feet stretched out in front of him. A slow, smug smile had greeted my wide eyes, and I'd made my mouth into a silent O. I'd picked my pen back up.

"What, with the Nebraska guy? I think his woman would claw my eyes out." He'd read that critically, and agreed with a terse nod. But he hadn't written anything, instead just staring at me with those lazy brown eyes. I'd pondered, then added a line. "Who, then?"

He'd arched an eyebrow and beckoned for the binder. "I'm sure the instructor would love to get to know you better, Boyle. I think he's been looking up your shorts since Tuesday." I'd clamped my legs impulsively shut and swatted Scott lightly on the knee; across the table, the Nebraskans had noticed with extreme disapproval. I'd shot them a dirty look before replying.

"Quit projecting. Just because you've been staring at my legs for days doesn't mean everyone else does." It was true, too; they'd been the first thing he'd looked at when I'd sat beside him on Monday.

He'd put his hands up defensively. "Hey, that's a compliment!!" The four exclamation points had obviously been meant to melt my frigid heart. "They're nice!"

I'd actually written "Hmmph." It had felt contrived even to me, but it had shut him up for awhile. Though I hadn't been even remotely sure that was what I wanted. After many minutes, I'd slid the binder back over to him. "Who, then?" I'd repeated. "I never pass up a dare."

I'd seen him look down, read the note, and send his eyes flickering back toward mine, an insolent smile curling underneath. I'd automatically flushed with pleasure as I realized what his face was saying; he'd just stared into my eyes. I'd snatched back the binder and begun to write furiously.

"My, you're a bold one! I'm not sure YOUR WIFE would approve, though I just might..." I'd dashed it off without thinking, impulsive as I'd always been in matters of the heart; I'd found that usually worked better, as it kept me from lying. I'd written it big, my script sloppy, but he could definitely read it from his seat. He'd just arched an eyebrow at me, and I'd had to look back at the instructor to hide my grin.

He'd begun the week as a shy man, diffident to the point of rudeness, but I could tell he'd been flattered when I sat next to him, and my grinning good cheer had thawed him directly. I'd seen, since Tuesday, a new and intriguing side to him, a quiet confidence mixed with a tentativeness I found alluring. And he was married; when I was 26, that was an added bit of spice. I'd just then been ending a three-year relationship, and I'd already been looking for some time; the narrow gold band on his left hand made him untouchable for the long term, but who knew where the near future might lead?

So I'd definitely begun to find him attractive, and I might have even started to think about making a move on him, solely as harmless fun: I was young. We'd already been flirting for some time, so it seemed natural. No strings, and I'd have been fine with no real activity either; I'd enjoyed being attractive to him, and I figured he'd enjoy it too. So I'd taken a small plunge, glancing slyly over my shoulder and meeting his eyes. I'd looked pointedly at my binder, asking for his response. And then I'd looked away and waited, listening to a discussion about Romanesque architecture.

I'd heard the scrape of the binder as he slid it across the table toward himself, the quick scratch of his pencil. I'd forced myself not to look, pretending nonchalance as he pushed the binder back toward me, prodding my arm. I'd held out for a few more seconds before arcing my neck gracefully to look at his note; I'd gotten a flutter in my belly when I saw his response.

"There's only one way to be sure," he'd written, underlining sure. "We've got to try, in the interest of science." And that was that. Without even trying, I had invited a married man to attend me in a makeout session, and he'd agreed. I'd looked slowly back at the instructor and nodded once, slowly and firmly, knowing Scott would see me do it.

Deal. I'd written a simple reply, left-handed: "After lunch."

* * *

My outfit at the conference on Thursday required some thought now. I'd planned on packing sensibly, maybe teacher clothes: nice jeans, sweatshirts and long sleeves. It was not a warm spring yet. Add in some workout clothes (the conference hotel advertised a "fitness center," but I was not optimistic) and the hiking clothes I was bringing for a quick outing on Saturday, and I already had a suitcase as full as I wanted it to be.

But now I knew I'd have Scott there, and I found I really wanted to impress him. Nowadays, there was no real reason not to simply wear yoga pants, which would also mean I wouldn't need to pack so many workout clothes. The downside was underwear related; my bristly new pubes would need a nice, sensible, above all sheer panty, which meant a hipster. I had several good ones, and my butt would have looked okay in jeans, particularly at an AP conference full of new and highly platonic acquaintances. It was a common school outfit for me, and I knew my friend Gina would have long since warned me if I was showing VPL.

But yoga pants meant one thing: thong. I owned several of those as well, but the catch was that they were all slightly textured in front: not so much as to show through the yoga pants, but they were all like the world in that Modern English song: mesh and lace. And both were a no-go in my current state of genital hair; I'd have been suffering all day, itching and inflamed, and that was no fun for anybody.

I brooded as I did the dishes. The obvious solution was to go up and shave my hair back off, then prance into the conference to wow the world with my be-thonged curves. There was a certain appeal there, but it felt weird to shave for anyone other than Leon. Besides, I liked a little hair most of the time, and I was only one week or so away from being able to have a nice little landing strip like I preferred. Shaving again would set me back nearly a whole month.

Shorts were the obvious answer, but it was supposed to be cool; a skirt had the same problem, with the added complication of nylons, and that was more formal than I wanted. I didn't wish to be the best-dressed person there. Yoga pants with a long shirt, or even a funky dress, were fine but a little weird for a group of strangers, but should that stop me? I was really dressing for Scott, and I felt he'd know it.

Goddamn, but it's difficult being a woman.

I had to decide quickly; I had a long drive to the hotel in the morning, and I wasn't sure about the traffic. I planned to be out the door by six thirty, and that meant packing tonight, which meant deciding... well, now. And here I stood, dithering. This was not the normal me. I sighed and looked out at the dark marsh.

* * *

Lunch had rolled around at 11:30 that Thursday eight years ago. By that point in the conference, we were all well acquainted with the routine: we'd all troop over to the college cafeteria for our free lunch, then we'd eat as a group for 45 minutes or so, leaving us with another thirty minutes to find our way individually back to the classroom. Scott and I habitually walked and ate together; everyone else in the class clearly saw us as a couple, which we didn't very much care about one way or the other. I'd never see any of these people after Friday, Scott included.

We'd hung back alone during the walk to the café, enjoying the sunshine. Another few days and we'd be holding hands. "You're really game for this, Scott?" I'd asked carefully. "I know it's a little weird."

"I'm bored," he'd shrugged. "This'll un-bore me. Besides," he'd smiled down at me, "you're the one who made the claim. I still think it's impossible, or at least unsafe, to get it on in a stairwell." I'd rolled my eyes.

"I don't know what kind of college you went to," I'd shot back, "but I went to one like this. Trust me: there's no indoor square inch of this campus that's been free of people making out. Kids at my college used to fuck in the laundry rooms, the utility tunnels, behind the cafeteria lines, under the library tables... it's a college, Scott. People fuck here."

"Ah," he'd observed, warming to the topic, "true. But we're not talking about college kids here. We're talking about a couple of dried-out Nebraska prunes on a dirty week away from their spouses. They're using someplace more private, or waiting until the hotel." He'd glanced at me; Scott lived close enough to commute every day, but I'd been staying in the hotel. "You don't see them there, I suppose."

"No." I'd bit my lip. "I don't move in their circles over there." Nor anyone else's; back then I'd usually be found in my room, watching TV. "I just see them at the continental breakfast."

"Huh. They're not necking there, I take it."

"I just sit there reading the paper and mainlining coffee, Scott."

"Shit, Boyle. You're a useless spy." He'd adjusted his shades. "See? This is why our little experiment will have merit. Plus, it'll let you put your money where your mouth is."

"What, are we betting now?"

"Figure of speech," he'd said hastily. "I've never believed in combining money with hookups. I'd think of it as disrespectful to you. Like, you know, prostitution-ish."

"Well, aren't you the gallant knight," I'd sneered. "I appreciate your regard for my tender sensibilities. Because, you know, it's so respectful to engage in a makeout session with me in a dirty college stairwell. Because you're bored."

"Hey!" He'd spread his hands apologetically. "It's your dare. You can back down any time you want, Boyle." The tension had been growing between us, as it had all week long, and both of us were deliciously on edge. I doubt either of us paid any attention to our food, and certainly not to the conversation of our classmates. We'd been across from each other, so he'd been able to watch me; it had given me a thrill to know he found me attractive.

We'd bolted our food and headed off, impatiently waiting for the fat guy from New York to leave first so that we wouldn't be the first ones. It wasn't true that we ran back to the classroom building, precisely. But it's fair to say we covered the ten-minute walk in around eight, going back into the classroom first so that I could drop off my purse. As I'd stood there I'd looked at Scott speculatively; he'd been burrowing in his pocket. "So, um, how do we do this?"

He'd produced a tube of lip balm and raised his eyes up to mine. "What, you want to start in here?"

"No, shitstick," I'd snapped. "But, like, how do we, you know, start? Once we get there?" He'd applied the lip balm, then thoughtfully offered it to me.

"Who knows?" he'd said unhelpfully. "It's been awhile since I had a first date. I guess we'll just find a stairwell and, you know, just... get it on." He'd shrugged. "Might be awkward at first, but we're both grown-ups. I'm sure we'll get the hang of it. Maybe we can start by chatting, or something." He'd gestured toward the door, and I'd followed his lead. "Remember, Boyle, you can back out any time." I'd looked back at him over my shoulder and stuck my tongue out. He'd just laughed.

The bathroom was a few doors down, but we'd strolled past it to the end of the hall. Neither of us had used the stairs before, and that was the whole point of my argument: the stairs were a deserted wasteland, especially in midsummer. The hallway had been college-stark: institutional white, bulletin boards peeling with the faded notices of last semester's bike sales and couch giveaways, an occasional piece of student art or photography; all of it had been very dusty, but then it had been July. The double doors leading to the stairway had stood heavy and cold, the stairwell itself almost unbelievably humid. I'd taken a trip to Belize in college that had been drier, though at least the stairwell was cool.

He'd pushed open the door, his face looking back at me with a strange mix of detachment and warmth, though in fairness the red EXIT sign had been right above him. He'd smiled now, tightly, his eyes searching the hallway behind us. "Ladies first," he'd muttered, and I'd shot through the doorway at ninja speed. The door had whanged shut right behind me as he followed.

The stairs had descended steeply into a concrete pit leading down to the basement, fluorescent light bouncing everywhere. I'd gone down a few steps, then glanced at my watch. "Half an hour left," I'd said nervously. I'd looked around. "Let's go down a landing." I hadn't waited for him, skipping down toward the basement. I'd heard Scott laugh dryly behind me.

"I was going to say," he'd said, "landing or steps?"

"I'm not sitting on these steps," I'd said flatly. I'd just stepped in some gum, after all, old and petrified. The landing had been broad and flat, roughened concrete sweeping around to the final flight of steps to the basement doors at the bottom. They'd been chained. There was noplace further to go, and I'd turned to face Scott as I'd leaned against the cinder-block wall.

He'd approached warily, like I was a raccoon in a trap. His face had softened now, and I'd seen his Adam's apple bob once. "You know," he'd said quietly, "you've made this workshop a whole lot of fun for me."

I'd smiled, excited despite the surroundings. Holy shit, but I liked this guy. "I'm not backing out." My voice had echoed, and I'd smiled coyly. "Twenty-nine minutes, Scott. Gonna chicken out on me?"

He'd smiled, then looked at me in that way, that special way, that way that men look at women when they want them. It had been a long time since my boyfriend had looked at me like that; I wondered how long it had been since Scott had looked at his wife that way. I'd shivered; no point in wondering about that now. I'd tried to act cool. "See? No way will anyone see us here." I'd raised my arms, stretching high, my cropped t-shirt showing a flat 26-year-old belly. "A couple of Nebraska hayseeds could fuck their brains out down here and nobody'd be any the wiser."

He'd smiled, also playing it cool. "What are you saying?" He'd been coming closer, and now he'd casually raised his arms to lean them against the walls next to my head. He'd already had stains under his arms; the humidity in there was a killer. "There's no point to our experiment anymore?" His face had moved close enough that I could smell the alfredo I'd just watched him eat. I'd looked up at him through my lashes.

"Might as well keep going," I'd urged, all husky. My head had swum between his arms. "I mean, since we're here." I'd leaned my head forward off the wall, offering my lips, and he gently closed the distance and met me. We'd settled against each other, breathing deeply through our noses, both completely still. I'd smelled him, so close; my arms were still high, but I'd had a sudden urge to wrap them around his head.

Our first kiss had been light, easy, with no pressure; I'd almost have called it chaste if we hadn't been breathing so hard. It had gone on for a few more seconds before he'd drifted gently back; I hadn't realized his eyes had been closed, but it had thrilled me anyway. He'd looked steadily into my eyes now, and one of his hands had come drifting over to touch my cheek.

"Don't take this the wrong way," he'd said carefully, looking oddly at me, "but you've got incredible lips. I noticed it because, like, it's been awhile since I kissed anyone other than my wife."

"Hmm." I'd leaned in again and laid my mouth softly over his until he'd opened tentatively. My tongue had snaked inside, just for an instant, and then I'd pulled back. A line of saliva had connected us until it broke at about three inches. "You're doing fine," I'd murmured. I'd moved my hands down now, leisurely, weaving my elbows inside his arms so that I could hold him around the middle. I'd always liked a man's waist more than his shoulders; there was more room to play. Watching his reactions with some alertness, I'd let my hands creep down under his shirt to rest against the skin of his ribcage; I hadn't wanted to scare him away.