Velociworld

An Athens Tale

A very close friend, whom I shall call "N" for reasons of anonymity, and fear of the dread ass-whup, had a fair bad second senior year at Georgia. Due to financial setbacks large and small he found himself ensconced in an apartment with two freshmen geeks, marching band members of dubious coolity. Now, I am the last person to cast aspersions on the world-reknowned and beloved Redcoat Marching Band, but these kids were geeks of the first order, complete pussies.

One of the boys had the temerity to call his dad and complain that N was continually stoned and drunk, had ample quantities of narcotics about the place, and tended to wave a 32-20 pistol in their faces after drinking binges. Not unusual for Athens, but the boys made an issue of it, and so the dad came for a weekend visit to ascertain the risk his cherubic, chubby son was indeed exposed to.

N was nothing if not honest, and admitted to abuse of the hashish, and spree drinking, and the occasional deployment of handguns, because this was Athens, man, and rogue elements were about. He then left with his girlfriend to partake of the aforementioned spree drinking.

The boy's dad was not entirely convinced of N's philanthropic nature, but N had donated his bedroom for the evening , so the dad went to sleep there half-heartedly convinced his son was not in imminent danger.

Cue forward four hours. N and Co arrive back at the crib, and proceed to engage in animalistic gladiator sex on the fold out sofa. The bedroom doors remain closed, inhabitants quivering under their respective covers.

Cue forward two hours. N arises, and urinates in the bathroom. Befuddled, though, he forgets he is staying on the sofa, and staggers into his bedroom and climbs, naked, under the covers. There is a warm body there, and he spoons against it. He presses his pee boner into the small of the sleeper's back. Ah, yes. Perhaps one more go and I can bust that nut...

Cue forward two minutes. N arouses, and sees, standing in the doorway, a perplexed and frightened man, with a small blanket clutched to his chest in a decidedly defensive posture. The man's eyes are wide in fear and discomfiture. He retreats, and is never seen again. At least by N.

Second senior years are often better than first senior years, just for these anecdotal moments. Or so I am told.