Finn and I are both art students, we have several classes together. We share a common friend— this girl who’s most likely lesbian, although that particular subject is never, ever discussed. One day, she and I have a “date” at Valley Taco, across the street from our drawing class. We’ve both just spent 90 minutes staring at the dick of a very timid, and (I’m guessing) very cold nude model. It’s February. My cat has just died. Neither of us call it a date, but several of our friends do. We load up on our iced tea and 2-for-1 tacos, and mostly talk about Finn.
Finn doesn’t even know we’re in the same art history class, since he always sits up front and I sit a few rows back. I always notice him. He of the bulky Icelandic sweaters and super-tight Lee’s corduroys. He’s a sexy boy. He’s flirtatious with everyone. “Mr. Hoops, I’ve never quite understood Picasso’s blue period until your riveting explanation just now. It’s really opened my mind. Like, WAY open. Is there any chance certain students might be allowed to pick your brain a bit after class, and delve a little, um, DEEPER into the nuances you’ve eluded to?” Every word is a double entendre. He’s such a bottom. Every glance screams “FUCK ME NOW!” I really, really want to. Now.
One day I’m sitting at a randomly-placed desk in the upstairs hallway of the liberal arts building. I’m painstakingly drawing the orange peel that I’ve arranged and placed in front of me. It’s that one orange I’ve brought from home, and carefully peeled in one single piece and meticulously placed its skin on the desk at the top of my drawing pad. I’ve created a great set up for a still life, and I’m planning to take good advantage of it. Finn comes up and swoops the peel into his grasp and and lobs it into the trash can with one motion.
“What the hell, dude?” I ask. “That was my subject… Now it’s ruined!”
“Oh, fuck…” he offered. “That was your muse. I understand. I’ll get it…”
He seemed truly remorseful as he bent down into the trash bin to retrieve the citrus rind.
Even though I enjoyed the site of his searching, upturned ass, I said, “Forget it. I was finished anyway.”
I showed him my sketch. He liked it.
“It’s the quintessential orange peel,” he stated. “It’s proverbial.”
“Proverbial?” I questioned, certain that he must be misusing the word.
“Yeah, it’s like…” he began, and then turned to my English teacher, Mrs. Runft, who just happened to be walking by. Every time I saw her, I was always reminded of our first day of the semester, and the quirky way she introduced the class to her last name. (“It’s ‘run’ like a dog, ‘fffttt’ like a cat.”)
Apparently, Finn had another teacher for English, and didn’t recognize her as one of the professors.
“Excuse me, Ma’am,” Finn said, dosing out a tiny sample of his ample supply of Eddie-Haskell-like charm. “You look like a smart lady, what does the word “proverbial” mean?”
For a moment, Mrs. Runft looked like a deer caught in the headlights. And then, quick as anything, a calm sense of confidence and privilege seemed to overtake her early-middle-aged body. Hearing herself described as a “smart lady” seemed to strike some major chord. She took off her glasses, straightened her spine and stared into the near distance as she collected just the right words to express the entirety of her undergraduate years at Bryn Mawr.
“Proverbial,” she began. “Taken from the Proverbs. ‘His sense of justice was proverbial.’”
She seemed pleased with her answer. And satisfied that, once again, her superb language skills had helped some poor, confused gentlemen in distress. Smiling, she repositioned her glasses and continued on her route, happy to have been of service.
“God, Finn — that was embarrassing,” I started. “That ‘smart lady’ was my English teacher…”
“Sorry to hear that,” he smiled. “And I hope you enjoy yourself in summer school, brushing up on all the proverbial lessons she wasn’t quite able to adequately teach?”
He re-pitched the orange peel back into the trash.
“Two points,” he claimed. “Actually, four, if you figure the score cumulatively.”
I wanted to say something like, “I like you, Finn Forney.” But I chickened out. Opting instead for a lighter, more observational response.
“Finn Forney… His sense of aim was proverbial.”
A few days later I see him in the student union building drinking coffee. He wordlessly beckons me over. I sit across from him and start drawing him in my sketchbook. When curiosity takes hold, I tell him to chill out. I’m not going to show him my shit before I’m ready. The ball is in MY court, baby. You just need to sit tight and wait. I got this.
After at least twenty minutes, I lean back and turn my sketchbook around. He’s obviously pleased with what he sees.
“Is that me?” he asks.
OK, so maybe my rendering was a little bit flattering. Maybe I’d drawn his jawline a little sharper, his eyebrows a little thicker. He was a handsome Scandinavian guy, but my drawing made him look a little like a caricature of a REALLY handsome guy. He would’ve been a fucking fool to not be completely flattered.
After that, we started to become pretty good friends. He finally noticed me in all those classes we shared. We started having lunch together. He wanted me to draw him again. I did.
He lived near campus. A weird little attic room in a house near the Boise River. We both thought the landlady and her “roommate” were a couple, although neither of us dared to ask.
We’d often go over to his place after school, sit and smoke weed until long after the sun set. He loved the band Providence, a local group my brother and I had revered forever. Finn had played violin in his junior high school orchestra. Listening the the music made him want to pick it up again. He’d dance around his tiny room pantomiming the movements of a prancing, fiddle-playing, Ian Anderson-like pixie.
Even with all our time together, he never admitted to being gay, but it was so obvious. Just as obvious as my own penchant for loving dick. It was only a matter of time before the truth came spilling out.
One evening, as I was waiting for my high to subside enough for me to be able to drive somewhat safely home, I started asking him questions about what he liked to do. Did he have any hobbies? How did he like to fill his time?
He kind of blushed, and fended off the questions. I took note, and pressed further.
Well, apparently we were both still high enough that he promised to show me something, but swore me to secrecy.
“Do you swear?”
“Yeah,” I casually assured him. “I swear to keep your secret. Whatever the fuck it is…”
Then he showed me.
He pulled out a drawer from under his bed. Pulling back a towel, he revealed a collection of dildos. I’d never seen a dildo before, but could instantaneously intuit their potential use.
There were at least half a dozen of them. Some big, some small. Some of them very realistic with veins and balls attached. Others were nothing more than rigid rubber cylinders, poised for penetration.
“Where did you get these?” I couldn’t help but ask. Where in the world would someone even FIND stuff like this???
“Well, you asked what I spend my time doing… I spend most of it with my little friends here.”
It was a lot of information to take in. And I really did need to get going. My mom was going to need the station wagon, and I knew I was already verging on late getting it back to her.
Finn noticed that I hadn’t said anything and asked what I thought of his collection.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I answered truthfully. “I need to… get going. But thanks for showing me…”
“Maybe we can play sometime?” he asked hopefully as I found my shoes.
“Sometime” turned out to be just a few nights later. Friday, after classes, the two of us went to dinner at an Indian place near campus.
“You left so quickly the other night. I hoped you weren’t freaked out by my collection?” he asked as we shared a curry with naan.
“Freaked out? No. Surprised…? Maybe?”
But, then I added real fast, “But… maybe — we can, I don’t know, go back to your place? If you’d like? I really don’t need to get the car back anytime soon.”
He smiled and asked for the check.
I let him know I was a total anal virgin, so we started small. After a few eye-opening hours at his place, we had graduated from the tame toys to the more aggressively-sized ones. He settled in to lie by my side. Giving one final little twist, he kissed my neck and asked “How was that?”
I looked down at my cum-splattered chest and smiled.
“His use of the dildo was proverbial.”
