Willing Suspension of Disbelief

by Jenny Applegate

A Halloween love story

There I was. Hanging out the window of my Court Street apartment. Getting ready to appease the chanting crowd below. When suddenly, there he was. Our eyes met. He was gorgeous. Tall. Dark hair. Nice shoes.

BOOBS, dude. So I'm trailing that pack of scantily clad Girl Scouts around Court Street, hoping to get a kiss or a phone number or a Thin Mint (WABAM!!!), when all the sudden I look up at the windows above where that bong store used to be, and there they are, two majestic, beaming lighthouse beacons guiding me home... BOOBS. SHA-ZAT!!!

And next thing I know he's there... like we were magnets just drawn to each other. He was so sweet, offering me an open bottle of Honey Brown, complimenting my school-girl costume. Irresistible, you know?

So you know me, I sneak in her apartment complex behind a bunch of cross-dressing hooter girls, and BAM. There I am in her apartment, eyein' up that plaid skirt while I throw her a beer I stole from the LAST party I went to. A way to "Prime the Pump," as FDR would've said. It's like there was a magnet drawing me into her pants.

We talked about Halloween and how he came up with the idea for his costume. And we flirted. A little shamelessly. His eyes were just so beautiful. His hands just looked so strong. And suddenly the thought flashed through my mind: HOOK-UP. A beautiful chance for an evening of fun.

She's gawking at my costume - a bunch of lousy American fashion trends from the last 20 years. Hypercolor shirts. Swatch watches. Jams. Those tennis shoes with the zippers. Those "Cat in the Hat" hats. Horn-rimmed glasses with no lenses. And a bindi, just for good measure. All the time one thought flashing through my mind: BOOTY. A beautiful chance for an evening of wanton monkey lovin'.

Sure, he looked a little strange with all those colors, but a sense of humor is really important. You know how some of these things work, you don't want someone who's going to be weird the next day. It's men's minds that most women are attracted to. Yep. His mind.

Of course, she's droolin' all over the costume, turnin' my Hypercolor shirt from pink to purple to bright red. Yeah. Every once in a while I crack a joke or make some quasi-populist statement like "Yeah, that's why I hate the American media" just so she thinks I'm all thoughtful and whatever. This frees me up to scope her out, calculate the number of people at the party, how many brew-dogs are left and how one might steal up the stairs with a catholic schoolgirl without attracting attention. You know how it is. It's men's minds that most women are preoccupied with while we're trying to SCORE. BID-DOW!!!

As the hours progressed, our conversation never waned. He was genuinely funny... and plenty hot. I let it - as casually as possible - drop that the apartment was actually my apartment. And that I don't share a bedroom. All pretty smoothly, though. It's not like I hopped on his lap right there on the couch, crying, "Take me, baby!"

Four Honey Browns later (that last party was LOADED, and my jams had deep pockets), she's practically hoppin' on the couch in a highly suggestive manner, mumblin' something or another. I could make out a few phrases here and there: "my place," "free bedroom," "get funkified," "Barry White." Suddenly the five weeks I spent hunting down a pair of jams is all worthwhile.

So we sat on the couch until everyone else left... and then made our way upstairs, where for decency's sake my story ends. Suffice is to say it was good.

DAMN.

And he promised to call me in a few days.

Damn. What was her name again?

Rob Harvilla contributed to this column. Jenny, a senior journalism major, has actually been dating Rob for more than a year. Please take this column with a grain a salt. Send e-mail to her at ja422897.