#making out
Okay but the little gasp women do when you’ve been turning them on and just grace your finger over their nipple and they get all whiny,,,,
During my brief stint at Northwestern, I befriended a few other students. They were one of the things that kept me going through that shitty, shitty time.
One of those friends was Gay David. I met a bunch of dudes named Dave or David, so I referred to them all by distinguishing characteristics - either physical features or the things they were into. There was Computer David, Blue-haired Dave, Indie Rock Dave, and Gay David. Gay David didn’t mind being referred to by his sexual orientation - he was openly, flamingly, hella gay. He was also Jewish and from Long Island, which he pronounced, of course, Lawn Guyland.
I met him one of my first nights on campus. The BGALA (Bisexual, Gay and Lesbian Alliance) threw a party so new students could meet other queer kids. I saw David when I walked in. It was his name tag that made me notice him. It said: “Hi, my name is…David. I’m a freshman and a fag.” The fact that he so proudly labeled himself a fag made me go, “hell yeah, I need to befriend this guy.” I introduced myself, he introduced me to his friend Zoe (a gorgeous curvy gal with long, wavy hair and a leather jacket). We didn’t stay at the party long. It wasn’t much of a party. Soda, boring snacks, bad music - and most of the people there weren’t very interesting. “I wanna get drunk,” David said, and I said: “I have a giant bottle of vodka in my room!”
We grabbed the bottle, got Hawaiian Punch from a vending machine (the vodka I had was of the cheap, caustic variety, and Hawaiian Punch was one of the only things that masked the nailpolish-remover taste), and made our own mixed drinks. The weather was still warm, so the three of us wandered around campus, getting drunk and being ridiculous. Now, David was gay, but he was also a make out bandit, and would make out with any cutie who was up for it, regardless of gender. At some point that night, David looked at me and said: “I’ve never made out with anyone with a lip ring before.” I was also a make out bandit, so he and I made out for a while. Then, Zoe said: “I’ve never made out with anyone with a lip ring before, either,” and David said: “You should totally make out, you’re both really good kissers.” So I made out with her for a while, too. Our party of three was way better than the officially sanctioned one.
David and I remained good friends the rest of the time I was there. We got coffee in the afternoons, between classes; we wandered Evanston, I dragged him into record stores and he dragged me into clothing stores and I helped him pick out leather pants. Nights, we’d get drunk and talk about our crushes, and sometimes we’d make out.
After my friend Val shaved my hair into a ‘hawk, I went to hang out with David. I don’t know for sure what I was wearing, but it’s a safe bet it was the outfit I wore every other day: Subhumans Rats t-shirt with a crusty old patch-covered hoodie over it, camo pants that I’d cut off just below the knee with these pastel stripy tights underneath, a studded belt, and boots or Chucks. David looked at my outfit, my lip ring, my wonky ‘hawk, and hugged me. “Hanging out with you makes me feel less homesick,” he said, “because you remind me of my freakshow lesbionic friends back on Long Island.” If just anyone called me a freakshow, I would have been upset, but I knew that David meant it as a compliment.
We also had French class together. David often urged me to hook up with the professor. “She’s totally into you, I can tell by the way she looks at you in class,” he’d say. She was really hot - she had long hair with the sides partially shaved (like a semi-undercut), she wore big sunglasses and short skirts and knee-high boots, she was almost always hungover. Our first class after I’d gotten the 'hawk, the professor walked up to me, told me my hair was très jolie, and lightly rubbed the shaved parts of my head. “See?” David hissed.
I never did hook up with the French professor. And when I left Northwestern, I only kept in touch with a couple people I’d met there. David wasn’t one of them. From time to time, I wonder what he went on to do with his life. David, thanks for being a vodka-drinking, leather pants-wearing, make out bandit. Thanks for being one of the bright spots during a very dark time in my life.
