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Ever since I was eight years old, I had had my heart set on one day going to a certain Division One university more famous for its football team than for its academics; this reputation is unfortunate, because it belongs to a conference in which high academic standards are a prerequisite for membership. That is to say, the football program (and going to games) might be fun but would not be my chief reason for going. In fact, in the summer after my sophomore year, I had attended a three-week science and math camp at that school; this helped give it the early inside track.
My parents had no problem with my wanting to go there, but shortly after the start of my senior year (when I began to consider colleges more seriously), they slipped me a caveat: they would only help pay my way if I picked seven schools for applying. I would choose my ace in the hole (the school I had wanted all those years), five others to which I thought I had a reasonable chance, and what we decided to call a Moon Shot.
The terms of the Moon Shot were as follows: I would have to select a school not in my home state, costing at least twice what my ace in the hole would, and with no better than half the acceptance rate. My parents’ rationale was that if I applied and didn’t get in, at least I could look back and say l had applied to it. There was yet one more condition: if I did get into my moon shot, that’s where I’d have to go. After all consideration, I decided to shoot the moon on what looked like a pleasant campus: Mecklenburg College, in an eastern Cleveland suburb called (appropriately enough for a college town) Aristotle.
As my dumb luck would have it, I got into Mecklenburg; my acceptance letter arrived in March 2014, two days before my eighteenth birthday. This was perfect timing, as I could schedule a campus visit over spring break. Though I had been to ten states by this time, these had all been among the original thirteen colonies; indeed, before this campus visit, I’d never been farther west than Pittsburgh. Once I did visit, though, the college seemed a perfect fit, and it helped that Aristotle felt a great deal like the suburb I actually lived in. I graduated from high school in May, and was ready to go.
With the way my high school was set up, I had been able to take different exams over the course of senior year; after passing them, I was off to Ohio with thirty-one credit hours completed. In short, I would be starting my sophomore year that fall. However, since I was new to that campus, I could not get out of New Student Orientation — a single credit-hour Mickey Mouse program which met twice a week for the first half of the semester. I wasn’t the happiest about what I saw as a waste of time and tuition, but I figured I might as well make the most of it and collect what I was sure would be an easy A.
That’s how the work aspect of the course went after all, and there it would have ended — if not for the first session. I was getting seated and settled, when I heard a female voice asking, “Is this seat” — the seat immediately to my right — “taken?”
In that moment, I blessed the day Mecklenburg crossed my mind. “Go… go right ahead,” I said with a blush but a small smile. She stood five-five (four inches shorter than I), with lightly curled strawberry blonde hair to her shoulders. She also had a thing for denim, with her jacket and almost-knee-length skirt of that material. It took all my effort to stay focused on the classwork and not on her, especially not focusing on the way she sat with her legs crossed. Even so, I didn’t ask anything in detail — not that day, anyway, and I didn’t pursue anything.
The next session, I got to a different seat, only for Ms Mystery to ask if she could be by me again; naturally, I said yes. This time, when attendance was taken, I paid attention.
*Present,” said the voice beside me; she immediately turned toward me, a closed-lipped smile on her face.
A more indepth introduction followed after class. “Pleased to meet you, Ms Connelly.”
She gathered her things for her next class, but extended her hand. “You too, Mr Kramer” — that would be me, and she had also been paying attention.
We made small talk over our next classes, only to discover this was our only one together this semester. Notwithstanding, I asked where I might see her again.
“Here, why don’t you give me your cell number, lemme text you.” I did, giving her a number with a 610 area code. That’s right, I’m from southeast Pennsylvania.
I smiled with anticipation. “What’s yours?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see,” she said with a wink; she then turned, and was about her way until I would see her again. As the session only met on Mondays and Wednesdays, I wasn’t anticipating seeing her for nearly a week. Having now nothing to do but go about my Sincan Escort own business, I did — until about four o’clock on Friday, at which time I got a text from an unknown number.
“Hey, what’s up, you busy?” the text read.
All I knew of the number was its 847 area code, which placed it in the northern suburbs of Chicago; because I didn’t recognize the number, however, I didn’t answer the text right away. Another minute followed, and with it another text.
“Gabe? It’s me… Carly, from Orientation.”
“Oh, sorry, didn’t recognize the number… yeah, I’m here, what can I do for ya?”
To summarize, she asked if I’d had dinner yet; if not, I was free to join her. As I had not, I was; I then went over to her hall’s cafeteria, and so met up with her. Over dinner, we shared how we had come to be at Mecklenburg. I mentioned how I picked my seven schools, with this my lucky moon shot; Carly, meanwhile, had grown up in a suburb much like mine, and had felt comfortable coming here since its more intimate setting reminded her of home (as it had also for me), more comfortably so than a larger Division One campus might have. Though not ruling out graduate studies at such a larger campus, she wanted to start smaller for her undergrad work.
A short moment passed in which we discussed how our classes were progressing, and we finished dinner. Afterwards, she asked what she I had going; since my evening was free, she asked if I wanted to get to her dorm’s first floor TV lounge for Jeopardy! at seven-thirty. No one had to tell me twice; we were both there in a decent crowd of twenty, with big grins on our faces as those of us who knew, called out. (Anyone who claims not to miss Alex since he passed is either talking out of their ass, or lying.)
Once eight o’clock rolled around, I decided to head back to my own dorm; Carly, however, had another idea. “Same time Monday?” she asked, with a slight smile.
“I’ll be here.” And just like that, I had a dinner and TV buddy within my first week there.
Over some of the classwork I brought one evening to do in the two-hour gap between dinner and TV, our conversation turned that I was an English major, with an eye toward one day becoming a professor. She, though undecided as yet on a major, was leaning toward the sciences, and would seek better direction as she progressed through her four years.
One question lingered, though: did we still want to hang out like this after the orientation session concluded? The answer was happily unanimous, and we confirmed it with our final assignment. We were supposed to attend a fine arts performance, write it up with our impressions of it, and submit the write-up. We chose a chamber music performance the Thursday before fall break. As this was a fine arts performance, I decided a dress shirt and slacks were the order of the evening, and so changed into that after dinner; I was ready to make my way over, when Carly texted me: “What say we go there together?” I wasn’t going to refuse that, especially not as I would soon see, as she was dressed in a simple white blouse and blue mid-thigh skirt.
We took seats together, and settled in for what we thought would be the performance and little more; what it was, was another step we took. Near the start of the second number, I let my left hand drift toward Carly’s bare right knee; upon feeling that, she took my hand, placed it firmly there, and rested her right hand atop mine. The only thing keeping me focused was to know that we were there for a final assignment, and thus to keep our heads about us for that. Afterward, however, Carly had an idea. “Walk back with me?” I didn’t need further prodding to reach over for her hand as we set back across campus; when we got to her steps, I hugged her goodnight, only to find myself lingering unexpectedly in her arms. “Oh, come on,” she kidded. “We’re both adults.” Without waiting for my answer, she kissed my lips gently, and I leaned right in. “Whatcha think?” she smiled.
We stayed holding each other that way for a few seconds more. “What do I think?” I asked, hopefully. “I think that’s the kind of kiss I’d get from someone who wants us to be… boyfriend and girlfriend?”
She winked. “Took ya long enough.” Then, with a more hopeful note, “Wanna hang out this weekend if you got time?”
“You know it, babe!” I didn’t yet know or care what we’d be doing; I only knew I’d be with the first girlfriend I’d ever had. As she walked back in, we exchanged another kiss, and we parted for the evening, but not before sharing our first “I love you”s.
When I had been in high school, romantic attachments had taken a back burner to academics; now that I was here, there was no need of such relegation. I wasn’t planning to sit and stare at walls all day, but if Carly were beside me, I could be happy doing that — but our plans together didn’t lie that way.
First things first, though — we had fall Etlik Escort break to deal with, which would see her back to Illinois and me to Pennsylvania. In our final two orientation sessions, we sat closely near each other — not so closely as to cause suspicion of cheating, yet not closely enough to suit our newfound tastes. Fall break trudged its way through, yet also seemed to slide by, especially when I proudly told my family I had a girlfriend. Once we were back, however, only classes and sleeping could keep us out of each other’s company — and more often than not, they did (we were college students with priorities, after all). When we could get together, though, we got together with gusto; we took in open mic nights, TV-watching hangouts, and even one Mecklenburg home football game. That game weekend was a big step for us. Not only did I get to meet her parents, but I learned why they had driven six hours to be here: Carly’s birthday is the first weekend in November. That’s right — she’s four months older than I, but was a freshman to my sophomore, as she had not tested out of the thirty-one hours as I had. Notwithstanding, we took in the game, dinner, and meeting the Connellys — no better weekend to be had.
After our dinner-and-Jeopardy! date the following Friday, she invited me to her dorm room, and there we moved our TV watching and hanging out. Freshman coed dorms weren’t a thing at Mecklenburg, which meant guys weren’t allowed inside between midnight and noon most days. Weekends were another matter, though, with the restriction lifted between noon Friday and eleven-fifty-nine Sunday night. Of that, we made the most; while we didn’t get sexual immediately, I did spend weekends sleeping on a loveseat in her room (she had no roommate, so that worked to our advantage). Even if I had to walk across the room to do so, I was able to kiss her good morning. By the time of the week leading to Thanksgiving, I was coming over every evening until time to leave; out of necessity, I brought my coursework, but I was with her and couldn’t get enough of being around her. The first semester ended that way, leading into the loneliest Christmas of my life to that point; I would have felt it unbearable, if not for our constant texting and daily phone calls. (One evening was particularly memorable, because we spent fifty-four minutes saying good night to each other.)
In the new semester, we had no classes together — for a spoiler, we never would again in all our time there. Even so, we were together in any free moments we had. Some weekends we’d spend in her room, and some in mine; one Friday evening, I fell asleep while sitting on her bed. We didn’t need to say anything, but we knew something was imminent — not that night, but soon. When I took her out for dinner on Valentine’s evening, we discussed it, my hand on hers.
I led off. “I have something I want to tell you.”
Carly smiled with one eye and raised a brow with the other. “Is it… what I think it is?”
I nodded. “How long have we been dating?”
“Four months — and if you’re thinking what I’m thinking, I want some of it too,” she grinned. “Yeah, I know, even to talk about it screams cliché if done on Valentine’s, but don’t think I haven’t wanted it — wanted you.”
“Have you ever… done that before?”
“And here I’ve been, playing the gentleman this whole time.”
“You’re not playing… you’re the real thing.” Her smile was genuine this time. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate that… and we can’t do anything tonight anyway, unless you brought something close at hand. Wrong timing to go unprotected, you know.” I hadn’t brought anything, of course, as I hadn’t planned on that this evening; even so, we had something to look forward to when time was right.
The right time came a couple weekends later at her room, with the two of us doing our usual Friday evening hanging out. As was our way, we were sitting sprawled on her bed with my arm around her, and we had been fully clothed — to this point, anyway, until Carly disengaged from me and pulled off her sweatshirt (keep in mind, Ohio in late February is sweatshirt weather). This done, she sat facing me and asked a simple, “So… how about it.”
I swallowed the sizable lump in my throat. While I had been hoping for this since we had started dating, I hadn’t fully prepared myself that it might actually happen. Carly, however, had; she opened a dresser drawer, revealing a half dozen condoms. “Got ’em free at Student Health,” she offered, brightly; she reached in for one, setting it aside as she undid her blue satin bra and let her breasts bounce as they settled. I undid my own shirt and pressed close against her while we kissed intensely, including our first French kisses as a couple.
She straddled my lap, which only made me harder than I had been — which was saying something; while I wasn’t always fully Çankaya Escort erect around her, I was never flaccid, nor could I be. She then leaned in and gave herself a short jiggle and a quick downward glance at my hands. No words were necessary; I took them in my hands and gave them a few shakes of my own.
She giggled. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
I grinned back. “Not a clue.” This was true; I was running on instinct, as these were the first naked breasts I’d ever seen in a sexual context, much less touched. (In the previous months, I’d felt hers before, and that quite often, but always clothed. When I had complimented her on them, she revealed that they were 36B.)
“Well, whatever you don’t know, keep not knowing it — that feels awesome,” as she reached between us to unzip my pants. I was taking more assertive hold of her breasts now, kissing the inner curve of the left one. She twisted herself slightly to the right, letting her breast fall toward my mouth; I immediately began to lick on it, savoring how full it felt — until she told me to stand up. As I did, my pants dropped around my ankles and I stepped out of them, our shoes and socks having been shed when we got in for the evening.
She gave my shorts a pull, leaving me naked; she then took her fingers and played the underside of my shaft as though it were a woodwind, while I went back to her breasts. “Aww yeah… Christ, I didn’t know I could feel like that,” she moaned. “Your ignorance… is definitely… my bliss.”
“Mine too.” I was no stranger to erections, but I was sure I was only one firm grasp away from letting loose. I didn’t want to do that just yet, but at the same time, I would have loved the confident feel of such a grip.
“Keep at it,” she urged. With my mouth still buried in her cleavage, she stood up and wiggled out of her evening’s sweats; her only remaining clothing was a thong to match her bra. She then stepped back and slowly turned around; the full view she showed me had much to do with why she was a class behind me. Instead of testing out of the thirty-one hours as I had, she had spent her senior year on her school’s swim and field hockey teams, and kept her physique going by working out for an hour twice weekly, even though she had left competitive sports behind when coming to Mecklenburg. In another second, she had her thong off, showing her to be shaved except for a tidy landing strip; she then passed me the condom, trusting me to rely on our various respective sex ed lectures and unroll it. Good thing, too; as hard as I was, therefore as close to shooting off, I couldn’t stand much more than her light finger-play on my cock.
I took her in my arms, where we shared a hefty kiss; when we broke it, she put forth the question. “So… how’re we gonna do this.”
I grinned, half-sarcastically. “I was thinking this…” — as I pointed toward my penis — “ought to go in there….” and I made a motion toward her vagina. “That’s how it works, or so I’m told.”
“Not that, ya assclown.” She gave a little laugh and shoved my shoulder with the heel of her hand, and then turned more serious. “That condom’s the only thing standing between us and a potential date with the delivery room, and I’m not having it slip off when you’re soft and done.” She thought on it a moment. “Here, let’s put you back,” by which she meant guiding me onto her bed and getting me comfortable. I was pointing straight up and throbbing, serving as a beacon to her, a hint for her to take — and she did, straddling me and whispering “Here we go” as she lowered her body onto mine and guided my penis into her.
Through the material of the condom, I couldn’t fully feel how aroused and wet Carly was on the inside, but the rest of what I could feel was exquisite; her heat was not stifling, as thirty-seven Celsius would feel if it were a summer day, but comforting around me, an embracing feeling that intensified, became firmer and tighter, as we moved together.
She had given a sharp gasp while first wrapping herself around my cock, which I took for a cry of encouragement to me; thus inspired, I thrust up toward her, she gripping my shoulders and I her hips. In the interest of not making too much noise, she kept her teeth clenched, but still moaned so deeply that it felt to me as though her voice and vagina were connected — to heighten the effect, she pressed her thighs nearer to my hips, to close on them more tightly. That was the crowning touch — I pulled her down onto me and Frenched her as I felt myself letting loose.
Even amid the depth of our kiss, I had presence of mind to reach for the base of the condom; Carly’s concern had been well-founded. No sooner had I released than I went as limp as al dente pasta; thankfully, because she’d volunteered to be on top, I spilled out onto myself and not into her. I waddled over to a wastebasket, let the whole business roll off me, and put my underwear back on (Carly did the same, plus her sweatshirt). We snuggled up together on her bed, and she rested her head on my chest, with not a word spoken between us for a whole minute.
I broke the silence at last, with tears on my cheeks: “I love you, Carly Connelly.”
There were tears on her cheeks as well, but a wide smile in her voice: “I love you too, Gabriel Kramer.”
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