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She was beautiful, she was funny, and she was smart -- all any guy could ever want. The key was getting her to want in return. Or so I thought.
The truth was that Holly was an ice princess. To my knowledge, no guys broke through her cool facade -- or her hymen -- during all of high school.
We crossed paths (and swords) frequently. We competed against each other in the same honors classes, matched wits at science fairs and math contests, wrote competing columns for the high school newspaper and vied for the same prizes in the school literary magazine. And each time that she emerged victorious, that eyebrow would go up, those lips would curl into a smirk, and those words would rain scorn down upon me: "Catch me if you can!"
My only intellectual endeavor without her was the chess club. I guess there were limits to her fraternization with the geeks.
We remained academic adversaries to the bitter end, at which time we shared a podium as co-valedictorians of our high school graduating class. And, true to form, at the end of her speech she turned to me in front of the entire auditorium full of people and said, "Catch me if you can, Derek!"
It was all I could do to regain my composure and present a coherent co-valedictory address to the assembled crowd.
* * * * *
The next fall, I was off to Boston College on a National Merit Scholarship. Holly went to Harvard. For the two years that followed, I heard nothing more of her or from her, despite the fact that we were off at school in the same city.
In September of my junior year, I was in a sports bar watching the Red Sox on TV on a Friday night. They were in the middle of a heated pennant race. I had become a rabid fan, a member of Red Sox Nation.
"Howdy, stranger!" rang out a female voice across the bar. I looked down from the flat screen TV and saw a nice pair of not-so-flat boobs. There was plenty of cleavage showing from under a clingy floral print cotton top.
I'd recognize those boobs anywhere.
I re-directed my attention to the boob-owner's lovely heart-shaped face, her raven-colored hair framing a pair of intelligent, sparkling blue eyes. Sure enough, it was Holly Grandal. She flashed me a killer smile.
"Derek! Iss -- iss been too l-long!" she cooed, blowing me air kisses as if we were long-lost lovers. Her words carried the slur of an alcoholic stupor.
I looked her over as she weaved toward me. Her legs were lean and sexy, well-displayed beneath a short black wraparound linen skirt as she walked.
"Um... Holly. Yeah, it's been a while," I replied as she approached my table.
I was uncomfortable. We had grown up together, but we were now virtually strangers. Our common bond had been our competition, but after more than two years apart, there was little to talk about.
My torch for her had never burned out or even flickered, but I couldn't afford to let down my guard. The new semester was just under way. I needed to keep my focus on academics. And she was an ice princess. But, damn, did she look good.
"Here to watch the game?" I managed to ask.
What a weak attempt at small talk, I thought to myself. I may as well just drop my knuckles to the floor like a Neanderthal and ogle her breasts again. It would show just as much intellectual acumen as my feeble question.
"Nah, I'm here to fuckin' get DRUNK!" she chortled, "and after that, maybe to fuckin' get LAID!"
A tinge of pink began to color her cheeks as she stood over me. I couldn't help but notice her lovely pair of C-cups protruding toward my face. I tried to avert my eyes.
Moreover, I couldn't believe my ears. Holly Grandal, prim and proper little miss ice maiden, talking through expletives about going to a bar to get drunk and get laid. I shook my head roughly in disbelief.
"Well, why don't you have a seat and watch the game with me? The Sox are playing the Yankees in New York. We can talk over old times..."
"Screw the fuckin' Yankees!" she exclaimed. "And how about les -- les f'get ol' times and talk 'bout the fuckin' press -- pres -- present?" She swayed slightly as she spoke.
It was clear from her speech and her demeanor that she had already been bar-hopping that evening. What wasn't clear was why she would be out by herself in that condition. A vulnerable woman in the big city was an easy target for muggers, rapists or worse.
"Sure, Holly," I answered, rising to pull a chair out for her. "Let me buy you a drink. What're you havin'? Coffee?"
"Nah, gimme the fuckin' GOOD stuff," she muttered, then erupted in a fit of giggles. For the first time in my recollection, I felt sorry for Holly Grandal.
The next time the waitress stopped by, I ordered us each a stiff drink. In a way, I was miffed that my drunken colleague was keeping me away from the ball game. But as the evening wore on, and I watched her across the table, I found myself getting hornier and hornier for my childhood flame, despite her liquefied condition.
Fueled by a little too much liquid courage myself, I boldly asked her why she was out looking to get laid.
"Aww, Derek -- you're so fuckin' sweet to ask," she giggled. "You wanna fuckin' do me the honors?"
