Sumer is Icumen In, Innit?

(Note to Readers: This is an entry in the Summer Lovin' Story Contest 2023. All characters are over 18 years old. The sex is consensual, and I doubt that it would trigger anyone. Enjoy!)

***

High summer had arrived, and the air conditioning in Alfred's apartment struggled to keep the place below 85 Fahrenheit. Days ago, he had tried to think of that as 29 Celsius, but that didn't make him feel less besieged by the heat and humidity. As he worked to organize his research for the academic paper he had to submit in four days, Alfred was distracted by more than the sweat starting to bead at his hairline. Most of the year, what he chose to refer to as 'unfocused sexual desire' was below the threshold of disturbing him.

Not so, in summer.

He shifted in his chair, trying to avert the discomfort of what he called 'genital expansion.' Fleeting images of attractive women bloomed in his brain.

His glasses started to slide downward. He knuckled the nosepiece up to the bridge, where it wouldn't stay for long. Demanding that he focus on his work and exercise his intellect, Alfred examined the image in a rectangle on his laptop screen. It was a blurry block of text, of the lyrics of the ancient song Sumer Is Icumen In. He had found this document in an archive in Canada. It had gone unnoticed since its delivery there from England, with other secular song sheets, in the late 18th century. Alfred was proud of having unearthed it, and of adding it to the materials which (he believed) supported his conclusions on the transition from Middle English, in which the song was composed in the 13th century, to Modern English, as shown in later transcriptions. The song had been written down, and later printed, in so many different years, that Alfred found that the song showed a chronology in the changes of spelling and usage, as the early language transformed into the current one.

It was difficult for him to enjoy his pride, however, because this seemed to increase his genital expansion.

He typed two paragraphs of Academese, adding three footnotes and linking them to the main text. He did this, despite having to rise slightly from his chair.

His phone chimed.

Alfred almost lost his grip on the phone as he lifted it from a pants pocket. Partly obscured by his thumb on the screen was the name "W. Granville." A storm of disconnected thoughts whizzed through his brain: His shyness//The obligation of phone talk//His acquaintance with a woman//A colleague doing entirely different work from the same basic material//Her brown hair which always seemed askew in different ways//His annoyance at the interruption.

In the time it took him to draw breath, however, Alfred regained his higher faculties, and his social skills, such as they were.

"Hello Willa."

"Yes Alfred thanks for picking up," came Willa's voice, sounding rushed. "Is the Rhode Island packet at your place?"

Alfred scowled. "Yes."

"Are you working with it right now?"

"Give me a moment," he said, hoping he didn't sound peevish. He was fairly certain that the papers to the left of his laptop, in their clear plastic liners, did not include what Willa sought. Yet he still put on clean white gloves and carefully lifted the papers, one at a time, and scanned them through a magnifying glass. He then set down the magnifier and picked up the phone. "Not at present. It's boxed up."

"May I come over and check some things? I'll be done in an hour."

Alfred stifled a sigh. Three Departments at Yale--Linguistics, English History, and American History--had agreed to support the researches of Dr. Ellicott and Dr. Granville. Each scholar had found, and contributed to Yale, original materials related to Sumer Is Icumen In. Matters were confused further, because the School of Music got involved. As part of the agreement among all parties, the researchers were allowed to remove some of these materials temporarily from the Yale archive, to work with them from home. A pandemic-era policy was still in effect. Alfred believed that the real reason was to deny him and Willa the use of private offices on campus.

Either Alfred or Willa could take materials home. Alfred, however, was the only occupant of his apartment, while Willa had two roommates. They agreed, and Yale approved, that Alfred's apartment would be the only off-campus location for centuries-old original documents, to be studied when photostats, PDFs, and other reproductions wouldn't suffice.

This made Alfred's life much easier. Except when he had to open his living space to another human.

"Very well," said Alfred, at once regretting his use of snooty formality. "Any time today." Then, as a peace offering, "Shall I make coffee?"

"I'll bring, thanks." The call ended.

He was miffed at her brusqueness. Then, in her defense, he recalled that she was familiar with his coffee.

***

When Alfred opened the door, Willa breezed in without making eye contact, and said, "Just need to pin down the difference between the letter from England and the notes by the planners for the conservatory." Her covered flask of coffee was in one hand, and her other hand dug into her shoulder-strapped purse for her own white gloves. Like Alfred, Willa lived on the outskirts of New Haven, and therefore of Yale, and therefore of Academia.

When Willa was present, she and Alfred stayed apart. They respected each other's space, even in this tiny one-bedroom. He tolerated this departure from his comfort zone (which he defined as 'alone'). But now it was summer, and Alfred found himself...responding...to Willa's presence, in a way he didn't want to admit.

Willa went directly to the stack of boxes on the coffee table and gathered one. She took it to the kitchenette, and set herself up on the small table. She was in lecture mode. "Roger Williams surely had his flaws, but he was sincere about hoping to build a community less oppressive than the one in Massachusetts Bay Colony. The people who came to Rhode Island clearly agreed. In 1703, this group actually welcomed music that was entirely secular."

Alfred found himself staring at her. She appeared as she almost always did, in a loose t-shirt and jeans, with a tattoo on each forearm (a circular, 'tail-eating' serpent, and an 'impossible' Escher drawing). Her light brown hair, in what may have once been a shag cut, spread in various directions. Her plain face was adorned only with sunscreen.

Alfred controlled his breathing. He was unable to do that to his heartbeat.

"Um, I'll leave you to it," he said, and retreated to his office space in the bedroom.

Five minutes later, stuck in mid-paragraph, Alfred knew that he'd accomplish nothing more while Willa was here. Not her fault. His. As it had been since his adolescence.

The song, of which he had heard countless performances, didn't help. Sumer Is Icumen In was written in both Latin, with religious content, and also in the English of the time, as a joyous, secular paean to the triumphant return of raucous life, after the quiet agony of winter. Merye sing cuccu, cuccu, cuccu! Merry meant the same thing now as it had in the earlier spelling: The state of enjoying pleasure, in body as well as spirit.

Alfred's penis thickened.

Several slow breaths stalled that process.

Even at his most addled, Alfred would never make an unwanted advance to anyone. He and Willa had shared mutual respect ever since their first online contacts showed how their work across different disciplines could benefit them both. This continued after they met in person, and after their pitches to Yale encouraged them to move to New Haven, where the high visibility of their scholarship would likely gain them good faculty positions at reputable colleges.

Alfred and Willa seemed to have little in common personally. Even a cordial professional relationship with a woman was unique for Alfred.

Alfred hoped, however, that today's phase of the relationship would end as soon as possible.

Hesitantly, he stepped into the kitchen, hoping that Willa was nearly finished. "How's it going?"

Willa didn't look up from the document she studied. "Maybe ten more minutes."

"I, um, appreciate that you're trying to keep it quick."

"More than that," she said with an edge in her voice. "I've had to ditch another boyfriend. The anger makes me rush things."

He said nothing. His brain spun another spate of disconnected thoughts://Don't make her angrier//A woman in my apartment//She's unattached now//Twenty-six years old, like me//My work stalled//She's unhappy//Seems to break up often//I need to be alone//I need her to stay.

He realized that these thoughts were, in fact, connected.

The last thought worried him.

Feeling the need to say something, he produced, "Uh, sorry to hear that."

"Not your problem." She picked up her flask and gulped from it.

He clammed up. She had given him both permission for that, and a warning about saying any more.

He considered returning to his office, even if he couldn't accomplish anything there.

Before he could move, Alfred saw Willa's face change from blank to taut.

"Damnit!" she said, and pounded her fist on the table.

"Uh, what, uh--" said Alfred, dithering.

Willa slumped back in her chair. "Sorry." She turned to face him. "How do you do it, Alfred? Keep your passion only on your work?"

He had no idea how to respond. Yes, he focused eagerly on his work, he believed in its importance, but it wasn't as though he didn't, couldn't, have other passions.

Especially in summer.

But those passions had never found a partner.

He said, "I guess things just happen that way." Realizing that he carried an empty coffee cup, he turned to prepare a refill.

"It's not like I cared much about him," said Willa, sounding frustrated. "I just wanted us to keep having the same kind of fun. Why did he have to keep pushing?"

Alfred definitely didn't want to hear more about this. But even instant coffee isn't instantaneous.

"Are you happy, Alfred? The way you are?"

Even worse.

"I'm okay," he said, still looking away, hoping his voice tone was bland and affectless, as it so often was.

Two seconds passed.

"Really?"

He dared to glance over his shoulder. She was looking at him. She didn't appear upset.

He said, "So, you think you can finish up now?"

"Soon," she said, in a sort of slow drawl. She sat up in the chair, relaxed yet alert. "You know, you have a really nice butt."

He gripped the countertop, as his dork bloomed merrily to full erection.

He again looked over his shoulder, hoping she wouldn't see his front side. He hissed angrily, "Do you really need to do this?"

Her eyes popped. "Uh, no, I don't need to. I admit, though, I wanted to. I've never flirted with you before. But, I'll keep my sexual frustration to myself."

"Thank you."

"If that's what you really want."

He exhaled harshly. Forgetting his physical state, he spun to face her and said, "What do you want, Willa? Some recluse who has no idea how to relate to people? How soon would you ditch him?"

She paused, eyes on his. Then she said, "Touche, Alfred."

He nodded, then poured coffee that was finally ready.

"Are you always called Alfred?" she asked, from what seemed like academic curiosity. "What did your friends call you, when you were a kid? Al? Fred? Alfie?"

"Just Alfred," he said. He sipped coffee, hoping to avoid the subjects of his youth, and his acquaintances. He settled for, "People thought it was unusual, I guess."

She chuckled. "I can't get my name below two syllables. At least it's less cumbersome than Wilhelmina."

He joined in her quiet laugh. It shook his midsection slightly. And his trunk. Tightened fabric waggled around his crotch. He saw that, and knew she did also.

Willa stood, eyes twinkling at the sight of his condition. "I'm willing to take that as a compliment. If that's what you really want."

An abject apology tried to tumble from his lips, but so did an accusation that she had caused his tumescence, through her teasing. Yet the moments they had spent together over several months, sharing their thoughts and insights, reminded Alfred that Willa wasn't mean-spirited. There had been times, from autumn to spring, when he had truly enjoyed her company, and worked at making the times worthwhile for her also.

He read her smile as gentle and friendly, if also amused.

"If that is what I really want," he said, close to smiling, "May I take that as an invitation?"

She cocked her head slightly, intrigued. "Yes, Alfred, you may. We could have a chat about that. Could I please have some of your dreadful coffee?"

Alfred and Willa sat side by side, not touching, on the sofa in his front room.

"I'll need to learn about you," said Willa. "You're not exactly an open book."

He was more anxious about talking than touching. But he said, "True."

"You probably know as much as you need, about me." She drank from her filled flask, and only winced a little. "I'm open about sex, but I respect a partner's privacy. I'm not some wanton maypole dancer, singing the song about summer that scared and outraged the Puritans. I'm very careful about my health and safety. I need at least to be well-acquainted with a man before I consider hooking up." She took an obviously dramatic pause, then smiled at him. "I think you and I could become well-acquainted."

He finally, fully, realized what might be about to happen. He feared that panic would erupt in his mind, or certain parts of his body. He tried not to fidget, and failed. He thought he smiled at what she said, but maybe not in a way she expected. Her smile was replaced by a worried look.

She decided not to seek a similar sex-life policy statement from him. Instead she asked, "What do you enjoy, Alfred?"

"Um...kissing?"

Now Willa looked confused. "You're not sure?"

He knew he couldn't keep delaying this. If he just claimed disinterest and urged her to leave, she might be hurt.

"No, I'm not," he said quietly. "I, uh, don't really know anything about this."

Her brows rose. "About...?" She cleared her throat, then spoke as quietly as he had. "Alfred, I know you're shy. But is this really embarrassing?"

He gave her an anxious look, and nodded.

"Because you haven't ever...?"

He nodded again.

Willa said, "Oh."

Alfred thought she wasn't sure whether to believe him.

Then she asked, "Should I leave you alone, then?"

"Oh no," he said, at normal volume. "I'd like, um, us being together. Only, like I said, I don't know..."

She put a hand on his. "Can you talk about it?"

He slumped against the back cushion. Anxiety was replaced by his lifelong frustration. "It's...annoying! When I was, uh, maturing, I didn't feel excited about sex. I wasn't good-looking, and nobody took an interest in me, so I let it slide. It seemed like I was better off than the kids who got hopelessly horny.

"My indifference led some kids, who never called me 'Al' or 'Fred,' to call me 'Numbnuts.' But this only lasted during the school year. In the summer, I did get horny. But school was out, and I didn't know many girls my age, and I had no reason to think they were aware of me. When autumn came, my body settled down, and at least I could relax. Then, the next summer, I got horny again. I was like a werewolf, only instead of every full moon, I howled for about three months a year." He paused, then forced himself to add, "Or like a throwback, to some creature with a rutting season.

"The family doctor thought this was just a maturation phase. But I never, ah, grew out of it. My parents insisted that they'd never felt the way I did. Yet I couldn't help but think that I wasn't alone. And that maybe someone in 13th Century England expressed it by writing a song."

Willa smirked. "Which probably came from pagan sources that were much older."

"Anyway, the combination of ingredients have prevented me from experiencing...um, the merye singing of cuccu."

"What did you do, all summer?"

He side-eyed her. "I'm a male human. What do you think I did? And, because of what's available to a modern human, I learned about what I was missing."

"Pornography isn't valid information."

"I understand that." He looked at Willa. He was surprised by how his unburdening had calmed him. He smiled. "Can you show me some validity?"

"I'll try," she said. "Will you be okay with kissing?"

"I think so."

"And could we, like, hold each other?"

"Oh yes! If that's okay."

She suppressed a laugh. "Let's start. I'll let you know if it isn't okay."

He raised his hands, without them shaking, and directed his arms past her torso, one on each side. Willa did roughly the same, and leaned towards him.

Alfred shuddered as the embrace converged. Willa froze, and tried to read him. "Problem?" she asked.

"N-no!" he huffed. "It's delightful! You feel so...so..."

"I'll accept 'soft' and 'welcoming.' Once you can hold still, you can be 'secure' and 'reassuring.'"

That took him past the panic. Slowly he closed his arms around her back, and pressed her body to his. Amid the thrills he felt, he tried not to infer too much. Did her calm acceptance of his touch, truly mean that she would receive more attention from him? Did the firm contact of her hands and arms on him, truly mean that she wanted access to more of him?

She put a hand on a stem of his glasses. "From here on," she said, carefully pulling away his specs, "we'll be close enough for you to relish the sight of my dazzling beauty."

"Don't be sarcastic," he said, almost drooling at the thought of seeing and touching her flesh.

"Just partly," she said, bringing her lips to his.

He trembled as the kiss began. Her fingertips stroked his jawline, and his lips spread smoothly on hers. Before their mouths could open jointly, he brought his right hand up and stroked her hair. Now it was her turn to tremble. "Exactly right!" she cooed.

Then their tongues began jousting. She backed up. "Easy there. I intend to keep using these teeth."

"Sorry," he said. "I hate that you have to treat me like a newbie."

"It's all right," she said, patting the back of his neck. Then she drew upright. "No, more than all right! I'm honored to do this with you! To be your first! You're a decent man, Alfred, and you should have sex, and share pleasure with partners!"

He was agog as he looked at her. "Sarcasm?" he asked.

She seemed surprised at herself. Then she barked a laugh, and said "Not a shred!" Then she lunged at him and drove her tongue to the back of his.

Her hands met at his top shirt button. She had opened to his navel when she ended the kiss. "You doing okay?"

He knew what she meant. "It's big, and excited, and feels very good, but what's mostly happening is a three-digit heart rate."

She yanked his shirt tails aside. "Your turn, Dr. Ellicott." She arched her back, and her bosom leaned her t-shirt at him.

He gasped with shivers, but his hands were steady as his fingers curled under the hem of her green tee. She raised her arms straight up, with a droll smile.

Every sensation was precious to him. The stretch of the cotton. His knuckles grazing her ribs. The resistance of what was revealed to be a plain gray brassiere. As her face vanished behind the fabric she said, "You know how to finish the move?"

With a grin, he flipped the shirt above and beyond her right hand, while his right hand descended to her back. He couldn't unfasten the bra one-handed, but with both he parted the three hooks smoothly.

"Well done!" she declared as he brought the straps along her arms, now straight out from her body. "You sure you've never been to second base?"