The Loft Game: Kermit

A little change of pace for me ... just some sexy fun.

Thanks to MsCherylTerra for pointing out a scene that wasn't working and telling me why, to norafares for telling me to stop buying the words "really/actually/definitely" in bulk at Costco, and to the individuals who gave it a read before publication.

—C

"Come to snoop again?" Her tone was like battery acid.

"Sorta." I could see my admission surprised the hell out of her.

"Fuck off!"

I took the plunge. "I don't want to. I lied."

Last night I had been on the basement level of the library. It's easier to study down there because the guys don't troll for women as much as they do up in the reading room. I like guys, but I also like getting good grades and constant "Hello, what's your name?" interruptions don't help.

In theory, I was reading Moby Dick for Lit 101. In reality, I found the book a snooze fest. I was curled up in an armchair and drifting off. I probably hadn't made a sound for over half an hour, and I guess the girl in the next alcove just didn't realize anyone was there. I could only hear one side.

"Hey, Logan. ... Thanks! ... Yeah. ... Pretty wild, huh? ... I told you."

I wasn't paying much attention beyond wishing I could doze undisturbed.

"Come on! Having a guy with his head down there is nice, but you gotta admit, watching some dude turn all red 'cause he's gotta do himself is seriously hot."

What the fuck?

"Well, when it's your choice, be my guest. ... Nah, play long enough and the odds are there even if you suck at it. ... Hey! I'm not saying you suck."

Play what?

I heard a snicker. "Of course, those same odds say you're going to be in the barrel sometime, and guys generally go for the beej."

Holy shit! Up until that last, some part of my mind wondered if I wasn't totally mistaken about the subject of the conversation due to being half-asleep. But now, holy shit!

"We all prefer that! 'Cept maybe Carrie, she's a—" The voice broke off, then suddenly switched from lighthearted to serious. "Don't even go there! You welch, you're out. Period. He wants a show; he gets a show. ... Look, I gotta go. I got a problem set due tomorrow. ... Yeah, see you Friday. ... No, I'm there for the green. I kinda like them too."

I tried to slide off the chair quietly and creep away. It didn't work.

"Are you fucking kidding me!"

I turned and saw her head poking around the corner.

"You were eavesdropping on my conversation? That was private!"

"No, I wasn't." I grabbed my backpack.

She ignored my denial. "What did you hear?" She looked really upset, and as if upset meant taking it out on me.

"N-Nothing." I turned and rushed out. I was afraid she'd follow me. But, as I turned into the stairwell, I could see her glaring at me from down the hall.

To say I spent a restless night was the understatement of the century. After the fear-induced adrenaline wore off, I found myself going over and over what I heard, trying to piece it out, trying to string it into a coherent fantasy.

I'd been relatively celibate since I got here. Relative meaning one hookup after a drunken party during that first month of college freedom; a guy I had no desire to pursue further. My high school boyfriend was history, and as I was reliably informed by frenemies, likely banging someone else. Having a roommate I knew was spending every night with her boyfriend was great for privacy, but sucked for keeping my libido calm when I thought about it.

Now, a ton of erotic images went through my brain as I thought about the fragments I had heard: guys "going for the beej" and "having his head down there." I wasn't always a fan of the first although right guy and right mood and I could get into it, but I didn't know too many girls who didn't like the second. I was horny—not constantly, but evenings or the occasional morning wakeup—and that girl's tone oozing excitement and remembered enjoyment threw a little fuel on the fire.

But the thing that was a worm crawling obsessively through my brain was "... red 'cause he's gotta do himself." As the essays I had to read in history would say: [emphasis added]. That was a picture that I played over and over in my mind.

The thought of some kind of dare or bet—"You welch, you're out"—with stakes like that made my breath catch.

It put a hook in a corner of "me" that I knew was there but had never really peered into. I mean, when my boyfriend and I had checked out pornos, I had liked looking at the guys' bodies almost more than watching the sex. I won't even say how many times I streamed Magic Mike and Magic Mike XXL when he wasn't around and girlfriends were over.

And though I never 'fessed up to him, I had watched, and jilled off to, a few of the fraternity-initiation-type videos on my own, so I knew I found reluctance a turn-on.

But I ran with a pretty discreet crowd even though a number of them were having sex with their boyfriends and girlfriends. Beyond some heavy making out once the vodka shots got going, things were pretty much behind closed doors. I'd never contemplated—seriously at least—taking it from viewing to doing.

It was a long night filled with fingers-in-underwear time.

I took the plunge. "I don't want to. I lied."

I'm not sure how her glare got harsher, but it did. I hurried on. "I heard everything. I'm sorry; I didn't mean to, but I couldn't help it."

"Why didn't you make some noise, let me know you were skulking around?"

"I was half asleep at first. And then—"

"And then what?"

"And then I was too excited," I blurted out, surprising her a second time.

She just stared at me for a small eternity while I got more and more nervous. Finally, she asked, "Who have you told?"

"No one and I'm not going to."

"What's your name?"

"Charlene, but my friends call me just Charl or, sometimes, Chips." I saw a flash of humor cross her face. It was a welcome change from the glare. "What's so funny? It's just a nickname."

She waved it off. "Never mind. Why are you here, Charlene? What do you want?"

"I want to know more about what you were talking about."

"Do you? Why?"

"Because ... I just do."

Again, a long, long, expressionless stare. "Show me your driver's license."

"What?"

"Driver's license. Show it to me now."

Uncomprehending, I pulled it out. She glanced at it. "Jersey girl, huh? Me too. Tom's River." I could see her think for a second: some mental math, as it turned out. "Almost nineteen. I guess that's not a fake then."

"You wanted to know how old I was?"

She ignored my question. "Well, Charlene Maguire, why should I tell you anything?"

I could feel my face getting flushed with embarrassment.

"Well?" she prompted.

I didn't want to blow this; last night had been too charged for me to ignore. "I really want to know."

"I understand you want to know. I got that, but why should I tell you?"

I didn't know what to say. Or rather, I probably did know what to say—the truth—but was too uncomfortable to do it. "Uhh, because we're Jersey girls? You know. Go Boss and all that shit?"

That brought a burst of laughter. "Oh my God! Sit." She gestured across from her. She stood up and peeked around the corner. "Need to check the chair. Never know when some rude person is listening."

I flushed again. "I wasn't deliberately listening," I insisted. I wasn't being rude. She shouldn't have been talking about it where someone could hear if it was so private. Of course, I didn't say any of that last out loud. I wanted, borderline needed, to know what it was all about.

She went back to the staring. I shifted uncomfortably.

"I'll make you a deal, Charlene."

"Okay."

"I'll tell you about what you overheard, answer your questions, on two conditions. First, you don't repeat anything. At least, until you know a lot more about it ... if that day ever comes, which it may not."

"Okay. I promise. You won't have to send the goons after me."

She snorted. "My last name's Frazier and my mom's maiden name was Thompson. I'm not the kind of Jersey girl who knows goons." She turned serious. "If you blab, I just won't like you and won't ever talk to you again. I'm being nice to you; I expect courtesy in return."

I nodded.

"Second ..." Her smile came back. Well, not quite a smile, more a predatory grin. "You have to describe, without stupid euphemisms, exactly what part of the conversation got you excited and, more importantly, what you did about it."

"What?" What the fuck!

"I'd like to hear it. A couple of sentences, that's all, then I'll tell you what you want to know."

"You want to hear me talk about"—I lowered my voice even more—"me and, like, sex? This is you being nice?"

"Actually, yes, this is me being nice. And, yes, it would entertain me to hear you talk about you and, like, sex. Not the sex part per se, but having you agree to do something that makes you uncomfortable."

That was a shot that went right past my defenses and straight into the psyche. I thought about it. I thought about how I had felt last night.

Suck it up, princess!

I could feel the heat of my face. I'm sure it was bright red. "All of it excited me." Before she could throw a "Bullshit Vagueness" penalty flag, I added, "But the part that got to me most was when you said that a guy had to do himself. I thought that meant he had to jerk off in front of you and that excited me."

"It meant exactly that."

I felt the stab again.

She considered my statement, then asked, "Which part of that was the most exciting? The thought of a guy doing that?"

"No, I liked that a lot but," I couldn't look at her face, "it was the 'had to.'"

"Look at me." I forced myself to. "What did you do?"

"I-I took care of things."

"Remember what I said about stupid euphemisms? Look me in the eye and tell me."

"I masturbated until I fell asleep." It came out in a rush and I felt my skin temperature flare to the point that NSA satellites could probably spot it through the building's walls.

"How many times?"

"Oh my fucking God! I don't know. Three? Four?" I was going to melt into the floor.

"Fingers or vibrator?"

"Fingers! Jesus!"

She smiled. "I'm Emily, by the way. My room's 208 in Cuyler Hall. This is no place for me to tell you what you want to know, and I really do need to finish my work. Come by in about two hours and I'll tell you."

"It's a group of us, call it a club if you want, that plays poker. But not for money."

"Like strip poker?"

"Exactly like strip poker."

I thought about that. "But the things you were talking about aren't exactly strip poker."

She shrugged. "Sometimes the stakes are higher."

"So, it's strip poker with an orgy?"

"Nope, absolutely not. There's never been an orgy."

"But—"

She cut me off. "There's no orgy. Sometimes the stakes are higher than nudity, that's all."

"Blowjobs and guys jerking off."

"Yep."

"Are you worried?"

"About being naked? I—"

"No," I interrupted, "about your safety."

She didn't laugh at me. Neither of us was naïve. "No. I know every guy there and there's a lot of trust in the group. It's a good question, but none of us feel like we're going to get raped."

"Who's in this club?"

"I'm not about to tell you names right now."

"Oh. Okay."

She was peering in the small dorm refrigerator. "Kombucha or water? Or I could make chai."

Afternoon tea while discussing perversion. The mental image made me laugh inside.

"Water. How often do you play?"

"Every week."

I didn't know what else to ask, except for the big question. She glanced over her shoulder with that long stare she had patented, waiting for me to say something. The small smirk on her face made me sure she knew where this was headed.

"Can I play?"

"Tell me why." I must have made a face. "I'm not asking to bust your chops this time, I just want to know why."

She handed me a bottle of water. "You know," she said, "I wasn't just being a bitch earlier. I mean, yeah, I did get a little charge out of making you tell me but, mostly, I wanted to see if you had the balls to embarrass yourself. If you didn't, there'd be no point to this conversation." She paused to let that sink in. It made total sense. "So, why?"

"Because a naked guy isn't a bad thing." We smiled together. "Because watching them get that way in—" I struggled for the words to express myself. "Not in the heat of some rando hookup where clothes are coming off but just ... just as a turn-on for me to watch is even better."

"Sometimes it's a girl."

"Even if it's a girl ..." In the two hours I'd had to kill before coming here, I'd admitted the answer to myself. "It's not just the visual. It's the thought of someone having to do it ... it turns me on. And I think watching the guys watch the girl might be exciting."

I looked at her to see if I was making sense. The little twitch of her lips seemed to say, "I get you." She considered me for another long moment.

"And, if you're the one who had to pay up, to walk naked with some guy to a back room for a blowjob while everyone catcalls, say?"

"I'd probably die of humiliation, but— Actually, no probably about it. I'd die, but ..."

"But?"

"I think the risk might be a part of the thrill."

She reached over and high-fived me. "To quote Paul Newman," she said, "'Money won is twice as sweet as money earned.' What are you doing Friday?"

If I said I almost backed out of going Friday, I'd be lying. I thought about backing out at least a dozen times over the next few days, mostly during the calm, rational hours of being in class. But that was just my mind playing debate team. In the privacy of my room, away from the public, I knew I was going.

She'd clued me in on the basics on the drive over. That was after she asked me, "Wearing sexy undies?"

No one knew me, so until they were comfortable, I'd be playing in what they called a green game, basic strip poker. "Maybe never anything else. Everyone has to trust you, or you get blackballed. Some people never make it past green. And don't mention you've heard of the other."

I nodded agreement.

There'd be at least one other newbie, a guy. They kept the number of men and women balanced. If they didn't, "You gotta know there'd be a zillion guys looking to see tits." Since we girls were the limiting factor, they were more lenient about taking a chance on us. Guys had to be already really well-known to a member or two to find out about it.

"What if someone quits?"

"It gets rebalanced when someone meets a good candidate. No one gets kicked out once they're in. Well," she added, "unless they fuck up."

I looked at her questioningly.

"They'll go over the rules before you start." She pulled over to the curb in front of a small bungalow with a detached garage. A high fence and hedge surrounded the back. "The game is in the loft above the garage." She hesitated and then said, "Hey, Charlene—"

"Can you please call me Charl or even Chips? And, yes, I get the joke now. Charlene makes me feel like my mother."

She grinned. "Anyway, I like you, Jersey. So, let me give you a little advice on one of the rules. Everyone starts equal but they're going to explain a thing called Girl's Hat."

"Okaaay ..." I wasn't sure where this was going.

"They'll explain," she repeated. "Anyway, you decide if you want to play that way. Some girls do, some don't. But I just want you to know that girls that play by the same rules as the guys get some unspoken props down the road. Your choice."

I was in the dark about what she meant but nodded.

We headed up the flight of stairs from the driveway and added our shoes into the pile in the mudroom at the entrance before stepping inside.

It was big enough to cover the whole two-car garage. There was the side entrance we came in and one on the other side; I guess it led down into the yard. The main room had a couch and a couple of armchairs, a kitchenette, a TV. It was dominated, however, by the table in the center with wooden chairs around it.

Toward the back were three doors. "Bathroom, if you gotta pee," Emily said, pointing to the one on the left. "The guys actually try to aim, if you can believe it. Maybe 'cause we make them clean it." She pointed to the others. "Closet. And that's just a small room we use." I remembered her question about walking to a back room ... well, not in this particular game, but still ... and felt a little frisson.

I got introduced as, "Charlene Maguire, a frosh who goes by Chips," getting the predictable laugh out of six other people.

"Grab a seat," Owen called out. "Okay," he said, looking at me and Josh, the new guy. "The first rule of the Loft Game is the same as the first rule of Fight Club ..."

He waved his hands like a conductor as everyone chanted in unison, "You do not talk about Fight Club."

He smiled. "Obviously, that's not completely true or we'd never get any new members, but for now, that's Rule Numero Uno. Break it and you're history.

"The second rule of the Loft Game is no phones. If we even suspect that maybe, possibly you took a picture, even outside the door, you're history. Either of you bring one?" We both shook our heads. Emily had told me to leave it in my room.

"The third rule is that suggestive remarks and good-humored teasing are okay but anything making fun of someone's body is an absolute no–no. I mean anything! You even hint a girl's got a fat ass or a guy's not as big as you're used to, you're history.

"The fourth rule is, you cheat, you're history. That's it; four rules. Questions?"

We shook our heads.

"Okay, logistics. You can quit at absolutely any time. Everything that goes on in the game is consensual. Always. No exceptions. You can even quit after you lose if you don't want to pay up." That raised our newbie eyebrows. "But you probably won't ever be allowed back. Just say, 'I'm out,' put on any clothes you've lost, and head out. No harsh words and nothing will come back on you around campus. It's a thing with us; call it the club's version of the Honor Code."

I could see the sincerity in his expression and caught tiny nods from one or two others around the table.

"The game goes until someone is naked. They pay the forfeit, which I'll get to in a sec. Then it's over until next week.

"There's an optional thing we call Girl's Hat. It's because topless for you is a bigger deal than topless for the guys. If you want it, then you get an extra piece of clothing. And full disclosure: that means girls get stripped all the way and lose less often than the guys. Some guys don't think it's fair but dems da rules.

"But!" He held up a finger. "There's a downside. If you take advantage and lose the game, then you put your arms around the neck of each guy in the game and give them a nice, long kiss. Their hands can't touch any of your naughty bits and, don't worry, every single person here will enforce that.

"However," he grinned as did every guy at the table except Josh, "your back is fair game and I promise you my hands will be pulling you in tight for that kiss and, hopefully, I'll have already lost my shirt so I get full boob action."

Every eye at the table glanced at me: some at my face to see my reaction, but I did notice a couple of the guys dropping their eyes speculatively to my chest. I hope I didn't look self-conscious at that—yeah, right—since, as the only new girl here, I was who he was talking to. "No," I said, wishing my voice didn't shake a little as I said it, "same as you guys."