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The Dead Pinky 4 The Dead Pinky 4
by Theo Versten
Issue 15
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Freshman Year, 2001: Part Four

Classes were okay. Nothing to write home about. They were large. Lots of people in a room listening to a single dude or chick talk a lot. Lots of hot girls, which is nice. Just as many blondes as in Minnesota. I was worried there would be fewer blondes. But I've been pleased.

After the first week I was quite in love with college. I would wake up at about 7:30. Take a short run down the lakeshore. Go to the gym and lift. Make it back to the dorm to shower, shave, gel the hair, brush the pearlies, drop a log, button all my shirt buttons, slap on deodorant, spritz a little cologne, slap on the sunglasses, throw my books in the bag, the bag on my back, and with a half hour before my classes began (not one before 11) I would saunter up the hill and into campus, never breaking a sweat.

Girls looked at me and I looked at girls. Unless they weren't my type, which I suppose is the majority, and in that case I'd just toss them a glance, but at least five or six times on the way to class I swear my cock would try to jump out my eyes like a heart-stricken suicidal maniac out a high rise window and into the sunset.

Afternoons and evenings were alright. I'd mostly do readings for classes, with an occasional football game, and a habitual dinner at Frank's Place with the guys from my floor.

It was the second Thursday of classes, in the late afternoon/early evening, when I picked up the phone (which was ringing) and found Heather's voice. She invited me to a party of her friend's that night. "I don't know," I said, "I was planning on doing some reading." She tried to persuade me. I tried to resist. Her voice is honey, and I am a (large and handsome) fly, so I was persuaded. Later that night I left for the party, but less like a content house fly, and more like a hungry, neurotic bear, unsure how to approach the slightly demented honeycomb. My buddy Allen accompanied me.

It was a small, shabby apartment, dimly lit, ceilings lined with Christmas lights, and the smell of smoke and incense wafted together. People were playing beer pong in the kitchen. I didn't recognize anyone. No one recognized me. But less than five full steps into the place Heather's voice pierced the loud thump-thump music, "Nate!" She sprang up from a couch that was a host to some tired-looking carcasses. In four big steps she had her arms around me, touching my back and making it tingle. She released the embrace and kept her hands on my big shoulders and her blue eyes twinkled.

"Have you been drinking much?" I asked.

"That's a good point," she said, "you need beer in your hand." She grabbed my hand (with her fully equipped left hand) and began to pull.

"Wait a second. Meet my friend, we're buddies from the dorm. His name's Allen, but you can call him Pussy. He responds to either."

Heather laughed hard. Allen took it well. He seemed pleased, watching Heather laugh, her tight cleavage convulsing. "It's good to meet you Allen."

"How do you know this guy?" Allen asked.

"We went to school together since we were little," Heather said.

"We spent a lot of time in the backseat of my mom's minivan together." I said.

"Shame on you," Heather said, and she poked me in the chest, and then took both me and Allen's hands and led us to the kitchen. Allen got the deformed hand. He seemed unfazed.

We each got a forty and sat on a couch which had cigarette burns and sank too deep. This was Heather's second forty, I gathered.

Part five...  


  
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