At the time in 1975, CU didn’t permit freshmen to have cars, so finding spots for naked romance was difficult, especially when the ground outside got cold. At first, Richard and I agreed to disappear if the other one found a coed to share his dorm room bed for a couple of hours. It was just into November when we both agreed that our disappearing act had to change. It had soured for both of us due to frequency, and we agreed that if either of us couldn’t talk the girl, or in his Britspeak, the bird, into sharing his dorm room bed while the other one of us was in the room, then we’d have to find another place.
Richard could have easily checked into a nice hotel each time and his parents wouldn’t have minded the cost, and he did a few times; but I think he liked making his latest beautiful bird expose herself to me and he usually stayed in our dorm room. Needless to say, I appreciated his generosity and more than a few of his beautiful birds didn’t seem to mind preening in front of me. I, on the other hand, didn’t have any choice due to my financial situation, so our dorm room was my only practical option in the winter.
As a consequence, privacy in romance was a luxury that was rare during spring semester. Sometimes I’d be at my dorm room desk studying when they arrived, sometimes I’d be in bed, and sometimes they’d already be in bed when I arrived. There were also many times when I was with a girl in my bed when he was there, and more than a few times when we both had one. The girls I was with and I stayed under the covers for our romance when he was there, but Richard didn’t bother, and my presence, whether I was with a girl or not, didn’t stop my roommate from performing with his bird atop the covers.
The result was that I was treated to the sight of many naked, beautiful birds while he fucked them. It wasn’t that I stared. I’m good at tuning out distractions, so if I was studying, I studied. If I was in bed, I either slept or romanced with my own girl. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but notice that he had great staying power, that he liked all the positions, and that he liked to talk to his bird while they did it.
What I did pay attention to was his birds when they weren’t in his nest. Richard knew that, and when they got up to use the bathroom or get dressed, he always flipped the light switch on to improve my view.
Aside from his male model looks and the deep pockets of his parents that enabled him to take taxis to upscale restaurants with his date, there was another physical attraction on him that made his birds so willing to let me see them. His beguiling bird caller was at least three inches longer than mine, much thicker, lasted longer, and came more. He used it as a goad as well as an instrument of pleasure, and when his bird was on the verge of an epic soar, he would threaten withdrawal and demand concessions before he would let her fly. One of the demands was always for his bird to remain naked in our dorm room, a demand I appreciated.
When I had a girl in my bed, regardless of whether he had a bird in his or not, he was fond of exposing his bird call, or his tallywhacker in Britspeak, to the girl in my bed. It swung and flopped around when he walked, and he liked to exaggerate its motion for effect. He was a real peacock, and I just let him strut. He had the plumage to justify it, and during that spring semester I nicknamed him Peacock.
At the start of that first fall semester, I was probably better at getting a girl into my bed than he was at getting a girl into his, but that was where and when it ended. I’m six inches taller than Richard’s 5’9″, I was on scholarship on CU’s baseball team, I studied harder and got better grades, and initially more girls flirted with me. My M.O. was to chat after class, then coffee, then a date, which then led to my dorm room bed, which then was followed by my strutting-peacock best friend.
My M.O. never quit working, but toward the end of that first semester, I wasn’t better than he was at getting girls into bed. His M.O. didn’t require much effort on his part because his looks, his money, his accent, and his bird call were enough. Birds were seemingly aligned on a wire awaiting a chance to be auditioned in his nest.
Apparently, girls talk as much as guys, and the APB went out: the Peacock was really good in bed and would be a great catch for the long term. The message was not on the bulletin board at the UMC, but word-of-mouth meant that the parade through his bed went dorm by dorm first and then sorority by sorority. Since I am an inveterate voyeur of naked beautiful women, his prowess was a benefit to both of us.
Neither Peacock nor I restricted ourselves to freshman girls, and we both found coeds with a couple of college years under their short skirts to be less concerned about exposure and more adept at recreational sex. I think it was late February when I saw Molly, a junior who’d been in my bed during fall semester, end up in Peacock’s bed. She was much more vocal and responsive with him than she’d been with me, and I had to officially concede what I’d known for a long time: my roommate’s fuckability was superior to mine.
Not long after than night, Molly was his date again and I was with Shannon, a girl I’d been dating for a couple weeks. We were in the room listening to Derek and the Dominoes, smoking some good, and drinking tequila. I don’t know who started it or why the subject came up, but we started talking about what made sex good for us. It wasn’t long before Molly was looking at me when she confessed that size did matter to her.
The more we drank and smoked, the looser our confessions became. I confessed to wishing I had a tallywhacker as big as Richard’s. Shannon, my date, confessed to wishing the same thing. Molly, his bird, mocked me for being so much bigger than Richard in everything except my ‘tinywhacker’, and they all had a laugh at that. Mine was nearly six inches long, so really only ‘tiny’ in comparison, but there was a meanness in Molly’s words. I thought, ‘she’s a mockingbird.’
I let my mind traipse a little further down that path as I refilled my glass of tequila. That unification produced a fleeting but dark neural connection, and I light-bulbed, ‘I’d like tequila mockingbird.’
My synapses kept firing and different neurons connected. No death penalty for the mockingbird, but perhaps some emotional pain.
“I wish you had been good in bed too, Molly. I might have asked you out again.”
She responded, “I wouldn’t have gone.”
I looked at the Peacock, “Shannon’s prettier, more giving, and much more responsive than Molly. Perhaps you’d like to provide a second opinion. I can walk Molly home.”