Mommy Dearest

"Don't move. Stay right there."

My first college hookup was an insecure, self-obsessed specimen that my entire floor had nicknamed "Alex P. Keaton." He really did look like Michael J. Fox, and like his namesake, he was cute - and a total ass. Alex was a big talker - the kind of guy who constantly bragged about bedding girls left and right.

"Man, were you at the DKE party on Friday? It was like shooting fish in a barrel!"

"She wasn't that cute, but she said my four favorite words - 'I'm on the pill.'"

Alex was a Poli-Sci major headed for law school, a thought which still makes me shudder; the idea of him as a judge or defense attorney scares the crap out of me to this day. He was no charm school graduate; he cared so much about what everyone thought of him that he was a condescending asshole to everybody, and he probably lied about his conquests half the time. Not that I cared. I was eighteen years old, skinny, inexperienced, and hadn't fooled around with anybody in a while. I knew he'd be up for it, so after I flirted a little at a party one Saturday night, he asked me back to his room "to read some poetry."

Readers, I was a youngun, but I knew what "come back to my room to read some poetry" meant in college boy parlance.

What killed me was, as I made myself comfortable on the edge of his bed, he actually did pull out a journal of his own poems, some of which weren't half bad. I appreciated the gesture, although I really didn't need to be warmed up. I was there to get my kiss-and-grope on, which I'd been upfront about. I had also let him know that we wouldn't be having PIV sex, although a few side dishes were acceptable. I was working my way up the sexual skills ladder, preferring to get a lock on foreplay first, so that my idealistic self could enjoy the main event when I'd found a guy to lurve.

Cut me some slack, I was eighteen!

Alex P. was okay with my terms, so I initiated the making out portion of our evening.

It was like kissing a cocker spaniel on crystal meth. My lips and a good portion of my chin got wet. If I hadn't had my tonsils removed when I was four, he would have dislocated them. I tried to stick with it, holding his head in my hands in a vain attempt to try to get him to slow down as he intently drilled for oil in the back of my throat. Alas, Alex was not going to teach me as much as I had hoped; even though I was still a virgin, I was the better kisser.

After a few minutes, he pulled away. "I have a short story I want you to read."

"Um. Okay," I said, relieved that the tonsil hockey session was over. He'd barely even touched my boobs, my booze buzz was wearing off, and I was kind of over it.

Alex reached over to his desk and grabbed four or five pages of looseleaf paper, neatly stapled together in the top left corner. The story was called "Sailing With the Lord." No, it wasn't a fundamentalist manifesto; it was based on a song by Sting called "Rock Steady." The song is a pre-Evan Almighty-style spoof of the Noah's Ark tale, from the 1987 album Nothing Like the Sun. I am a huge Sting fan, and "Rock Steady," being a jazzy, funny, catchy tune, is one of my favorite songs on Sun. His story was an absolute ripoff of the song, complete with lifted lyrics.

I tried to read it to the end with a straight face, while thinking: I am supposed to be fooling around with a cute guy. All of my friends manage to do this without any problem, but here I am, sitting on this guy's bed, critiquing his Sting ripoff. Where exactly did my night take such a bad turn?

"So?" Alex P. was anxious for my opinion. "What do you think?" Dude, you should be way more concerned about what I think about your lack of kissing skills. I wish Sting would burst through the door, whack you over the head with his bass for being such an idiot, and then make out with me on your bed.

"Uh, you wrote a story about a Sting song?"

"What do you mean?" Alex sounded a little defensive.

"Well, it's structured just like the song. Guy answers newspaper ad, takes his girlfriend along, cleans up after the animals. You even used his lyrics for the title - 'life may be tough but we're sailing with the Lord'."

"It's based on Noah's Ark," said a very huffy Alex. "It's creative writing."

"Well, it's not very creative if you're plagiarizing." That did it; Alex figured he'd shut me up by making out again. He was even fired up enough for some under the sweater action! It was about damn time.

Some slight oil drilling and groping later, he pulled away again. Dear god, not another short story.

"I have to ask you, are you a virgin?"

"Yeah," I said. "So?"

"Well, here's the thing," Alex said, stroking his chin. "There's this girl who wants to have wild sex with me. Tonight."

"Oh. So you're torn." My sarcasm was lost on Alex P. I get it, dude. I bruised your ego, now you want to bruise mine. Okay, that's my cue to leave. By the way, if Horny Girl really exists, don't show her your stupid Sting ripoff story or she might change her mind.

"Well, yeah, I mean, I could stay and just fool around with you, or I could go - "

"Let me help you with your decision." I got up and adjusted my clothes, smoothed my hair. "It's been fun. I'll see you."

I had my hand on the doorknob when Alex said, "Wait." I turned.

"Don't move. Stay right there." I froze.

"Right there. In that light..." He lay back on his bed, propped up on his right elbow, surveying me.

"...you kind of...look like..."

"What?"

"...my mother."

"Your mother." I took a deep breath. Jesus tapdancing Christ, I could not be less aroused right now. "Well, Alex, that is hugely flattering. Thanks for a night I'll never forget. I think I'll go back to my room and put on some Sting."

The next day, a couple of Good Samaritan sophomore girls who'd seen me go into Alex's room the night before pulled me aside to warn me about his reputation. "You don't know the half," was my reply.

By the end of the day, Alex's new nickname was "Oedipus." He didn't know, of course, but us girls got a kick out of it. I still can't listen to "Rock Steady" without thinking of him.