Unholy Nights: A Twisted Christmas Anthology (3 page)

I was happy that day, but Julie was in a bad place. She had just broken up with her long-term boyfriend, Matt, a preppie type who dressed in Dockers, pastel shirts with little alligators, and tasseled loafers. Except for the wicked dragon tattoo that was inked on one forearm, he always looked as if he'd dropped in from the golf course. I never liked the guy much, but I guess he wasn't all bad. He treated Julie well, and he was usually nice to me. He didn't lie or cheat or trash-talk people behind their backs, and he paid attention to birthdays and anniversaries that other guys wouldn't remember in a million years. I wasn't sure why Julie had dumped him; she hadn't been in a sharing mood.

Anyway, Julie was moping, and I was trying to distract her by doing vocal imitations of the local wildlife. I have this weird ability to imitate birdsong...no idea where that came from. It might have been useful if I'd become an ornithologist, but since I'd given up my pursuit of biology, that wasn't going to happen. So I mainly did it just to fool around.

But there I was, chirping away and flapping my arms and pretending to fly, then perching on a low branch and aping a call to my mate. Julie was watching me and laughing, which was cool because all she'd done for three days was cry as if she were the one who'd been dumped instead of the other way around. For some reason it occurred to me to sing some of the verses from the Papageno and Papagena duet, probably because
The Magic Flute
is my favorite opera. I was trying to do both parts, when a male voice joined in, taking Papageno's part. I almost fell off my branch, because where in the hell do you find a guy who can just chime in and start singing a classical opera duet? I felt as though I were starring in
Glee
or something.

I turned around and, holy shit, it was him. Will MacIvey. He could sing; in fact, he was packing an awesome baritone.

If I'd been talking instead of singing, I'd probably have frozen and stopped dead. But I've done church choir and amateur theater and all, so I know the show must go on. Stuff happens onstage, like a piece of the set tips over or someone muffs a line or the guitarist pops a string, but you don't stop or act surprised. You keep performing.

So I kept singing, as did Will, but my mind was racing. I only knew him from anatomy lab where he had always been so serious. But Papageno is a boisterous character, and Will was playing it that way. He used the exaggerated gestures and expressions of opera, playing to me, or, rather, to my character as he sang, in German, about the love of these two joyous spirits and all the little Papagenos and Papagenas we were going to make together.

There was no question that he understood the lines. In fact, I wondered if this guy was actually an opera singer—he was that good.

We went through the entire duet together, with Julie smiling and clapping and bouncing on both toes.

"Awesome!" I said when I got my breath back at the end of the duet. "Do you secretly do this for a living?"

"Sometimes I think about it, especially during exam season."

"You're really good!"

"Thanks." He didn't take it as his due, but looked embarrassed and pleased. "So are you."

"Nowhere near as good as you," I said, which was true. I love to sing and I've memorized an insane number of arias, only a few of which I can perform with any skill, but I'm not in could-go-pro league, no way.

We stood there, beaming at each other, when Julie said magisterially, "We're going to karaoke tonight. Don't even dream of arguing with me."

I expected Will to slip back into his normal cool and serious personality any minute, but he grinned to dazzling effect, and nodded. We collected a few of our other friends, and off we went.

There was something magical about that night.

We kept singing, and maybe that's what did it. I did some Adele, some smoky Amy Winehouse, and a rousing climactic version of Grace Slick's
White Rabbit
that pretty much blasted everybody out of the bar. Will did Eddy Vedder's
Alive
, and he was just as amazing doing rock as he was with Mozart. Later he did some old Jim Morrison, and his green eyes were on me every time he asked someone to light his fire.

That deep baritone vibrated right down into my bones. When he was singing, I couldn't stop staring at him, the way his throat moved, the way his mouth moved. I could tell he'd had voice training because he knew how to use his instrument to lull, excite, caress. He put his entire body into it, using his pecs and abs and back muscles to wring every molecule of air out of his lungs and pour it into the song. He had good control of his voice—better than I'd ever had of mine—and I couldn't help wondering if that peak physical control extended to more intimate activities.

Such thoughts made me look at his body, really look. He wasn't super buff, but you could see that he kept fit and in shape. Maybe some light weight training, maybe some endurance work like cross-country, swimming, or something. Whatever his sport was, it was one where he could go a long time.

I knew then that I had to see him without his shirt. Without his pants. Pre-med anatomy dead-cat guy had turned to rock star soulmate over the course of a few incredible hours.

When someone asked us to sing a duet, they picked that cheesy Sonny and Cher song
I Got You, Babe
that all karaoke bars have in their repertoire. We were looking into each other's eyes and grinning hugely, and sparks were flying back and forth. I didn't even doubt, the way I usually do, that he was feeling it, too. I
knew
he was, sure as I knew my heart was beating and my neurons were pulsing and my panties were drenched. It was the strangest thing. Our singing to each other was the hottest foreplay I've ever had, and we didn't even touch.

Or maybe it's not so strange. Music is a kind of magic. What else goes straight to your heart and squeezes the way music does? You hear those enchanted sounds and maybe you sing or dance or just let it wash over you until you're swept away in an enchanted river of sound. Like the birdsong I'd been imitating that afternoon, like the duet of Papageno and Papagena, the singing was our mating ritual. So it seemed entirely natural and taken for granted that when the karaoke was done, Will and I were just beginning.

He had a car, so we took it, leaving Julie to drive people back to campus in mine. Usually I'm nervous about letting anybody else drive my car, especially Julie, who's careless about a lot of things. But that night I didn't care. Did it matter what happened to my car? It barely even rose into my awareness.

He held my hand as we walked from the student parking lot to his dorm. It felt sweet holding hands. He hadn't been all over me, not at all. We hadn't even discussed where we were going or what we were going to do once we got there. But sex was commanding us, brain and body. The air around us was thick with it.

I was excited, thrilled, and bursting with all sorts of other emotions that I can't even find words for. I could scarcely wait to tear his clothes off. Yet, at the same time, knowing we had to wait filled me with a twisted pleasure. Just a few more steps to the door. Into the dark hall, then up a staircase. We stopped on the second floor landing and embraced. Our first kiss. His lips were firm and a little rough. He glided  his hands into my hair, holding my head and stroking my scalp tenderly. I caught his wrists and pressed him back against the wall, feeling aggressive and giving rein to it in a manner that was unlike me. As I pressed up against him, rubbing my belly against his, I could feel how strong he was—there were hard muscles beneath those clothes. But he let me take control of the embrace. I could tell from the smokiness in his green eyes, just before he closed them, that he liked it; he liked me.

The sex was amazing. It was hot and hurried at the start, then gentler and slower later. It was, in fact, the best sex I'd ever had. Granted, I wasn't super experienced. There had only been a couple of guys I'd been with long enough to get comfortable in that respect. I'd always been stressy about my ability to come with a guy. It was hard for me to let go and start moaning and screaming the way some girls just naturally do. I'd heard them; in a college dorm you can hear everything.

But that night with Will, I relaxed. I didn't worry about how I smelled or tasted or how he'd react if I made weird noises, or how he smelled or tasted or whether he'd think anything I did was strange. I just let all those negative thoughts go and floated, borne up by the sheer delight of being with this lovely man. It all came naturally with Will. It was hot and sweet, and well, perfect.

And it wasn't just me feeling that way. He was relaxed, too. He was serious, the way he always was, not smiling or laughing a whole lot, but there were a couple times when he did laugh. He had this wonderful laugh. It made his eyes go bright and brought out tiny dimples in his cheeks. And he was gentle, except sometimes, when he got this mischievous look in his eyes. Then he was deliberately rough in a way that I loved. It felt as if he could look into my head and see some of my darker imaginings. He could pull threads of fantasy out of me and wind them around us, like a sorcerer doing magic.

We talked, too, lying there in his narrow dorm bed together, drifting into sleep for a little while, then waking up for more cuddles, more passion, more of everything. That was when he told me about his family and his plans and dreams and what he wanted to do after college, and I told him the same stuff about me.

We discussed singing and performing, but we both had a realistic attitude toward that. We knew we were good–he was even better than I was–but we also knew we weren't talented enough to do the whole go-to-New York thing. We both loved music and we loved performing, but there were other things we loved as well, and other dreams to pursue. Or, as he put it with a short laugh, "Other things to fail at."

I didn't wonder about that then, but I did later. We hadn't discussed failures, either ones we'd had or ones we feared for the future. That would have been dark, and Will and I were glowing with light. There was no room for darkness.

In the morning, everything seemed fine. I was so tired that I slept in a bit, all naked and tangled in a sheet that had pulled out from the bottom of the bed. But Will was up and dressed when his roommate came back and pounded on the door, saying he needed clothes and wondering if we were going to be in there all day? So I rose and dressed in my stuff from the previous night.

Will and I went to get something to eat at the Rumpole Cafe across the street from the main administration building. He was smiling more than usual (maybe that was a bad sign!). We talked languidly while sipping our coffee and trying to get our brains and bodies working again. Then Will said he'd drive me back to my dorm, 'cause he had his car, of course, while I didn't have mine.

When he dropped me off, I totally expected him to say he'd come by and pick me up later, or he'd text me or call me so we could figure out our plans. That's what I used to do with my old boyfriend from high school on the weekends. We would spend Friday and Saturday nights together and try to get some studying in the afternoons if there wasn't anything else going on.

But Will didn't say anything about coming by later.

It was only afterward, when I was showering and reliving the most exciting moments of the night and getting turned on all over again that I realized he didn't even have my number. Or my email. Or anything.

4. Guyspeak

––––––––

I
didn't worry, or at least, not much. The college is small, and there's a student directory. It's not as if it's hard to find somebody's contact information.

But he didn't call or text or email. Since we had no classes together and lived on opposite ends of the campus, there was no reason for us to run into each other, either.

I know it's cool for a girl to call a guy if she wants to see him again. Especially when it had seemed like less of a hookup and more of a thing without an immediate expiration date. But I was still hoping he'd be the one to call me. After a few days, when he faded back into the student population without a word, I wondered if I'd been delusional. Had I imagined all that supposed ease and perfection? Maybe I'd never had a
good
hookup before. Maybe other girls had smooth, scorching sex like that all the time. Maybe it was No Big Deal and I was pathetic to think it had been something it wasn't.

But I didn't feel pathetic, not yet. I couldn't shake the conviction that what had happened between Will and me had been different. Special. It hadn't just been sex; it had been more like love.
Not
love yet, of course, after only one night. But for the first time ever, I'd been with someone I could imagine loving.

I was twenty years old, but I had never been in love. I liked sex—liked it a lot—but I'd never been one of those people who romanticized it. When I had strong, passionate feelings for some guy, like my first lover in high school, I didn't start picturing marriage and babies and happily ever after. Sex was a basic need, an evolutionary drive, biochemically powerful. It was fun, too, and felt great. I was young, and that was enough for me right now. I had college to get through and probably grad school afterwards. I'd need a decent job, a good career. Love could wait.

Not that I'd had a whole lot of feel-good casual sex. Since entering college, I'd been in a couple of short, intense relationships. They hadn't really been intimate though, except in the getting naked sense. My attraction to the bad boy type didn't tend to lead to heart-to-heart intimacy. Not only were they bad, but they weren't at all like me. I'm the opposite of bad. I'm sensible in most respects, practical and industrious. I care about grades. If I have a paper to write on a Saturday night when my friends are partying, I'll stay in and skip the fun. Julie mocks me for this most of the time, except during midterms and finals when she wishes she'd followed my example.

Will was the first guy I'd been with who was not my opposite in almost every respect. He was like me. He could almost
be
me. For the first time ever I understood Cathy's
crie de coeur
about Heathcliff: