Pat’s plan had been to leave Bill’s party shortly after midnight, get a good night’s sleep, and be in the office by late morning. No such luck. Instead, she’d had that series of near sexual encounters that culminated in her finally hitting the sack — alone — at about five A.M.
Soundtrack---Winter (Movement 1 Allegro Non Molto): Vivaldi
Of course, by then she had been so over-stimulated by the events of the evening that she couldn’t fall asleep for hours, instead she tossed and turned… getting up to pull down the shades… worrying about Luis… thinking about what she should say to him… throwing off her covers because she was hot… getting up to pee… kicking herself about her flirtation with Jake… pulling the covers back on because she felt chilled… getting up to get a drink of water… getting up later to take an aspirin for the slight hangover headache that was beginning to creep across her forehead… re-playing her disturbing conversation with Bill… feeling horny and masturbating briefly and unsuccessfully. Eventually, she had fallen fast asleep, apparently deeply because when she next opened her eyes, wakened by classical music from her clock/radio, she saw with surprise that it was 7 P.M. Shit! She’d slept the day away! Not like her; no, not like her at all.
Dragging herself out of bed and heading out toward the communal bathroom down the hall, she’d become dimly aware of feeling sexually aroused for some reason that she couldn’t really explain. But, as she showered lazily, she began to recall a dream she’d been having when she awoke. She didn’t remember any specifics, either events or who was involved; it was more like a feeling of… of having her body touched all over… by hands… massaging her, squeezing her, gently penetrating her… and mouths, too… licking her, kissing her, biting her gently. Recalling the dream further stimulated her sexually and she found herself soaping her breasts and genitals in an increasingly sensual way, as if her hands and fingers belonged to someone else, some invisible sexual partner whose knowing fingers probed in just the right places and in just the right way… grazing her clitoris as they entered and exited her vagina, gently massaging the small area between vaginal and anal opening, pressing ever so slightly on the tight sphincter muscle of her anus… Pat gasped for breath, her knees buckled slightly, and she grabbed the shower curtain, afraid she was about to fall. She felt as though she might faint from the heat — a combination of the hot water pouring steadily over her back, the steam filling the shower, and the sexual heat that was coursing through her body.
Cautiously, Pat stepped out of the shower. Thank God, no one else was in the bathroom! That would have been unbelievably embarrassing. How could she have explained the sound she’d made when she’d reached orgasm?
Pat returned to her room and decided that she needed to get out of the dorm, take in some fresh air, and have a bite to eat. She had to clear her mind of all these distracting sexual feelings, so she could buckle down and get the Law School Journal issue out to the printer by tomorrow. So, she dressed hurriedly — in sweat pants and a sweatshirt (about as asexual as she could get) — and headed down the stairs. In the foyer, she ran into a couple of her housemates heading for the living room, awkwardly trying to balance several six packs of beer and plates piled high with sandwiches. They invited her to join them watching some bowl game, giggling as they mentioned the names of a bunch of ostensibly desirable guys they’d invited over for the event. But Pat had no time for such entertainment tonight; she had work to do, not that she would have been interested in any case. The guys were undoubtedly white and unlikely to be interested in her, and besides, football just didn’t grab her.
The fresh air was a different story. That had done her a world of good. She just wandered around campus for an hour or so, breathing in the cool winter air, admiring the older ivy-covered buildings, dismissing the sleek newer ones. She was determined to forget about the events of the night before, so whenever those memories resurfaced, she consciously shifted her thoughts elsewhere — mental snapshots of her youth, the editorial task facing her tonight, details from boring law school courses like “Torts.” And it worked. Thoughts of Bill, Jake, Jukie, and Luis were banished almost as soon as they popped into her head.
There had been very few people out this first night of the new year, other than the campus security guards. Most undergrads were still home on Christmas vacation and Pat guessed that most everyone else — grad students, faculty, other campus employees — were either watching bowl games or eating dinner and getting ready to turn in early after an exhausting night and day of revelry. The few people she saw were strangers to her, thank goodness. She was in no mood for chitchat.
Eventually, Pat realized she was hungry, so she headed over to The All Nighter, one of the few places near campus where you could get something to eat without a TV or juke box blaring at you; instead, mellow jazz and non-intrusive classical music played well in the background at a low volume. It was really a pretty clever idea. Tables were small, just right for a single person to eat, drink coffee, and study. The only disadvantage was that because coffee was the main staple of students doing all-nighters, the place charged quite a bit for it — seventy-five cents a cup and the same for refills. But, you could also get a pretty decent sandwich and all kinds of munchies, again a little on the pricey side. In effect, you were paying for peace and quiet, as well as caffeine and the distraction of food to keep you awake.
So, seated comfortably with Vivaldi playing in the background, Pat ate, drank several cups of coffee, and blue-pencilled the final articles for the issue she would put to bed and deliver to the printer by tomorrow morning. As she finished editing the last article, she glanced at her watch. It was well after midnight and she still had to write the Editor’s introduction. This was going to be a great issue — very progressive and controversial — and she wanted to introduce it with just the right tone.
She looked around and realized she was the only customer left in the place. Behind the counter sat a skinny, pimply, young white kid who was having a hard time fighting off sleep. Pat figured she’d had enough coffee for one night, so she decided to go to the office to write her piece directly on the typewriter, rather than drafting it here in pencil. She stood, gathered her pile of papers together, and placed them in her brief case. The counter boy must have heard her preparations for departure because he jerked awake and called over to her, “Leaving? Want another cuppa’ joe before ya’go?”
Pat smiled, “No thanks. Say, can’t you close up and go home? I doubt if anyone else besides me is crazy enough to be working tonight.”
“Yeah, well that might be true… probably is… but my boss wouldn’t like it. See the sign? ‘Open 24 hours, 7 days a week, 365 days a year (366 in leap years.)’ He’s very proud of that claim. Besides, he pays me by the hour, so going home would just be money out of my pocket. I can sleep sitting here almost as good as I can lying in bed at home.”
Pat shrugged and walked out the door, calling behind her, “See ya! Have a good rest of the night…err… morning!” She headed across campus straight for the Law School Journal Office. This time she didn’t stop to admire the buildings, nor did her thoughts drift back to last night’s party. She was single-mindedly focused on her Editor’s note.
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January 2,1969: With All Deliberate Speed
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