Apparently the CIA is as desperate to recruit personnel as they were to find weapons of mass destruction.
This would have been thrilling news the second semester of my freshmen year in college. After watching the entire first season of "Alias" in four days, I spent the next week skulking around corners, kicking open imaginary doorways, and brandishing a pantomimed pistol. Alas, as the abundance of THC I'd already inhaled was not an illusion, I would have had to settle for storming my (now) roommate Kara's unlocked dorm room, anyway.
Much to the felicity of my hallmates, this fantastical fascination soon waned and I reverted to my more innocuous, albeit equally polarizing, habit of traipsing around barefoot. A passion for the covert was merely compartmentalized, however, a spy skill to which being in the closet lent a mastery. It would be another year until I came out, but my affinity for espionage surfaced again the following fall.
The milk dispenser - from which 1%, 2%, skim, and even chocolate gushed like soda from a fountain - was no longer the most mesmerizing sight to be found in the university dining hall. Instead, a beautiful boy with large, permanently excited-looking eyeballs was the sight my friends and I looked forward to most. "Crazy Eyes," we dubbed him.
"Maybe we should find out what his real name is," I proposed after a few weeks of ogling those lustrous orbs.
"Oh. Yeah, okay."
Although all in concurrence, we chose not to invite him over to our table, nor did we take the less daunting first step of making introductions while in line for the cereal smorgasbord. No, instead we decide to follow him back to his dorm room in the hopes that his decorative name tag would still be hanging on the door.
We timed the completion of our meals with his. Wolfing down our french fries and our mayo laden breaded chicken sandwiches, we dropped our trays and hurried out the door behind him. Slowing to a stroll, we licked casually at our soft serve twist cones and watched him swipe his student ID, entering the East wing of our shared residency, a wing to which we ourselves did not have access. Scurrying forward once more, we grabbed a hold of the knob before the barrier slammed shut.
Stifling giggles, we trailed at a hundred foot distance, only rushing our amble as he turned corners. We skidded to a halt around the third or fourth bend, crashing noisily against one and other as we watched him slide his key in the lock. The sound of his latch clicking back into place echoed down the empty hall, prompting the three of us forward in a sprint.
"Jordan!" We whispered gleefully, fleeing the scene, intel secured, stalkeration a success.
Our feeding times remained in sync for the remainder of the semester, but we never did initiate a proper greeting. Kara and I spent the spring in Spain and upon returning to campus the next year I began the process of coming out to all of my anticipative friends. Several months and a first public boy crush later, I asked a guy in my creative writing class on a post Valentine's Day date. He responded with a kind, but definitive rejection, claiming to already be involved with someone, someone whom his Facebook photo albums revealed to be none other than CRAZY EYES.
Neither he nor Jordan, as I suppose it would now be most polite to call him, ever discovered our stealth investigation or enduring obsession with his over-sized oculi. Vindication was unknowingly enacted, however, when in workshop my classmate deemed the love scene in my short story, "One Last Summer," indicative of the author's obvious lack of sexual experience.
...[Elaine] turned to reach for her book and nearly fell out of bed when she saw a shirtless man standing in front of the open window across the room.
“Holy, fucking Jesus, Phil.” She hissed through bared teeth, the moonlight glinting off her opaline veneers. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Do you want to get caught?”
He responded only by arching his eyebrows sharply downwards and thrusting a stiff index finger against his pursed lips, beckoning her outside with the other.
She slipped out from beneath the bed sheet and padded over towards the window, swinging one leg over the windowsill, straddling the frame before dropping softly onto the prickly grass below. She ignored Phil’s extended hand, stood up, and marched into the woods with him close behind. Once hidden behind the thick trunks of the ancient maple trees, Elaine whipped around, ready to berate Phil for his careless actions, but his lips were on hers before she could begin her tirade. She grabbed the back of his head, plunging deeper into his kiss, but pulled back after a moment, grabbing his hand and leading him deeper into the woods.
There she pushed him roughly against the jagged bark of one of the innumerable sugar maples, grabbing his cheeks and pulling him into another, deeper, if that was possible, kiss. He began to take charge, leaning into the kiss, his stubble scraping against her chin, as he spun her around, shoving her against the tree. Elaine did her best to stifle a moan as she felt the rough bark scratching against her back, against her butt, through her thin t-shirt, the only thing between her and the tree, the night air, Phil. She raised her arms above her head and dug her fingers into the bark, covering them in sap as Phil wrenched his shorts to one side, spread her legs, and thrust inside of her.
No longer able to contain herself, Elaine arched her back, grinding her head into the bark, releasing a guttural howl, appropriately animalistic considering the setting. A few minutes and infinite grunts and groans later, they slumped to the ground in a breathless tangle of sweaty limbs and worn cotton. She nuzzled her head into his chest, spreading sap over his dark hair. As her breathing returned to normal, she sat up, straddled his abdomen, and slapped him hard across the face.
“Don’t you ever show up at my window like that again.” She stood up, pushed her hair away from her face, and walked away as gracefully as any woman wearing nothing but an extra large, man’s t-shirt could...
As keen as the critique may have been, as self-deprecating though I can now be, it was quite the shot between my young, evenly spaced and average-sized, momentarily widened eyes.