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Archive name: wesleyan.txt
Authors name: Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com)
Story title : Wesleyan Partners

--------------------------------------------------------
This work is copyrighted to the author © 2004.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story.  You may post freely to non-commercial
"free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites.
Thank you for your consideration.
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Wesleyan Partners
by Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com)

***

To everything there is a season. Physicians should 
never self-diagnose and attorneys, never represent 
themselves. So an author saying that this is her 
favorite to date probably isn’t that smart. But if I 
were smart, I wouldn’t be a writer. Come be one of us 
at Wesleyan. (MF, rom, 1st)

***

AUTHOR'S NOTES

Society spends a lot of effort belittling kids who 
delay having sex. We say it's about personal choice 
because we're liberal, and then let MTV dictate.

Come be one of us at Wesleyan.

PREFACE

I was twelve and knew. He'd slapped me twice, but I 
wasn't crying from that. I wasn't even crying from the 
pain. I was crying because I was going to die.

My parents, the nurse at the hospital and the 
policewoman were the only ones with whom I ever talked 
about it. The officer was nice, but they never caught 
the man. I was glad, as I'd have had to talk some more.

It's a long time not to talk.

WESLEYAN

Some of my classmates went to places like Ohio State or 
Purdue, but Wesleyan was right for me. Smaller classes; 
Dad researched the statistics. Safer, my Mom's prod. 
Both true, but from the perspective of a 20-year-old, 
also more fun. Hayes Hall was definitely the place to 
live, not in some snotty sorority. We did stuff as 
dormies, made popcorn, bought a six-pack one time. A 
half-can was enough to give me a hangover, sort of a 
headache, anyway. People who think Wesleyan's pretty 
straight can think that, if they wish.

Junior year was when I'd have to decide between English 
and History. Or even a double major if I chose enough 
classes that counted both ways. Maybe I'd go to 
graduate school in American Literature, but if I did 
that, wouldn't it be smart to have the background in 
American History? Keep thinking ahead.

The problem with Liberal Arts, of course, is that it's 
liberal. Science, for example: a full year of 
something. In my opinion, a semester of Intro to 
Astronomy, followed by, say, Intro to Environmental 
Awareness is "Liberal". But something both 101 and 102? 
Punishment.

The survivable sequence was Chemistry. I'd aced it in 
high school and everybody said that Chem 101 was the 
same material, balancing chemical equations and 
learning to use graduated cylinders. 101 would bring 
back what I'd learned in high school and I'd be more-
or-less set for 102. I'd memorize my notes, of course, 
and probably hardly jeopardize my grade-point. But who 
really cares about valences?

I probably should have knocked off science my Freshman 
year, but what Freshman thinks ahead? It's, where's the 
bookstore?

Plan of Study: Chem 101, Fall Semester. Chem 102, 
Spring. Science requirement, goodbye.

But the first 101 lecture made me realize how old I 
was. I'd just come from "Writing in Postmodern World". 
Really interesting and there were Seniors taking it 
too! I'd hardly known an author in the reading list, 
and I read a lot! Postmodern would be so much fun!

Then this! Almost everybody in the Chemistry lecture 
was an underclassperson. (Not "underclassman". Wesleyan 
women are not "men". Am I already a postmodern writer? 
Maybe not, as I see I said "Freshman" a couple of 
paragraphs earlier. )

The smirks of fellow note-takers when the professor 
defined "chemistry" dispelled my hope of academic 
advantage. Half these kids were probably just out of AP 
class last year. I wrote down the definition, "the 
branch of natural science dealing with the composition 
of substances, their properties and reactions." She'd 
probably ask it in a test.

At least the text appeared to emphasize current issues. 
Global warming, reproductive health in Africa and 
aquaculture merited mention in the first chapter. No 
electrons, though they'd be coming. When I thumbed up 
to the diagram of Nitrogen doing different things with 
Oxygen, it looked sort of familiar.

*****

Lab was once per week. The first order of business was 
safety: Safety glasses; Reagent labels; Never suck a 
pipette; How to light a Bunsen burner; Excess chemicals 
don't go down the drain. Maybe I should have tried 
Astronomy, I wondered? Telescopes are pretty safe and a 
lot less boring.

Only at the end of the session were we told to pair up 
for locker assignment.

I looked around for a girl, realizing too late that the 
candidates were vaporizing. By the time I'd figured out 
that much, it was down to me and a guy in a red and 
white Wesleyan sweatshirt. Why would anybody wear one 
to class? He was still looking around the room.

Well, it's just once a week, I figured. "Need a 
partner?"

When he looked at me, I saw it. It's not something most 
people catch, because they don't know. It's your flash 
of relief when you realize that you're not totally 
alone. You got chosen, at least this time. If you're 
not alone a lot of the time, you wouldn't know it. It's 
not about being where nobody else is. It's about even 
if they're there.

"Sure. I mean if you need one."

"Why not?" It wasn't as if we had much choice. "I'm 
JoAnne." Being a Junior made me a little more socially 
adept.

"I'm Arthur," sticking out his hand as probably his 
parents instructed him. "At least I had this stuff last 
year," he added, "You?"

"Three years ago and never thought of it since," I 
admitted as we headed toward an open bench.

"No sweat. So how come you're in here," acknowledging 
my seniority.

"English major," seeing no reason to note that it might 
be History too.

"Pre-med," he confessed. "My Dad's a doctor."

"Cool." My dad sells Ford tractors, but I didn't say 
it.

"I guess," his halfhearted response, then changing the 
subject. "Know Barbara Kingsolver?"

He read her? "Absolutely. You wouldn't want to study 
American Literature if you just had to study Washington 
Irving."

"I sorta feel like she's writing about me, in my head, 
I mean." He paused, probably remembering that I was in 
English. "But maybe I missed some stuff."

"Prof. Gillespie uses her in Creative Writing. You see 
how her characters make each other real."

"But my dad's a doctor," explained my Lab partner as we 
practiced titration for the instructor check-off. He 
looked around. "You got a calculator? We can figure out 
how much of this stuff we'll use and just write that 
many milliliters in our books. Not exactly, just 
close."

Arthur seemed sort of like whom you'd want for a Lab 
partner.

"I bought one for this class. It says it does 
exponents," I was pleased to reveal. I wasn't that sure 
Chemistry used exponents, but it didn't cost any more.

My acquaintance indicated his sweatshirt. "Need my lab 
coat so I don't mess it up. Graduation present, free 
from this place for doing early admission."

Maybe once a week in Lab would be enough, I realized. A 
Junior wouldn't in a million years admit she'd done 
early admissions.

*****

The semester chugged along, Chemistry Lab being a 
manageable part: "Formula of a Metal Oxide", "An 
Equilibrium Constant", "LeChatelier's Principle". Not 
that I understood LeChatelier, but I'm pretty good at 
reading. Chemistry was just a requirement, nothing 
related to my life.

But maybe I liked Lab just a little bit. Lab was where 
we'd do something more than take notes and balance 
electrons and protons. Lab was where we'd see things 
happen.

"Partners" was how the instructor named us, not our 
doing. All it meant was that we did a job together. But 
Arthur's being there was a thing I came to appreciate. 
Doing something together is more than doing nothing 
alone, if that makes sense. Arthur and I were good 
partners, taking our turns measuring and note-taking, 
adjusting the flame, washing our glassware. Despite his 
insight into fabrication of believable results, we 
always did the whole experiment to make sure we had the 
technique. We'd always wear our safety glasses.

And maybe he didn't mind my presence. Sometimes it's 
just nice to have someplace to go, knowing that 
somebody's counting on you to do your half.

Once Arthur brought two brownies. We might get hungry 
"waiting for the precipitate." Why was that so funny? 
His mom had sent the brownies by mail, a mom-type 
thing. I ate mine, even if it was a bit dry, and told 
him we could maybe brew herbal tea in a beaker. But we 
didn't want to jeopardize our grade, the instructor 
being serious about glassware.

One time we were recording temperatures to see if 
energy was being released ("Exothermic", the answer to 
a certain quiz question) and I ended up with Arthur's 
pen, one of those ballpoints that make you want to 
doodle.

"How 'bout you keep it and write a story about 
Chemistry someday."

Anyway, I kept the pen. Nobody had every just given me 
their pen before. Birthday presents, sure, but not 
their good pen. ("Nobody" and "their" are grammatically 
incongruent, according to Prof. Stewart, but an 
acceptable alternative to "his or her". Want a fun 
assignment? Inclusive Hemingway! I got a 94.)

I put the pen in the inner pocket of my backpack where 
I'd not lose it. How'd anybody write a story about 
Chemistry? Na plus Cl makes salt.

"Thanks," I replied, rather pleased. "So here, you keep 
my yellow highlighter, then." I couldn't think of why 
he'd need it, but suddenly I wanted him to have 
something of mine.

He didn't ask why, just seemed pleased as well.

*****

We were converting a carbonate to a chloride, according 
to the handout, when Arthur and I bumped, an accident 
on both our parts, me leaning to get the flask, him 
reaching for the stirring rod. It couldn't have been 
more than a second.

But it didn't take the second for me to jerk away, so 
quickly, in fact, that I nearly spilled the solution.

It took Arthur more than the second to register my 
reflex. By the time he linked having accidentally 
bumped my breast and its consequence, I was appallingly 
embarrassed. JoAnne once more the fool!

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize..." he volunteered.

"My fault. I wasn't..." interrupting to erase the 
moment. "I don't think I spilled any," I assured, maybe 
just assuring myself that it was already behind me.

Arthur started to say something more, then tried to get 
me to smile. "They wouldn't want a klutz like me mixing 
up the formula for a Plutonium bomb."

He must think I'm a real jerk!

Leaving Lab, though, I guess I felt I owed Arthur 
something. It wasn't his fault. "Sorry about that, me 
being weird."

"It's not weird to want your space. Everybody does."

I thought about it. My space?

He must have guessed what I was thinking. He could have 
just done the easy thing and not helped me put on my 
backpack, me being apparently big into some kind of 
personal space fixation.

But I guess he saw the strap was twisted.

*****

Wesleyan's not that big a campus, but it's big enough 
to fade to where people who see you didn't really see 
you. But when someone sees you every week, you get seen 
more often.

I'd be climbing the steps to Appleton Hall and down 
would race Arthur. "Hi, JoAnne," rushing onward to 
wherever Freshmen rush to. They don't know to work out 
efficient schedules.

Or in the Library. There would be Arthur laden with 
atlases. "Hey, JoAnne. I'm parked up by the fire exit. 
Plenty of space if you want to spread out." I'd follow 
and we might share little more than, "Gotta go. See 
you," when the time came.

Or in Chemistry lecture. Arthur liked sitting up 
towards the left. We'd even sit side-by-side so I could 
check his notes for the +'s and -'s on the ions. I'd 
had lectures in that hall before, but sat wherever, not 
by a partner.

Sometimes I'd get to Appleton a little too early and be 
on the steps. "Hey, Arthur. Fire's that-a way!"

The thing about Wesleyan is that it can sort of work 
out to see somebody a few times per week.

*****

It was heading into the corridor after lecture that 
Arthur noted the looming midterm. We might want to 
drill each other on at least the inevitable vocabulary.

I guess it was all the hype about "inclusiveness" that 
sparked my suggestion that we study in the Women's 
Center. It's probably the most comfortable lounge on 
campus. I'd go there a lot and almost decided one time 
that maybe I could talk to someone about when I was 
twelve. But all the posters were about more important 
issues.

Arthur balked, but I told him it was "Women's Center" 
in its name, but it's about removing boundaries. None 
of the women in the inner sanctum had nerve enough to 
expel us. Maybe they thought he was a journalism 
student. Actually, I kind of liked knowing they were 
pissed off, that maybe we'd interrupted a discussion of 
menopause, or whatever. I didn't tell Arthur, though.

They invented this place to empower girls like me, so 
they love to say. And here I am getting empowered by 
waltzing a guy right into their Goddess study area! I 
hoped Arthur didn't mind pictures of women giving 
birth. He says he's going to be a doctor.

We ran through the vocabulary until we knew the 
definitions cold. Me, literally; Arthur, conceptually. 
Having assured one another that we were first-class 
chemists by midterm criteria, at least, we pulled 
ourselves up to go.

But Arthur wanted to add something. "I'm really glad 
we're Lab partners, JoAnne. It's kinda fun sometimes, 
even." Did the Georgia O'Keefe posters empower him too? 
I wouldn't think so.

Well, shoot, Arthur, I thought, it's kind of fun for 
me, too. But so what? I countered. We're just Lab 
partners. It's good to know with whom you'll be 
working, that he knows what the experiment's about and 
does his share at cleanup. It just made good sense.

But my voice outpaced my analysis. "Arthur, that's so 
sweet!" Why did I say that? Sure, he's a nice person, 
but why'd he be sweet? To me, anyway?

But, damn it! (And I never swear like that, but I know 
that's exactly how it flashed through my brain.) It was 
sweet what he said and he is sweet and it's OK to know 
it.

But where do you go after you admit to someone that 
he's sweet.

When he helped with my backpack, I know I protracted 
that extra instant when his hand was between the strap 
and my shoulder. My space.

*****

I suppose most real dating starts out seeing enough of 
someone to decide to make it more deliberate. In my 
case, though, Dating 101 (what we called it in the 
dorm) was more of a theoretical issue. I hadn't done 
much lab-work, so to speak, unless you count Methodist 
Youth Fellowship outings. In high school, I'd always 
been super busy with things like Yearbook to even 
notice that the Prom was coming.

At Wesleyan, there was always lots to do around the 
dorm on weekends. Maybe some of us would go out to a 
movie. Maybe we'd order a pizza. Once we even had a 
sleepover in the hallway, which makes no sense, which 
was why it was so fun.

Besides, I was two years older than Arthur. Besides, I 
was really busy with my reading lists. Besides, I 
probably knew so much about Barbara Kingsolver that I'd 
bore him to death. Juniors don't date Freshmen.

So when Arthur asked me if I wanted to watch the 
women's volleyball game, I said, "Yes" before he got to 
"game". I should have at least asked whom we were 
playing, but I'd already accepted.

Maybe he'd figured I'd be busy or something, or at 
least have some convoluted response, because the 
brevity of my acceptance left him with no more follow-
up than a sheepish grin.

Probably that's how I looked, too, except it probably 
wasn't sheepish.

Wesleyan's the "Battling Bishops". Tall girls diving 
for saves are Bishops? It's possible one or two of them 
will become Bishops in the United Methodist Church 
(almost obligatory, to make up for historical 
imbalance, they argue), but basically it's a bad name.

We won, even!

And every girl on my floor knew that I got asked out 
and did things like giving me high-fives in the hallway 
and nobody cared if he was a Freshman.

*****

The walk to the football stadium (Homecoming against 
league-leading Wabash, pure animals) was how Wesleyan 
recruits. Fall skies, yellow and orange and red 
foliage, fans toting picnic baskets, the marching 
band's drums. Come be one of us at Wesleyan!

It was just two idle hands, Arthur's left and my right, 
that found each other. Come be one of us at Wesleyan!

It was the long pass, half the length of the field, 
that got the Battling Bishops on our feet. Thousands of 
eyes watched the ball loft into the hands of the 
receiver already behind Wabash's defense.

I grabbed Arthur's arm in the frenzy of promised 
victory.

The band was blasting when I realized how tightly I was 
holding. Ten times, no twenty, more than when we'd 
bumped doing the experiment. I guess he knew. He didn't 
mind, anyway, still cheering about the Hail Mary. (You 
can't say Methodists aren't ecumenical. We'll use 
whatever theology gets us across the goal line.)

I stayed like that all the way through the extra point.

Wesleyan's about excellence in education, not necks 
bigger than hat size. We scored decisively, just not as 
many times.

Walking back, we again held hands, but I didn't take 
his arm, not having a touchdown for context. You can't 
just take the arm of a guy, though with the briskness 
of autumn, maybe you could.

We promised to meet at the Library tomorrow, but not 
for Chemistry. We agreed that we had that under 
control. It's easier to study if somebody else is 
studying hard too. That's what I said, anyway, but 
wasn't sure what I needed to study.

That night I put my arm against me the way Arthur's had 
been. I can't really claim I fooled my body, that I 
didn't know it was my own arm against the side of my 
breast, but something happened that wasn't only me.

The Women's Center bookshelf says that some victims 
have difficulty with orgasm in their adulthood. 
Something got stolen. Me, though, I could masturbate 
maybe even too easily. It hardly took more than just 
two fingers. I suppose it wasn't too healthy, but I 
didn't really care. It wasn't the penis that the man 
made me watch. What I envisioned making love to me 
wasn't like his at all. His was forgotten for a few 
minutes.

Thinking about Arthur, his arm against my breast, was 
different yet. Nobody was making me naked, making me 
watch. Arthur and I were jumping together, cheering.

When I came, Arthur and I weren't even nude together. I 
was just holding his arm while autumn leaves whirl-
winded around us with every convulsion.

*****

Every girl in Hayes was happy that I had a boyfriend. 
Maybe I said earlier that sorority girls are sort of 
snots sometimes? Not all of them, just some. Well, dorm 
girls are really nice! Arthur said that it was so 
embarrassing how he'd be walking across campus and some 
girl he hardly recognized would call out, "Hey, 
Arthur." But I knew he liked it.

I've no idea at all what the guys in Arthur's dorm 
thought, but I suppose they figured that an older girl 
would probably really put out. Guys think more that 
way.

But I didn't do anything I shouldn't. I let Arthur kiss 
me when he'd drop me back at Hayes and I'd let him kiss 
me behind the Library. There was a bench there and I 
could kiss him back better.

I didn't mind if we touched when we walked. You just 
take their arm. Some girls say to go without your bra 
so he'll know you like it, but I never did that. He 
knew anyway.

When we hugged, wherever he touched was fine. Even if I 
were sitting on his lap in the dark and he'd have his 
arms around my chest, it was OK. We were hugging.

But I just didn't want Arthur reaching for me. The man 
had reached and I'd just stood there.

After a few deflections (which left me uncomfortable, 
too), Arthur realized where my space started. He 
accepted it, but he wasn't dumb. "Dumb" means "stupid", 
right? He wasn't stupid. But he also wasn't dumb the 
way I was, where "dumb" means "silent". Partners 
sometimes just ask.

"You got hurt, right?" He didn't seem sure of how to 
ask, but at least he tried.

"I guess." Sometimes a partner knows what's being 
queried.

"Well it doesn't change anything, but it makes me sad, 
too."

"Who says I'm sad? You don't even know." We were just 
Lab partners, I made myself remember. And it wasn't 
like I went around looking glum all the time.

"No, but I guess I care."

Nobody had ever really cared except for my folks and 
the policewoman.

"It was a long time ago, anyway," I concluded, looking 
for my pack.

But I started to cry. Right there in front of somebody.

It wasn't what the man had done that I most remembered, 
though everything he'd done I could list. Those 
memories were film from the eyeholes of an empty 
statue.

No, it was knowing I'd let the man make me touch him. 
That after I'd done that, I'd just lain there, too 
scared to even say no. That I'd moved the way he'd made 
me, knowing that I was going to die naked.

Mine weren't large, purging tears, but stingy ones 
congealing the sadness.

"Jeeze, JoAnne. I didn't know. It's so sad."

I stared at my Lab partner, not remembering how my hand 
got to his. What did he know about it? None of the 
facts. Not that I saw the man's face every day, 
wherever I was. For guys, it's about ten minutes, not a 
lifetime. Why would I ever share that with someone I 
measure pH with? Someone maybe I'd made out with a 
little. But even that, anybody could see, was just what 
a lonely Junior would do to the first boy that paid her 
any attention.

But I didn't pull my hand away. Maybe he really was 
sad.

Maybe he cared. I put his hand on my breast, just the 
outside of my blouse where he could feel my heart. He 
didn't do anything to make it sexual, though of course 
it was. It couldn't have been more sexual.

Once a boy holds your breast, it's real. Most girls, 
though, get felt up by lots of guys before they get 
there. I just happened to find one that cared the first 
time.

*****

We'd just submitted our last experiment, 
electrochemistry, which couldn't have been under-
exceeded in terms of generating enthusiasm for Chem 
102. We'd wandered behind the Library, feeling good to 
have it behind us.

"JoAnne?" Arthur had something to say, something that 
must have been confused in his own mind. He started 
again. "JoAnne, you're as sexy as hell. You really 
are!"

Sexy? Sure, he'd felt inside my bra by now, played with 
my nipples. It was nice of him to not complain about 
the under-wire and all the hooks and everything else 
about me that probably frustrated his intention. The 
guy was a guy, after all.

Sexy? Not by my self-assessment.

But at least I felt a little bit sexy around him. The 
girls in the dorm told me about loosening my hooks 
beforehand.

"Thanks, Arthur." The guy was so sweet; that much I 
knew. "As hell," was probably the top of his 
superlatives.

He paused another moment, then plunged ahead. "But 
maybe I'm not too ready yet... I mean I'm not that 
experienced or anything. I don't want to mess things 
up."

What's he trying to say? That he's a virgin? Like I 
thought he wasn't?

"I like us just the way we are," a truthful answer. 
"And what you do makes me feel very sexy."

"I think about it, though," he pressed. "Us, I mean."

The irony didn't escape me, though I'd not have called 
it ironic. We're talking about sexual intercourse, but 
don't have a word with which we're comfortable. We're 
at the point in a relationship where it would commonly 
begin. And he wants me to know he's not there yet. Like 
he's weird, or something.

"Sure, me too," I admitted to help him out. "Just not 
specifically, maybe," to dodge admitting too much.

I guess most girls just haul off and do it, but the 
more I listened in the dorm, the more I realized that 
girls serious about themselves want to talk first. 
That's not to say it doesn't just happen, but shouldn't 
that be the exception? But wanting to talk isn't the 
same as able to talk.

Arthur maybe recognized my own reluctance. Making love 
isn't that easy a subject. But clearly he wanted to 
bare his own persona, to make me see his own 
imperfection. "I can't help it sometimes, I want to so 
bad."

"It's natural," trying to deflect his admission, too 
much like my own.

He looked at the floor. "Sometimes I come," just three 
words, not in boast; but rather in confusion in 
something beyond his will.

He didn't expect me to understand, but of course I did. 
He had a space, just like I had mine, but he didn't 
want to hide in it. But what was I suppose to do with 
that information?

"I'm not very experienced," he repeated, as if in 
explanation.

Then I knew what I wanted to say. "Arthur... Nobody's 
ever said I was sexy before. I've never had anybody 
come, I mean."

He looked back up. "Nobody's ever come before?" 
recognizing the virgin in me, too.

We didn't need to talk. Maybe we didn't even know each 
other that well in some ways. But we knew we were the 
same. Unsure. Our spaces almost touching.

"Arthur, thanks." It sounds so pompous, written. But I 
meant it. Not that he'd come; that was his business. 
That he'd tell me.

But me being the older, I knew. "Meet me in the Library 
at 8:30."

We didn't even bring books. We just went to our bench. 
I'd sat in his lap enough times to wonder. I probably 
felt his erection, but it was accidental.

A bench isn't that great a place to learn, but we 
managed to twist ourselves to where our legs touched. 
It's not "probably" when he's around your thigh. It was 
the first erection I'd ever felt. (It should be 
obvious, having admitted my inexperience, but I want to 
write it on paper. But no, of course, it wasn't the 
first. But that was so long ago. Not like Arthur's.)

I was probably pushing more than rubbing, but maybe the 
anticipation was all it took. I know he came because he 
held so still at the end, not like some girls say the 
guy shoves you around.

I was so happy afterwards! I'd done something for 
Arthur, something real against my leg. He'd let me. It 
wasn't his secret now; it was ours.

******

But I still had my secrets. The impossible one was 
about when I was little. But maybe having that one, 
plus now knowing his, helped my other secret to come 
out.

Arthur never made me rub against him, but I knew how 
much he liked it. If nobody was wandering around our 
bench and it was a little bit dark, we'd mesh ourselves 
together. I'd always be happy, learning to feel the 
start of his shiver.

The women at the Woman's Center would have chided about 
symmetry, though. Another male orgasm. I was winning 
too, in my view, but maybe not the way they'd define. 
Of course I orgasmed, just not there. Mine was later, 
the way I knew how.

The odd thing (to me anyway) was for being in the 
Woman's Center only that one time, maybe Arthur wanted 
symmetry, too.

"JoAnne, it's not fair, I don't think, anyway." He 
didn't know what to call it, but knew I knew. "I get 
to, you know, and you don't. I don't have to. It 
doesn't matter," he offered.

"Criminy, Arthur!" (A high-order expletive for me) "I 
love it when you do. It's for both of us."

I must not have sounded too convincing, to myself 
anyway, because I surrendered one of my two secrets. 
"Besides, I have afterwards."

Did I mean to say that? Not consciously.

"Afterwards?"

Like guys don't? "By myself," for the closer leaves to 
hear. Why pretend?

"You masturbate?" with such lack of guile that I knew 
it had never entered his mind. He wouldn't have said 
"masturbate" if he thought one word ahead. Maybe he 
didn't know that we can?

There's even an instruction book at the Women's Center 
with all the pages dog-eared. And I don't mean, "Our 
Bodies, Our Selves". I mean a photographic how-to. Two 
hands with different nail polish so we know it's 
another woman helping. But Arthur wouldn't know.

"I guess," I admitted which gave me the extra power to 
be bold, "Yes."

"By yourself?"

Maybe they have that book in his dorm or something?

"Oh Arthur, of course, by myself." I should have been 
appalled, but even at the time thought it almost funny.

"OK." I'd not have told him more anyway.

That night it even seemed funnier, so funny that I even 
told my floor-mates. Nobody was laughing at poor 
Arthur. We were just laughing at the idea of a boy 
realizing that we at least can.

The next time Arthur and I got together, he held back. 
"JoAnne. If we sit different, I don't mean really 
different, just a little bit, maybe?"

The fullness of the somewhat said! "Sit." Interlock and 
rub, I translated. "I don't mean really different." 
Still dressed, nothing direct. "Maybe?" Me climax.

"Maybe." I wanted him to feel me come. I wanted him in 
my space.

From what other girls said, you might want to just be 
in your panties and he'd have to be aimed just right 
and not come first. Usually it doesn't even work. And 
then, pretty much they all agreed, even if you promise 
each other you won't, your panties get out of the way 
and you do it for real.

"It's better for me, just my by myself," I lied.

"I can be with you." The "with you" made it so 
different.

Our spaces, Arthur's and mine, were as close as they'd 
ever been.

He immediately sought retreat, sensing rejection. "I 
mean, not for real... Not 'with you' like..."

But I wanted to. I didn't even know it, but I wanted 
him next to me, feeling it grow, crest, diminish. I 
wanted Arthur to know me.

"Feel my heart," pulling his far hand into my sweater. 
I let the beats draw him like the band's drums beckoned 
us to that game where we made the long pass and 
touched.

Had he wanted me to strip, I would have, right there on 
the bench. But had he wanted that, it would have been 
about just the physical.

My jeans were loose enough to slip my hand into. He 
watched my knuckles play against the denim. He'd know I 
was already wet. They say that boys get wet too.

He felt my heartbeat as I brought myself through my 
preparatory motions: parting the fold, unhooding my 
erection, provoking, pressing, needing, reaching, the 
tingling upward from the feet, the totality, the 
rediscovering. The superficial would have been 
apparent. Certainly the movement. Certainly the 
wetness, though not by touch. The thrashing.

But he couldn't have known that even with my eyes 
closed, I still saw him. Under my sweater, I felt his 
warmth, warmth that flowed.

He kissed me when I'd returned, his hand still on me; 
mine, still between my legs.

"It's good, right?"

"With you," I agreed, holding my other breast to feel 
my nipple.

*****

It was inevitable that I'd want him to touch me. Our 
bench would have worked, but a campus has so many 
places for lovemaking.

At first he only put his hand on my pants to sense my 
manipulations. If I were in a skirt, I'd pull it up so 
there would be just panties between our fingers.

I knew he was ready when he didn't let go of my hand, 
but rather rode on its back when I reached down. His 
fingertips on one side and his thumb on the other 
brushed my pubic hair.

When he interlocked his fingers between my knuckles, he 
touched first my labia and then my clitoris. From 
watching, he knew the center of my excitement. The 
extrication of my own hand left him in command.

He kissed me all the while.

Later, I faced away, letting him reach around, his free 
arm stilling me, his other hand stroking while I 
struggled to hold still. Sometimes his finger would 
enter my vagina, my orgasm more visceral.

It was no mystery why Arthur himself climaxed. I could 
feel his hardness against my hip, driving ever so 
slowly at first, then firmer and faster. I could hear 
his breathing. I could feel his wetness, though it must 
have been my projection.

*****

When I first helped him with my hand, I'd never held an 
erection before. (What I'd held when I was twelve, I 
didn't feel.) Probably my inexpertise confused his 
libido, but he drew in his stomach to make way for my 
wrist. As soon as I freed him, he ejaculated gobs onto 
my abdomen, sticky rivulets trailing some to the left, 
some to the right, and some between my legs.

I'd not yet even touched his testicles.

Was it lovemaking? It's not a stupid question. Arthur 
and I made ourselves complete, not just by friction, 
but by knowing each other.

Everybody says that having intercourse is what it's all 
about. Wrong.

Being partners is what it's all about. Not everything 
is paced by semesters. We could have had wonderful 
intercourse right away, I'm sure. But maybe it's better 
to know the other's body, really being naked, by being 
more deliberate.

Why rush to where contraception's an issue? Where (not 
with us, but too often), someone's exposed to other 
consequences?

If you're interested in liberal education, at Wesleyan 
we have Chapel. It is one of our places. (For a few 
others from Hayes, too, since we're pretty close, but 
Arthur and I have never slipped in when it was 
occupied.) They leave the building unlocked, since 
we're really well behaved at Wesleyan.

PROLOGUE

When I was twelve, a man did a very bad thing to me. He 
raped me.

Now I'm 20, almost 21. I'm a second-semester Junior at 
Wesleyan, a top ranked university. I have a double 
major.

I'm taking Chem 102. It's good to take a whole year of 
a subject that complex. 102's Lab syllabus lists "An 
Enzyme from Pineapple". Hardly-measurable chemicals 
help big reactions occur.

I have a Lab partner whom I doubt will become a 
physician. He's going to take Creative Writing next 
year from Gillespie.

I have a pen he gave me that is very good for learning 
to write stories.

Here's a song -- "Turn, Turn, Turn" by Pete Seeger, 
recorded by the Byrds. The words are adapted from the 
Book of Ecclesiastes.

"To everything (Turn, Turn, Turn),

"There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn),

"And a time for every purpose, under Heaven.

 "A time to be born, a time to die,

 "A time to plant, a time to reap.

 "A time to kill, a time to heal,

 "A time to laugh, a time to weep."

We've sung it in Chapel.

I posted the first bars of it at 
/files/Authors/Holly_Rennick/Turn_T
urn_Turn.wav. It's a 12-string guitar. Pete Seeger's 
Jewish and Roger McGuinn's guru was Muhammad Subuh 
Sumohadiwidjojo. Wesleyan's about Liberal Arts.

HOLLY ON THE WEB

Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to 
the server. My problem is that I've no systematic way 
to update the various servers. As literary errors (or 
just poor word usages) are made known to me, I'll 
repair that which is salvageable on 
/~Holly_Rennick/. My website's not 
much graphically, I admit, but HTML isn't my native 
language.

You can contact me via the site's message form, that 
HTML code by the smart people at ASSTR.

I won't be changing the story significantly, so if you 
didn't like it before, that much will remain the same. 
But if you did like it, an update may read a bit more 
cleanly.

 Holly

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Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.

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Kristen's collection - Directory 28