Monkey Business

A pint of cold beer to a group of men who’d been chomping on salted pretzels all night, she was wearing a purple silk wraparound top that exposed a liberal expanse of glistening cleavage. Brown curls framed her creamy face, swirling onto her shoulders. I wanted to run my hands over her voluptuous behind.

I had to talk to her. I was in lust. I maneuvered my way so that I was standing near her, and then, when she looked sufficiently bored with the computer nerd beside her—“D-d-do you know that integrated wire-l-l-less LAN de-de-devices…”—I jumped in with a joke.

A few drinks (flat Coke for me, beer for her) and several jokes later, my hand was firmly on her arm. And then I asked her to get some air.

Love that. Air. A euphemism for let’s get it on.

When I told her I was joining Hillel, the Jewish campus organization, and she said she was thinking of checking it out, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.

Gorgeous, in business school and Jewish. My mother would be so farklempt.

Then we were sitting next to each other, almost touching, in the courtyard behind the dorm. She was chewing a piece of gum and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the sexy way her lips weaved with each bite. I felt like I was in my own porno movie.

Me: Is that the real color of your eyes, or are they contacts?

Her: Real. Do you like them?

She blew out a bubble and then sucked it back into her mouth. I wanted to be the piece of gum moving in and around her lips. I wanted to be that bubble. And when she turned away from me to stretch her legs onto the bench beside her, polishless toes pointed, feet arched—holy foot fetish, I had to have this woman. I couldn’t stop myself from lightly kissing the back of her neck. When she tilted her head toward me, smiling with her juicy, bite-able mouth, I leaned forward and kissed her, savoring the mix of beer and cherry gum in her mouth.

She grabbed my hand and led me up the stairs to her room. She lit a musky scented candle and turned off the lights. I pulled her shirt over her head, then unfastened her black lace pushup bra and let it drop to the floor. A set of gorgeous breasts stared up at me, their nipples like headlights in the dark.

“Good evening,” I said to them.

She unbuttoned my shirt, and then nibbled, bit and kissed my neck, shoulders, chest, nipples, stomach…and then she unfastened my belt, unzipped me and pushed me onto the bed.

I ran my fingers through her hair.

She sat up and licked her lips.

I was as hard as a mezuzah. Which she hadn’t put up on her door, I noticed. I decided that maybe now was not the time to discuss her religious values. Especially since if she wanted to have sex we’d have to do it soon. The cork on my little man was about to pop. “Do you have a condom?” I asked. Or begged, to be more precise.

“Yeah, one sec.” She leaped off me, her fantastic breasts jiggling, opened her desk drawer and pulled out a Trojan. Wow, we’d just moved into the dorm—she must have unpacked them right off the bat. My kind of woman.

She leaned beside me and licked her hand, and used it to play with me while she opened the condom wrapper with her other hand and her teeth.

She had to stop. Don’t stop. Stop. Her hand felt so hot. Don’t stop.

Oy.

I came.

She surveyed the damage. “It’s okay. Not a big deal.”

What a sweetheart.

So tired. Needed to rest my eyes for just a moment. Took a nap. When I opened my eyes, she was gone. And I was still exhausted. I found her in the bathroom, said good-night and headed to my room.

And now, here I am, inexplicably wide-awake, pounding my hand against the bathroom wall. I love B-school. Who knew? I want to scream out to the world how much I love this place. But I don’t want to tell anyone why. I’m not the type who boasts. I can hold my tongue, just not my cum. Ha-ha.

Maybe I should U-turn to Kimmy’s room for another go. Nah. I don’t want to overwhelm her, or, God forbid, appear too eager (I already scored too high in the eager department). I can wait until tomorrow. We have all year to shtup. Tonight was just a warm-up.

But I’m too hyper to sleep. Should I watch a movie? Or read? I have a drawer full of movie scripts in my room. I’ve been buying and reading scripts of famous movies since I was ten and I wanted to be an actor.

Nah. I’m suddenly too hyper to sleep.

Maybe Nick and Russ are back. Instead of making a sharp left to my room, I hang a right toward the southeast side of the dorm, hoping they’re still up.

Still up? Under the circumstances, I should probably rephrase that.

12:32 a.m.

russ floats and forgets

I’m contemplating taking off to call Sharon so she doesn’t go ape-shit, when someone knocks on Nick’s door. “Who is it?” Nick asks, eyeing the glass tube of hash on his desk.

“Jamie,” a deep, low-pitched voice responds.

Nick inhales from his joint and then exhales out the open window. “Come in.”

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Jamie pushes open the door and nods at Nick on the computer chair, and then at me. I’ve made myself comfortable, sprawled across the wooden floor. Oh, man, I’m way too relaxed. My arms, legs and ass are numb. I try to raise my hand in a wave, but find that my body won’t cooperate. Instead my fingers feel like they’re floating on the floor.

“Russ?” he says to me. “Are you conscious?”

Jamie’s voice doesn’t match his body. He’s like an Ewok with Darth Vader’s set of pipes. His rumored sexual prowess doesn’t fit, either. Do women really go for the geriatric look?

He looks at the TV. We’ve been watching the security video. Some rich alumni donated the money for a camera in the entranceway, and now anyone with a TV in his room can watch the entrance on channel two. Sure to provide hours of stoned entertainment.

Nick rolls his chair over to Jamie, then slaps him on the back. “Whassup with you, Mr. Stud?”

Jamie smiles coyly. “Great time at the beer bash, I tell you.”

“You got action, eh?” I say, attempting and failing to lift myself up by my elbows.

“How’d you know that?”

Nick laughs. “People talk, dude.”

I’m not crazy about the word dude. Too wanna-be surfer-boy. Nick’s from California, so maybe he’s allowed. His pale skin and skinny body, however, suggest that the only kind of surfing Nick does is for porn.

But he’s a good guy. A cool guy. He has a guitar in the corner of his room, and cigars on his desk. I’ve always wanted to be friends with the “cool” guy. After making a small fortune at a start-up five years ago and then blowing most of it on two failed ventures, he decided to invest in an MBA.

As for me, I’d planned on coming to B-school since I started watching Family Ties and wanted to be Alex P. Keaton. Later, I wanted to be Bill Gates. I also wanted to be a superhero but decided that Bill was the more realistic role model. And I wouldn’t have to wear tights. I slaved over my B-school application for months and then agonized for even longer while I waited for the schools to get back to me.

I met Jamie and Nick yesterday. They came up to school one day early to settle in. I came one day early to attend the international student orientation. Canadians should not have to sit through a four-hour international student orientation. I learned how to use American money. Thanks. The international student orientation also taught me that in Amerika, people have to tip. No shit.

The only entertaining part of the boredom marathon was the bit about greetings. The lecturer asked two male students, one from Brazil and one from Japan, to come up to the podium and say hello as if they were at a business meeting. The Brazilian guy jumped the lecturer and kissed her cheeks. The Japanese man bowed and wouldn’t go near her. She then taught us that in this wonderful country, you shake hands. Thanks again.

After a full day of more useless instruction, I headed back to my room, pushed my duffel bag off my slightly stained mattress and stared at the wall, feeling overwhelmed. As I lay on the bare, squeaky mattress, I congratulated myself on finally getting here. Of course, I’d paid a price. I’d given up a top-paying consulting job in Toronto. And left my girlfriend. And taken out a massive loan.

Hoping that someone would come by and make me feel better, I left the door open. Ten minutes later Jamie stood just outside my room. When he invited me to join him and Nick in wandering around, I gladly accepted. Nick and I quickly led the group to the closest bar, where we got pissed.

We’d sat together at the dean’s welcoming address today. Nick had occupied himself by reading the Wall Street Journal on his PDA while Jamie checked out the women and promptly fell asleep.

I listened in awe, rubbing the felt of my chair with adoration and amazement. I was sitting in a top B-school auditorium. I was finally here. A B-school student majoring in…well, I don’t know yet what I’m majoring in. There are so many amazing choices. Finance, Marketing, International Business, Entrepreneurship…

“You are the future Fortune 500, the future entrepreneurs of America, the future CEOs of the world,” the dean had told us, sending chills through my spine. I had expected him to look more like Dumbledore from Harry Potter, but he looked more built than wizardly, with his wide shoulders and buff upper torso. Kind of like The Hulk. Sharon would have thought he was hot.

Oh, man. Sharon. “I gotta take off,” I say, carefully rolling myself off the floor. I don’t want to touch the tissues strewn around. I’m not sure what’s in them.

Nick pushes me back down. “Come on, dude, finish this joint with me.”

Why not? I’ll stay a few more minutes. Arm officially twisted, I inhale, hoping it’ll help me sleep. I’ve been too excited to get any rest. “So,” I say to Jamie, “while we were at the sports bar, you were getting laid, eh? We stopped by the beer bash, but someone said you’d left with a chick.”

I pass the joint to Jamie, but Jamie motions it away and grins. “Your information is correct, Russ. I did leave with someone, but I don’t like to kiss and tell.”

Nick boots up his sleek-looking laptop. “What’s her name? Was it the tall blonde?”

“Nope.” Jamie sits down on the corner of the desk. “Oh, why not. Her name is Kimmy. She just got here today.”

“I’m going to need her last name, dude.”

“Kimmy Nailer.”

“Come on!” I laugh. “Nail-her? That’s her name?”

Nick clicks away on his keyboard, and I peer onto the screen. “Are you going to Google her?” I ask.

“Much better than that, dude.” He clicks on to the LWBS Web site. Then he clicks on to a section labeled Calling Card. A list of names pops up on the screen. “Every person in our class is on here. With photos.”

“Why are some of the names purple and some blue?” I lean toward the screen to take a better look. “Why are all the girls’ names in purple?”

“Because I’ve checked them all out,” Nick says.

“Someone’s been busy.” Maybe that’s what the tissues were for.

“Hey, Jamie Grossman,” Nick says, then pauses. “Why don’t you have a picture up? I thought you might be a babe.”

The term babe might be just as annoying as dude. I prefer “chick”—Sharon hates it.

Jamie looks away. “I keep forgetting to bring it in.”

Nick clicks on Kimmy’s name. A sexy brunette with significant breast exposure flashes across the screen. Nick whistles. “Nice work, dude.”

I nod. “Hot.” Too bad it’s not a full-length picture. Nice top. She’d look great in matching tight white pants. Love it when women wear white pants. Don’t know what it is about the white, but it turns me on.

Nick clicks on me. I’m making my best “I’m serious” face. I got a haircut specifically before taking the picture and put on my favorite suit and tie.

“Bet you were wearing jeans underneath that jacket, Russ,” Nick says. “Like everyone does.”

Now why didn’t I think of that? I wasted a clean pair of pants. Stupid. I have a twenty-thousand-dollar tuition loan over my head, and dry cleaning is a splurge. I nod so I don’t look like a moron.

Nick clicks back to Kimmy Nailer. “I didn’t think babes like her went to B-school.”

“They do,” Jamie says. “And she’s mine, so keep your grubby hands off.”

“You two already a couple?” I ask.

He half nods. “Working on it.”

“That sucks,” Nick whines, kicking the side of his bed, jolting me. “I wish we hadn’t gone to Moe’s for wings. Then I could have had a crack at her. That rack is A-plus.”

I shrug. “I thought the wings were A-plus.”

“What do you care?” Nick says. “You have a woman.”

Jamie looks down at my hand. “You married, Russ? I don’t see a ring.”

Married? Oh, man. “No wife,” I answer. “Girlfriend.”

“Serious?”

“Pretty serious.”

He accidentally knocks over an empty binder from the desk, then leans to pick it up. “Do you date other women?”

“No.”

“Even if you don’t tell her?” Nick asks, eyebrow raised.

“Never have.” Nope, never cheated on Sharon. And since Sharon was my first real girlfriend, that means I never cheated on anyone.

She wasn’t thrilled with my plan to come to the States. She didn’t understand why I couldn’t go to B-school at home. There are some great schools, like Western and U of T, but I’ve always dreamed of going to an American top ten. I promised her I’d come home after I graduated. Go back to my old job or get a better one in Toronto. She’s not a big fan of living in the U.S. Hates the health-care system, thinks the corporations run the place. Her family is all in Toronto, and she wants to buy a house next door to her sister, get married and have kids. Lots of kids. There are pictures of other people’s babies all over her apartment.

I take a longer look at the hot chick’s cleavage. What if I come across a BBD (translation: Bigger Better Deal)?

“What’s your girlfriend like?” Jamie asks, making me feel like shit.

“She’s…she’s great.” Then I lower my gaze from the cleavage to the clock on the bottom right side of the screen. What kind of jackass am I? I’ve been in school for one night and I’m already looking to trade up? Did Clark Kent try to trade up Lois Lane when he became Superman? Don’t think so.

I stay slumped on the floor for the next while, imagining myself metamorphosing in a phone booth. It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s B-schoolboy!

One-eleven. Shit. Sharon’s going to murder me. “I gotta go.”

“See you tomorrow,” Jamie says.

Nick continues clicking on his female classmates’ attributes. He zooms in on the breasts of a woman named Lauren. “I heard this babe is bi. Later.”

When I return to my room, I immediately pick up the phone and punch in Sharon’s number. One ring. Two. Three. Clank, clank. Smash. Clank, clank. “Hello?” She sounds more drugged out than I am. Not that she would ever smoke pot. She hates when I get high, even though she’s the one I tried it with in college. She thinks that now that I’m a professional I should act mature. I haven’t smoked in a long time, and probably wouldn’t have if I hadn’t met Nick. Thing is, it relaxes me. Stops me from worrying. Helps me sleep. I’ve got to keep my voice steady so she won’t be able to tell. Luckily she’s not here. My thumb and index finger still smell of it.

“I woke you, eh?” Of course I woke her. Sometimes I’m such an ass.

“What do you think?” she murmurs.

“Sorry, hon. Go back to sleep.”

“No, wait. How was your day?”

I lie back on my unmade bed. Crunch my head against a pillowcase stuffed with T-shirts. I forgot to bring a pillow. I don’t know how I did since pillow was definitely on the Do Not Forget list that Sharon made for me. Sharon makes a lot of lists. They’re taped all over her apartment. Floss is also on her list. Which I didn’t forget because my dentist made me promise I’d floss every night. Unfortunately, I did forget to do it last night and tonight.

“Good,” I say. Voice remaining steady. “We had orientation. Hung out with the same guys I met last night. Took a campus tour. A library orientation. Set up our Internet. Got our class schedules.”

“Yeah? How is it?”

“Monday and Wednesday I have Organizational Behavior at nine, Accounting at ten thirty, Statistics at one…one…one-thirty.” My body has sunk into the mattress, and I feel numb again, but I continue talking. “Tuesday and Thursday it’s Strategic Analysis at ten-thirty—that’s a sleepin. Economics at one-thirty, IC at three. But IC is a half-semester course, so it only runs until the end of October.”

“What’s IC?”

“Integrative Communications. Presentations and stuff.”

“Sounds fun.”

She’s being sarcastic, but the truth is, I’m excited. “Fun, fun, fun.”

Silence. “Did you smoke?” she accuses me.

Oh, man. “No.”

She sighs. “You swear?”

“No.”

She sighs again. “You have to stop. You know what pot does to your attention span. School’s for real now.”

“What?”

“Your attention span, Russ.”

“I know, I know. You’re right.” She is right. What am I doing? When I smoke I have no attention span. I can barely remember five minutes ago. Where was I five minutes ago?

“So no more?” she says.

“No more,” I promise. She’s right. I can’t screw this up. She’s always right and I’m an idiot. “How was your day?”

“Good. I prepared. Tomorrow is my first day of school. I’m giving my grade-ten class a surprise pop quiz on the details leading up to Confederation. They’re going to thrilled.”

At sixteen I wouldn’t have cared what test a hot teacher like Sharon gave me as long as I could keep looking at her. Thank you, miss, may I have another? With my zit-infected face and scrawny pipe-cleaner body, watching her teach would have been the most action I’d get. “But it’s only the first day,” I say, regaining my senses. “A test already?”

“If I don’t whip them into shape at the beginning, they’ll walk all over me.”

“Wanna come over and whip me into shape?”

She laughs. “Is that an invitation?”

“What do you think?” Don’t think she’d be too impressed with the saggy single bed, shit decor and hike to the showers.

“You miss me already, don’t you, Russ?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I figured. Okay, I’m going back to bed.”

“Good night,” I say. “Good luck tomorrow.”

“You, too.”

“Thanks. We meet our Blocks in the morning.”

She yawns. “Good. And, hon?”

“Yeah?”

“Can’t you call me slightly earlier tomorrow?”

I knew I was going to get flak for that. “But you told me to phone before I went to sleep.”

“I did. But it’s a school night. You should be going to bed earlier.”

“Sorry. I won’t call you so late tomorrow.”

“Good. Go to bed now, okay? Love you. Be good.”

“Love you, too.” I press the end button on the cordless.

Now what? Clock says 1:40. Still excited about tomorrow. And worried. I thought pot is supposed to make me sleepy.

Maybe I’ll visit Nick. Oh, yeah. Already did that. Maybe I’ll call Sharon.

8:45 a.m.

layla applies herself

I’m pacing outside the door to the Carry the Torch Committee office on the third floor of the main MBA building, the Katz building. I’ve been here for forty-five minutes. Someone better arrive shortly or I’m going to be late for orientation. I’d sit on the floor to wait, but who knows when someone last swept the hallway.

I hear the click-clack of a woman’s heels coming down the hall. A short redhead in a black Theory suit turns the corner…finally. Yes!

I stretch out my hand. “Hello, I’m Layla Roth and I’m here to apply for the committee.” You can judge people by their handshake. Firm means strong personality, trustworthy. Limp means weak, whiny. The woman’s hand is flaccid. No matter. I still intend to apply. My mentor at Rosen Brothers Investments did this job when he was in business school, and I want to do it, too. It sounds fun. The committee chooses ten people to read over next year’s applicants, and I want to be one of those ten.

The redhead looks as though she’s surprised someone is waiting for her before nine in the morning. “Layla, like the Eric Clapton song?”

“Yes, like the song.” If I earned a dollar for every time someone refers to the Eric Clapton song when I introduce myself, I wouldn’t have to work a day in my life. Not that I could stand not working. Not that I have to work for financial reasons. But what would I do all day? Volunteer for the Salvation Army? Please.

“Well, Layla, you’re my first applicant. But you didn’t have to wait for me.” She points to a box marked Applications beside her door. “That’s what the mail slot is for.”

What if everyone else handed them to her in person? What if I crammed my application inside the box and she didn’t check? What if it got stuck to the side of the box, like a chewed piece of gum, and was never seen again? Just in case, I’ll take the extra two minutes, thanks. “I prefer to introduce myself.”

She tilts her head and smiles. “Aren’t you a go-getter! I’m Dorothy. Nice to meet you.”

We chitchat for a few minutes about school, and I peek inside her office while she turns on her lights and boots her computer. I give her my application, then shake her hand—firmly—and say goodbye.

In the elevator I glance at my Rolex. I meet my Block in an hour! The back of my neck tingles with excitement. I can’t believe this day is finally here. I’m going to be surrounded by kindred spirits. Imagine, networking every day. These are the people who will help me find jobs, help me move up the corporate ladder. These are the people who will one day rule the world, the people who will one day hire my children who will one day rule the world.

These are my people.

I stop at the admissions office to pick up my schedule. I already reviewed it online, but I want to have the original hard copy to post in my new room.

The next time I glance at my watch, it’s nine-twenty. Forty minutes! I’d better get a move on if I want to get a good seat in orientation. I stop at the women’s bathroom, which isn’t coed and therefore less germ infested. The bacteria propagation is the one thing I’m not looking forward to about the coed dorm. I’ve never shared a toilet with a man, and I’ve heard it’s not a pleasant experience. When I lived at home, my mother always complained that my father had lousy aim. Good thing they have his and hers bathrooms. And a housekeeper who takes care of the spills.

I squat over the toilet so I don’t have to touch the seat. Who knows how often they’re disinfected? Then I flush with the heel of one of my new Prada shoes. I wash my hands, retie my long blond hair into a pony off my face and take a paper towel to protect my hands from the microorganisms on the door handle.

Last week I did a virtual “First Day” walk on the LWBS Web site, so I know precisely where the orientation is being held. Room 107. The door is open, the ten-row auditorium empty. Eager to begin this next stage of my life, I sit in the front row and set my plastic name card at the front of my desk.

“Was that online Economics workshop really, um, necessary? Because I didn’t do it.”

I do not believe the guy in the back row. Isn’t it a little late to be asking a question of that nature? I did the workshop back in June. And it took me thirty-three hours. Poor boy. He’s going to be so lost.

The second-year student leading the orientation fingers the mole on his cheek. “It’s a good way to brush up on your skills,” he says. His voice cracks like a twelve-year-old muddling through puberty. “But I don’t think it’s something that will be tested.”