I Am Charlotte Simmons (54 page)

BOOK: I Am Charlotte Simmons
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She immediately hated herself for even thinking such a thing, but the
worst of it was that it wasn't even a fully formed thought. It was a visceral reaction.
And she
wanted
to want Adam! She
wanted
to want to kiss Adam good night in a deeply committed way. Adam had an
interesting
mind, an
exciting
mind, an
adventurous
mind, as did his friends, the Millennial Mutants … I mean ohmygod just compare them with an evening at the book-denuded “library” at the Saint Ray house … with its huge plasma TV screen tuned to ESPN and conversations in which wit, if any, consisted of smart, knowing remarks about sex and drinking and sports, featuring comments on the limitations of the metabolically swollen athletes they never tired of watching and sarcastic insults of one another. They would explode with laughter because Julian told I.P. that “Poison people” never got laid—they just got drunk and “blew chunks.” Oh, man, how funny was that! Julian could be counted on to make cracks like that, while Hoyt—but she refused to let herself think about Hoyt and the way Hoyt looked. She forced herself completely into the here and now—
—and here and now, Adam had an
interesting
mind, as did all the Millennial Mutants. Their conversations were exciting. They flared and gave off sparks and ranged from the highest—“You can't ascribe ‘meaning' to life,” Adam once said, “only purpose, which is reproduction, obviously”—to the lowest, or, Charlotte guessed, belly buttons were low enough. The other day Camille Deng had said, “Boys don't grow up to be men; they shrink back into childhood. They look at the scar tissue inside all these bare belly buttons and think they're looking at labia majora and labia minora. They think if they hook up with a girl with a bare belly button, they get to put their dicks in there.”
Even putting dicks in labial belly buttons was a more complicated thought than anything Charlotte was likely to hear at the Saint Ray house. She was there once or twice a week now, when Hoyt made the usual “invitation”: “If you want to, why don't you come on by …” She didn't end the evening by saying good night over her shoulder as she walked up the stairs with some Saint Ray's arm around her, like most of the other girls who showed up that late. It was acknowledged, or assumed, that she was Hoyt's “girlfriend,” which made her feel triumphantly cool, but he hadn't pressured her to … hook up. She alternated between being grateful for that and wondering what was wrong. Each night he drove her back to Little Yard. They kissed for longer and longer times, in the front seat of the car.
Naturally, it was not something either of them ever said out loud, but
since Hoyt knew they were going to kiss good night, he began driving into the parking lot instead of up to the entryway to Little Yard. There were never any parking places, so Hoyt would just pull over to the side of one of the lanes and stop and leave the motor running and the lights on. That reassured Charlotte and at the same time worried her. The running motor and the lights meant he wasn't planning anything more than a kiss. The last one had been a pretty long kiss, but at the same time, she wanted him to want—but not have—more. She wanted it both ways.
And then came the night a car was actually backing out of a space.
“I don't fucking believe this!” said Hoyt. “I thought they had the fucking things bolted to the pavement!”
Hoyt put the Suburban in gear, shot forward and cocked the wheel, and turned so sharply that Charlotte felt as if they were about to roll over. She let out a shriek—“Hoyt!”—and the next thing she knew, they were in the parking spot just vacated by the other car. Cars were parked on either side of them and in front—long rows of cars. Hoyt was laughing.
“That wasn't funny, Hoyt! You liked to get me killed!” That had just slipped out. She sounded just like Aunt Betty.
“Liked to gitchoo killed, hunh?”
Charlotte hoped he wasn't laughing
at
her. Perhaps he thought she was talking mountain talk for humorous effect.
In the next moment, that was no longer the thing to worry about. Hoyt turned off the engine and the lights. Now, in the dark, they were as much as hidden from sight, with rows of empty cars on either side.
Hoyt sank back into his seat and looked at her with a …
significant …
little smile. Signifying what, she couldn't quite make out. She decided it was a smile of complicity, as if to say, “Well, here we are, Charlotte, here we are, just the two of us, inside the steel-and-glass shell of this vehicle, and we have an understanding we two.” But an understanding of precisely what?
It wasn't a fully formed thought, but Charlotte could picture him giving her a long, loving kiss and then pulling her close to him, and the two of them would feel closer and closer, somehow part of one another, and gradually he would begin to tell her how much he loved her. Not in so many words, of course … but the accumulation of his musings would add up to that, and after a while she would say she had to go now, and they would have one last long, profound kiss, and she would open the door and descend from the Suburban and hurry through the Gothic tunnel of Mercer Gate and into Little Yard without looking back, and he would gaze longingly at her
slim, athletic, perfect form until she disappeared from view. It was like a movie in her head.
In fact what he did was recline still farther in his leather bucket seat and stick his tongue sideways into his cheek, saying, “You know, you look a lot like Britney Spears.”
“Don't you think it's time you got a new line, Hoyt?” It gave her immense and inexplicable pleasure to use his name like that, in that natural, casual way.
“Line? Me? What line?”
Charlotte couldn't tell whether he was just having fun, or what. “
What
line? I bet you were saying the same thing to that girl at the I.M.”
“What girl at the I.M.?”
“That freshman with the long blond hair and the skintight jeans. You came straight across the dance floor and headed right for her.”
“Boy, a blond freshman with tight jeans. That really narrows it down.”
“Oh, excuse
me
. I guess you go after so many girls with blond hair and tight jeans, it's hard to keep them straight.” All the while, Charlotte was appraising her abilities at repartee. She found herself not too bad.
“How would you know, anyway?” said Hoyt.
“Oh, it wasn't very hard to tell,” said Charlotte. “You weren't exactly subtle about it.”
“No, I mean, what were you doing at the I.M.? You're not twenty-one. Don't tell me you
lied
about it. I hope you didn't use a fake ID. I hope you know that's a felony. I hope you haven't
told
anybody about it. Now they've got you in the palm of their hand.”
Hoyt looked so serious she was afraid for a moment that he really meant all that. And Hoyt must have detected that moment on her face, because he all at once returned to his smile of … understanding … but much broader this time, and he held out his arms without giving up his deep recline and said, “Come here, Miz Spears.”
It crossed Charlotte's mind, as she thrust her body toward him, that her pitching forward from her bucket seat, while he remained in his casual, kingly position, as much as said, “I can't resist you.” Nevertheless, she found herself lunging, canting her torso into his arms.
Found
herself … oh sure … in the very moment that she had to halfway lurch out of the bucket seat—it was so deep—and over that stupid armrest-cupholder-cubby thing between the two seats—she tried to tell herself it
just happened—
it wasn't really what you would call volition.
Now she was more or less on top of him, since he was … receiving her advances … and he had his arms around her and lifted one hand and placed it gently behind her head and pushed it toward the undamaged side of his face and launched into a kiss. Hoyt began moving his lips as if he were trying to suck the ice cream off the top of a cone without using his teeth. She tried to make her lips move in sync with his. The next thing she knew, Hoyt had put his hand sort of
under
her thigh and hoisted her leg up over his thigh. What was she to do? Was this the point she should say, “Stop!”? No, she shouldn't put it that way. It would be much cooler to say, “No, Hoyt,” in an even voice, the way you would talk to a dog that insists on begging at the table. On the other hand, for days and days and days she had wanted him to want to do something like this. All the while they were kissing, and Charlotte decided, well, she guessed the leg was all right—even though the hem of her dress, which she had already shortened in the first place, was pushed up toward the hip socket—because he wasn't doing anything
with
the leg. Instead, his hand was now rubbing her side, from up around the shoulder down to the waist and up from the waist to the shoulder … and now down from the shoulder, past the rib cage, and slightly
below
the waist … and then up to the shoulder, which it began to rub in a slow, profoundly caressing way … and then it made a slow and profoundly caressing trip down the side and then slipped clear off the track just below her armpit, which also was the level of her breast, but then got back on the track and caress caress caress caress it began working on her waist—and thank God she ran and worked out and everything, because if it had found even a garter snake's worth of a tube at her waist, she would have been mortified … uh-oh, it was caressing caressing caressing caressing down her side
below
the waist, where it found the big bone that was the summit of her ilial crest caress caress caress caress, but what if it came inland, moving toward
there—
what would she do then? … And it
did
! It moved
down
the crest and into the gulley formed by the leg meeting the lower abdomen, the gulley that leads down
there—
and she twitched in the gulley, involuntarily—
—and the hand
leaped
back up to the side of her hip while they continued kissing, and now it was working its way back up, toward the shoulder presumably, or could it—
—he put his tongue in her mouth … Uh-oh, it—the hand—had jumped the track and was heading inland toward her rib cage until it reached …
there
! But no, it stopped at the side of the breast and began caressing that, the flesh on the side …
Streak!
Suddenly it had leaped to the
upper outside of her thigh, where the flesh was bare, until she felt the hem of her dress move up on her skin until the hand was only inches from her panties and creep creep caress caress a finger—or was it two fingers?—two, perhaps even three, were
under
the elastic band of her panties where they fit around the leg and were now traveling down the gulley, and any moment, any millisecond, she would have to say “No, Hoyt”—but this was what she had wanted him to want to do—and she was caught between excitement and panic, and it—the tongue—she felt as if she were swallowing it and she didn't mind it anymore because Hoyt had begun to moan softly—he couldn't very well
say
anything with his tongue in her mouth—
streak
the hand had leaped back up to the rib cage, no longer on the side but going up the front, inland. Slither slither slither slither went the tongue, but the hand—that was what she tried to concentrate on, the hand, since it had the entire terrain of her torso to explore and not just the otorhinolaryngological caverns—oh God, it was not just at the border where the flesh of the breast joins the pectoral sheath of the chest—no, the hand was cupping her entire right—
Now!
she must say “No, Hoyt” and talk to him like a dog—and oh God, what was she supposed to do
now
—inasmuch as it, his hand, was at this instant passing over her entire right breast and she could feel the pressure—light pressure, but pressure—Now! the
No, Hoyt
—but it was as if the cord between her will and her central nervous system had been cut and there was even something about the big slug that had entered her mouth that now seemed part of
her
, so much so that she began running her own tongue over the intruder tongue and sought to put her tongue inside
his
mouth, although things were getting congested and she
couldn't,
under any circumstances, let the hand slip inside her bra—and in the next instant it was
gone
from up there—it had leaped again!—from up here perilously close to down there, sliding up her bare thigh to the elastic of her panties—the fingers went
under
the elastic of the panties moan moan moan moan moan went Hoyt as he slithered slithered slithered slithered and caress caress caress caress went the fingers until they must be only eighths of inches from the border of her pubic hair—what's
that
!—her panties were so
wet
down …
there
—the fingers had definitely reached the outer stand of the field of pubic hair and would soon plunge into the
wet mess
that was waiting right …
there
—
there
—
Without conscious decision she withdrew her tongue from Hoyt's mouth, pulled her head back—and snapped, owner to dog, “Hoyt—no!”

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