College Try


Most of this tale is true, drawn from several sources. Some of it is fiction. Some of it is pure fantasy. I cannot divulge the names of my sources.


“Damn, Frank, you got a date with Barbara. That’s the girl I wanted to go out with. The girl with the pointed arm.”

“Well, Hell, Ralph. I didn’t know you wanted her. It’s just a date. We’re only going to the movies.”

Ralph was my roommate in my first dorm room in my first month at college. He was a drummer in the marching band, and I marched with the baritone saxophone. I had meet Barbara one evening when Ralph and I were having supper in the Student Union Building, known as the SUB. Shy as I was—and I was painfully shy with girls—I somehow managed to work up the nerve to ask her out for a date.

In fact it was Ralph who introduced me to her. She came over to our table. “Hi, Ralph. How’re you doing?”

“Fine. How’re you?”

“Great, I’m good. Can I sit down?”

I butted in, “Sure, have a seat.” I stood up and pulled out a chair for her. In those days, boys did things like that for girls. Men did it for women.

“Why, thank you, Sir. Old time Southern manners.”

“My mama raised me right,” I said.

Ralph was just a bit flustered. “Oh, Barbara, this is my roommate Frank. He’s in the band too.”

She leaned forward with her elbows on the table. Her elbows seemed to come to sharp points. I suppose that’s what Ralph meant by talking about her “pointed arm.” Her smile was infectious. “Another band boy.”

“I’m not a boy, I’m a baritone saxophone.”

“That’s cute.” Her ash-blond curls bounced as she giggled. Ralph turned red in the face. I should have seen that there was something between them, but at barely eighteen I was socially inept.

A day or two later I ran into Barbara again and managed to ask her out. I picked her up at the door of the women’s dorm, which was barred to boys. We could go into the foyer and sit together with a girl for conversation or maybe a bit of surreptitious hand-holding, but we could go no farther. The interior was forbidden territory to males of any age. Even a girl’s father had to get special permission to carry his daughter’ luggage up to her room. Once, months later, I carried Linda’s suitcases upstairs. The floor monitor, a lovely blonde, walked in front of us, calling out, “Man on three. Man on the floor.” A couple of girls peeped out their doors, open just a tiny crack, but the hall was empty.

Barbara and I walked six blocks down the hill to the town’s only movie house. We shared a big fifty-cent tub of popcorn. After the movie I took her to the malt shop for sandwiches and Dr Peppers. When I walked her back to the girls’ dorm, her roommate was just coming back with her date, and the four of us sat in the foyer for a chat.

“Frank, this is my roommate Linda,” said Barbara. Linda was slim, elegant, and beautiful. Her hair was shoulder length and deep auburn, with sea-green eyes. She was wearing a white blouse, a royal blue skirt, and saddle Oxfords with white Bobby socks. The girl fairly radiated poise and presence. From my first look at her, I was hooked. It took me about one day to overcome my shyness enough to ask Linda for a date.

Our first date was of course a Friday night movie with popcorn and Dr Peppers. We held hands on the way back, and took the long way back to the girls’ dorm. We sat together on a bench in the visiting room until the dorm mother called curfew and herded all the boys out. But we managed a furtive kiss.

From then on Linda and I were a couple. And I was heels-over-head in love with that girl. We went to the movies every Friday night; we went on picnics; we went for out for moonlight walks; we hid behind the shrubbery for hot groping and kissing—what in those days were called “make-out sessions.”

One moonlit night we were in our usual mode, with our hands all over each other and our lips tingling from a good quarter-hour of wet, passionate kissing. Linda sat up and drew away from me. “Wait a second,” she said. “Don’t say anything. Just sit still.”

Slowly she began to unbutton her blouse, one button at a time with long, long pauses in between. The snow white blouse was luminescent under the light of a full Harvest moon. I was dumbstruck, speechless. I couldn’t breathe. As she undid each button she watched my face. After the third button she paused even longer. “Oh, Frank,” she whispered, “watching you watch me like that, I feel like a real woman!” She lay back on the grass and extended her arms over her head. Her shining white blouse was half open halfway down toward her waist. She was wearing the same blue skirt she had worn the first night I saw her. It looked black in the moonlight. It seemed to cover undreamt-of adventure.

I rose to my knees and reached for her. “Oh, Linda, Linda. You’re . . . .”

“Hush!” She laid one finger lightly on my lips. “Sit still. Wait, and watch.” She lay back again on the grass and undid one more button, opening her blouse even Eskort Kız further. Now I could see the cups of her brassiere. They were edged with intricate white lace. There was a tiny white bow at the center, seeming to hold the cups together.

I was transfixed. I was inflamed. I was burning. I had never known this depth of desire. I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears. “Li — Lin– Lin . . . .”

“Sh!” Her mouth showed a mysterious half-smile. I had a ragingly painful erection and, without looking, she knew it. She was leading me inch by inch. She was triumphant, secure, and glorying in the knowledge of her irresistible female power over me, over all men. At that moment she could have had my guts for garters, and she knew that too. Slowly she undid the last button and opened her blouse wide. The tiny white bow between her breasts twinkled at me.

She lay there for a long moment, drinking in my adoration, knowing her female power. Then she sat up, reached behind her, undid the clasp, and tossed her bra aside. She lay back on the grass again, covering her breasts with her hands. She smiled again and moved her hands aside, opening her breasts to me.

Except for the blue skirt, so dark in the moonlight, she was all ivory and alabaster. She looked like Venus floating on the waves. Her breasts, those perpetual emblems of femininity, were free and exposed to the night air, to the moon, and to me. They were full, gently rounded, not overly large. Her areolas were contracted, crinkled from the cool night air, and her nipples stood up erect and stiff. They jutted out, almost as large as the ball of my thumb.

“They’re yours,” she said.

“Aahhggg,” I answered. I had never seen a woman’s breasts before, not since I was weaned at the age of one.

She took my hands and placed them on her breasts. “Love my tits,” she murmured. “Show me how much you love them.”

“Oh, God, Linda. I never saw anything so beautiful.”

“You think I’m beautiful?”

“The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” I think my heart forgot to beat for a minute or more.

“Show me. Love my tits.”

I began to stroke her breasts, tracing the outer curve with my palms, massaging them gently, then dragging my fingers roughly across her areolas and finally taking the nipples between my thumbs and fingers. I gave her left nipple a tentative pinch.

“Ah!” she said. “That’s good. Do that again. Both of ’em.”

I pinched both nipples and rolled them between my thumbs and forefingers.

“Ahh! Oooohh! That’s better. Now kiss my nipples. Suck on them. Make love to my tits.”

“Oh, yes!” I breathed, and filled my mouth with female flesh.

I massaged and kneaded those delectable breasts. I sucked each nipple deep into my mouth and scraped them with my teeth. I licked her nipples, her areolas, her breasts, and the V of her cleavage. I took one of her nipples in my mouth and sucked it hard and deep as I massaged her other breast with one hand. She shivered and trembled

“Ohhhh, Frank. That was beautiful.” She pushed me up and off her and reached for her bra.

My tool was hard and throbbing in my jeans. “But Linda,” I stammered, “I . . . .”

“Oh, Frank, you’d better take me back to the dorm right now, before it’s too late.”

I think that night set the tone for us, an unspoken agreement that we would wait until we were married to have sex. In those days that was expected; it was the norm. But until then hugging, kissing, petting, and making out was also the norm, and was also the expected thing.

We got back to her dorm about a minute before the midnight curfew. Barbara was waiting at the door. “I didn’t think you were going to make it,” she said. “You’ve got to be more careful. Listen, you two are . . . oh.” She had seen the look on Linda’s face. Either that, or there was some invisible female telegraph that broadcast to every girl—every human female—within sight, or maybe on the whole college campus.

Barbara started her sentence again, “You two better be careful.” She shot me an intense, indecipherable look. “You hear me, Frank? I don’t want to have to take a stick to you. Stop it, you two! Linda, you get inside, now!”

That sharp “Stop it” put a halt to our lingering goodnight kiss, and Barbara literally dragged her roommate into the dormitory.

The invisible female telegraph must have worked, for by the next day all the girls that I saw on campus were giving me knowing looks and mysterious smiles.

Linda told me that a boy I knew in my dorm, Bobby Durst, had asked her for a date. She said no, but he wouldn’t take that for an answer. “He said, ‘Well, Frank got what he wanted from you.’ I said, ‘No, damn you, Bill Durst, he did not!’ I wanted to slap his face but I didn’t. I should have.”

That night I went to Durst’s room. “Durst, you keep away from my woman.”

“Or what? She’s not your property.”

“As far as you’re concerned she is. You want to step outside right now?”

“All right, all right. You win. I won’t bother her anymore.”

That wasn’t quite enough for me. I fairly growled at him, “And you don’t say a damn word about her. You hear?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Okay!’

That ended the confrontation and I left. But the next morning Howard the boy across the hall from me, said, “I heard you beat up Durst last night.”

“I didn’t have to. He backed down.”

“That’s too damn bad. I wish you had. He’s got it comin’. He’s a real bastard”

So Linda’s reputation was safe, and all the girls in her dorm thought I was some kind of minor hero. Some girl that I didn’t know threw a pair of panties at me out the dorm window. She had printed FRANK on them in bright red lipstick.

Linda was a Baptist—very Baptist. I wasn’t, but my mother was; I had gone to Baptist Sunday School pretty regularly as a little kid. It seemed only natural that I went to church with Linda every Sunday. One Sunday, as the preacher thundered at us about Hellfire and damnation, Linda leaned her cheek on my shoulder and whispered, “Do you think it’s a sin to desire a person in church?”

“I don’t know about that, but I desire you right now, in or out of church.”

That Sunday afternoon we were making out as usual, and Linda lifted up her skirt. She placed my hand on her crotch. “Pet my pussy,” she said. “That’s sinful.” She seemed to enjoy the idea of sinning. Or maybe it was the danger of getting caught sinning.

We had never gone that far before. I petted her pussy through the thin fabric of her light cotton panties. She smothered my face with kisses. I ran my palm up and down the delta of her crotch. I traced the lips of her pussy with one finger, top to bottom, bottom to top. She was panting, “Ohhh, Frank . . . .”

I squeezed her mound together, compressing her slit. Her pubic mound had grown fatter than it was when I began to stroke her.

“Oh, Frank, oh, oh, ohhhh Frank!” Her panties got all wet.

“Linda, did you just . . .?”

“No. It’s not that, just keep petting me. Don’t stop.”

I didn’t stop. I stroked the cotton cloth deep into her slit. She began to shudder and there was a sudden gush of liquid. Her panties were soaked and my hand was wet.

“Linda, did you pee in my hand?” I wouldn’t have cared if she had, just because it was Linda’s piss. It was erotic.

“No, silly. When a girl loves a boy, and when they sin, her thing gets all wet. It’s not pee, it’s juice. You could call it love juice—because I love you, Frank. If that’s a sin, then I’m a sinner.”

“I love you too, Linda.”

She loved me. She had never said that before. My feet didn’t touch the earth on the way back to the dorms that evening.

A month or so after that I went with Linda on a Baptist Retreat. It was a sort of overnight campout on a weekend, with a service and a sermon on Sunday morning. The idea was to “reconnect with Jesus and renew your faith.” It was a pleasant time, but Linda and I didn’t have much chance to sneak away for kissing and petting. We did manage once to take a stroll beside the creek under the weeping willow trees, holding hands but no more than that.

Another couple came strolling along the creek side, also holding hands. “Oh, hi,” the girl said. “I think I know you. Aren’t you Barbara’s roommate?”

“Why, yes. I may have seen you around on the campus. I’m Linda and this is Frank.” She squeezed my hand.

“I’m Amy and this is George.” George and I shook hands and the girls hugged each other lightly. It turned out that George was the Baptist, while Amy only came along to be with him.

We became friendly with Amy and George and went out with them on a couple of double dates. Amy said she was maybe a semi-Baptist, but she had been baptized a Baptist just for George’s sake. George beamed when he said that. “But really,” she said, “I’m a Naturist.”

Linda was intrigued. “What’s a Naturist? Is that a religion? I never heard of that.”

“Well no, not a religion. But it is very spiritual. We have a sort of free and easy lifestyle, close to the earth, informal clothing. We go barefoot a lot.”

Linda giggled, “You go bare? Foot and back?”

I wasn’t sure what was going on here. George was flustered but Amy took it in stride without a pause. “Well, actually we belong to a Nudist colony. I hope that doesn’t put youall off.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of this, but Linda pricked up her ears. “You mean you go nude? Naked?”

Amy went on as if it were a perfectly normal conversation, “We have a place we like to go. It’s real secluded. Nobody would bother us there. Want to come along next time?”

George had a car, and the four of us went to a spot on the riverbank about an hour and a half out of town. The girls had packed a picnic basket. We scrambled down the escarpment to a sandy beach beside a long bend of the river. Amy was right; it was secluded, a very private spot. Big shady trees overhung the lip of the escarpment, closing us off from the rest of the world, and from prying eyes.

Linda was ready to eat as soon as we got to the riverbank. “First things first,” Amy said. “We like to eat in the nude.” She didn’t hesitate. She shucked her dress off over her head and stepped out of her sandals. She wasn’t wearing panties or a bra. “Whenever y’all are ready,” she said as she spread out a blanket on the sandy beach. “But we can’t have lunch until we’re all of us naked.” She was so matter-of-fact about it that I was nonplussed. George was already unbuckling his belt and dropping his trousers.

Linda and I looked at each other. She had a quizzical look, looking at me for guidance. I shrugged and undid my belt. When I got my jeans halfway down around my hips, I realized I still had my shoes on. I sat down on the blanket to untie my shoes. Linda had taken her cue from me and was already removing her blouse, seeming perfectly okay with all this.

By now George was already in the buff and was unpacking the picnic basket while Amy laid out paper plates, napkins, and utensils. I shed my jeans and boxer shorts together and stood up in only my long-tailed shirt. My crotch, the center of my nakedness, was still covered. Linda unbuttoned and unzipped her skirt. Her back was toward me as she slid her panties down to her ankles and stepped daintily out of them, one foot at a time. As she bent forward to slip those white cotton panties off her foot, she moved with such fluid grace that my breath caught in my throat.

Clad only in her bra, she turned to face me. In all those months of necking, kissing, and heavy petting, we had never seen each other unclothed. I had stroked and massaged her pussy outside and inside her panties, but she had never taken them off when we were together. But now the patch of auburn hair that covered her delta shone in the sunlight. My Linda was a true redhead.

She reached behind her back to undo her bra and let it fall. She stood there on the sand totally nude, a vision of grace, beauty, and glory. I couldn’t speak. I fumbled with the top button of my shirt. Linda came to me. “No,” she said. “Let me do this.”

She undid my buttons and pulled my shirt open, carefully not looking down at my crotch but up into my eyes. She slid the shirt off over my shoulders and let it drop, pressing herself against me as she did. I folded her in my arms and we began a very meaningful kiss. My hands went down blindly, unwilled and without volition, to cup and stroke her bottom.

George stared at us with a sour look. “I thought y’all wanted to be Naturists. Like us,” he said. “You’re in this just for sex.”

Linda stepped away from me as if she had been burned by the touch of my skin. Perhaps she had.


“Oh no,” she said. “No. It’s just . . . we’re so in love. We’re going to wait, I mean really wait, until we’re married. And we’re going to be married. That’s when we’ll have our first sex.”

“George, let them alone,” said Amy. “Can’t you see they’re in love?”

“Well, I guess it’s okay, if you say so.” But George wasn’t happy with us after that. On the ride back to campus he didn’t say a word, but Amy seemed unfazed. She chattered gaily about “our next outing.” But we never saw or heard from Amy or George again.


We really meant to wait, or I did. And I think Linda did too. But we really couldn’t. At the end of the semester we got Continental Trailways bus tickets together to go home for the summer. Linda had cooked up a sort of plan. We would stay overnight at a hotel in the city and catch separate busses afterwards to go home to our parents. We were going to “go all the way.” It was going to be like our wedding night. I was powerless. In spite of our unspoken pact to wait for marriage, I couldn’t refuse. I couldn’t refuse Linda anything.

We got a room in a second-class hotel. Two dollars for one night’s stay. We registered as Mr. and Mrs. John Smith. God, but I was nervous. I hoped it didn’t show. Linda was quiet, shy, and demure, which wasn’t like her at all.

“Newlyweds,” the clerk said. “Right, of course, Mr. and Mrs. Smith. He put stress on the Smith. “Here’s your key. Checkout is eleven a. m. Enjoy your . . . wedding night.” He was smirking or smiling; I wasn’t sure which.

The elevator was old and creaky. The door was just a latticework of interlocked brass bars that I had to slide across by hand to close. It took us slowly up to the third floor, and we rode up without saying anything. When we got to the room and stowed our suitcases, we turned to look at one another. We both felt shy and awkward.

“I, uh . . . , ah . . . ,” Linda said.

I answered, “Err, um, um . . . . Well, here we are.”

“Yes,” she said. “We’re here.”

I took her hand, drew her to me, and kissed her. Lightly. Then we sat down on the bed. On the bed. We had never been near a bed before. It was a daunting thought. I hardly knew what to do next.

Linda let go my hand and pushed me slightly away from her. She stood up. Turn your back,” she whispered softly, “don’t look at me. I want to change. Maybe you should put on your pajamas too.”

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