diary entry: may 2012 — one night stand, Brooks The roof to..

diary entry: may 2012 — one night stand, Brooks The roof to the frat is unlocked and you climb up on the ledge to watch the crowd below. Everyone on campus is out for Tour de Franzia: multi-color teams of students lurch and yell across the sidewalks, followed at a careful distance by Public Safety officers. Kirk groans that he wishes he could be among them, how mad he is that he fell for the scare tactics of the administration, and it’s true, you wish you could be down there too. You had a Galinda the Good Witch costume, complete with a sexy pencil skirt and a magic wand. Your group follows the wine-sodden masses to Senior Village, where hundreds of costumed fools flirt and fall over. It’s funny, priceless really, as a couple hooks up on top of a van and Public Safety swarms a particularly aggressive girl in neon pink leggings. You stand on the curb and watch your friends, Carly's knee blooming with a fresh bruise, Becca in a butterfly mask to disguise her face, Zach wearing a tiger suit and hitting on a girl in fairy wings. A cute blond wearing a red cape hesitates near you, searching the crowd for a familiar face, and you exchange smiles. He introduces himself and you wind up chatting, Brooks, a sophomore. He shares his warm Natty Ice and asks why you aren’t in costume, not accepting your excuse. 'I guess I’m just boring, I’m from Connecticut,' you shrug, laughing, and his face lights up, asks where in Connecticut. You tell him your hometown and he exaggerates a wince, and you rush to add no no I’m not one of those! He grins, he’s from Fairfield, and you banter about being stereotypes, rival high schools. He’s a science major, a lacrosse recruit, lives in Hewitt dorm. You wobble off the curb and let out a tipsy woah! when the height difference announces itself, and for a moment you both hop on and off the curb, laughing about the foot between you both. You kiss, soft and sweet, and then Public Safety starts blowing whistles and there are sirens and he asks, 'should we… go?' You tease him on the walk back to his dorm and he pretends it hurts. It doesn’t occur to you until later that you took this exact walk with Nathan a few weeks ago. You laugh about the squeaking bed frame and he mentions WD40 and likes your temporary starfish tattoo on your breast. He slides into you, right to the hilt, and you let out a shaky breath and feel full. His hair drips sweat onto your back. You comment on it, the sticky sweetness of his skin, and he seems embarrassed, I’m working hard for you. You realize what he must think, your name on the masthead of the campus sexuality magazine, your starfish tattoo, and you feel the need later to explain that that’s not—you’re not what they think. He does work hard, and it is always difficult for you to come with a partner but you make noises you have never heard from your own throat. When you both are wrung out and tired, he pulls the covers up over you both and you start talking about food, about Fairfield County, about mutual friends. You explain the peroxide at the end of your hair, your upcoming Aaron Carter-themed birthday party, and he brays with laughter, says he knows all of the words to that song and you mention that he should come and sing it with you like you are bound to do on the desk, completely smashed. It is just so easy and comfortable and he pretends to be hurt by yet another snarky comment, says something about needing his ego stroked, and you put on your rom-com voice and lie that you have watched him from afar, in line at the pasta station, ordering extra marinara sauce. He says this is scarily accurate. There is no discussion of sleeping over, it is assumed, and he curls his arm around your waist, his body flush against yours, finger tips skimming your bare stomach. You are horrible at sleeping with other people but there is no way you are leaving. He breathes soft against your neck, makes jerky little movements in his sleep, smells warm like rum and sweat and boy, and you think about how poor your judgment has been in the past but how much you would like to see this boy again. You imagine getting to know him over the long summer break only two weeks away. You want that, but you also want to get better at not caring, to stop expecting more from strangers. You decide that you want to care, you want to care about someone and have them care back and sneak a flask into the local theme park for the fireworks and tease and bicker and spend the night. Around 6 am you and Brooks wake up and you stretch out on your stomach and you whimper as he kisses across your shoulders, runs his fingertips down the small of your back. He finally comes, his teeth scraping your neck, and he goes down on you, your fingers tight in his soft hair. It never occurred to you that sleeping over could lead to round two, but it is a welcome surprise. His throat hurts, his body wracked with painful coughs, and you hunt down your clothes, urging him to get some real sleep. You tell him you will kill him if he gives you mono and he gets adorably scared, asking what the symptoms are. 'Are you exhausted all the time?' you ask, and he mulls it over before joking, 'no, I’m just really lazy.' It is difficult to find your shirt. You didn’t bring anything with you other than your keys and he leans against the bed and watches you tie your laces. You don’t ask for his number, a decision you made somewhere around five in the morning. You are neurotic about texting and you don’t want to ruin this by getting your hopes up and so you don’t even offer yours. You stand casually with your messy hair and blue sneakers and tell him to feel better and unprompted he asks, 'can I at least get your number?' 'Of course.' He writes it down the old fashion way and you tell him to text you if he ever needs someone to watch Mad Men with. He crawls back into bed and seems genuinely disappointed to see you go, thanks you honestly and awkwardly for such a great night, and you grin and step lightly out the door.