It was the increasingly colder weather that finally got us out of that doorway and into the living room, and the critical scrutiny of her roommates (who approved of me about as much as my friends approved of Kathy) that got us out of the living room and into her bed – but even there we started out with way too many clothes on. We spent many hours, nights even, under the covers, half dressed, forehead to forehead, toes to toes, kissing, our hands playing over each other in the pitch dark. Kathy preferred clutching and touching to any more systematic movement toward fulfillment.

But ideals will stifle nature for only so long and one night, inevitably, it happened, and when it did it was something along the lines of the John Dryden poem we studied that semester:

And it was good, even the first time, not a cataclysmic dividing line, but just another step.

Like a character in a bad porn novel (as opposed, I suppose, to all those good characters) – whether from the novelty of the language or the sentiment I don’t know – she liked to hear me articulate what I was doing and wanted to do to her, which made for some interesting gasps as the moment of truth.

So gradually we found our footing and became intimate, not just physically, though being young and randy that was rightfully a large part of it, but emotionally and intellectually as well, and she didn’t disappoint me at any point along the way. Kathy was quite simply an exemplary person, and if I, as I hope I did, helped her loosen up and become less of a goodie-goodie, she helped me realize that there was a lot more to that goodie-goodie stuff than I’d thought.

I certainly didn’t lose interest in her after we’d become lovers – if anything my interest intensified. Because we had so little in common I had to engage her on a deeper level than the usual facile group think affirmation of trendy values and opinions my clique indulged in. It was precisely her difference, her unfamiliarity, that motivated me to learn more from her and about her in a short period of time than I’ve learned from almost any other woman. February was generally known as suicide month at our college, and there were many cold, gray Ohio mornings when the thought of being with her (and, yes, lying between those magnificent bare legs of hers) was the only thing that convinced me there was any reason to get up at all.

"UBU?" To her credit Kathy only asked it once, and then in a secure, non-confrontational position as we lay snuggled in her bed.

"Yeah?"

"I was just wondering – is this about Virginia?" she asked, a fair enough question considering that my obsession with Virginia was no secret, and she’d been (and still was at a distance) one of Virginia’s best friends. Kathy made it sound as if it would be all right if I answered yes, that whatever had brought us here, so close together under the covers, was acceptable to her. On the other hand, I’m sure she waited until that moment to ask because she wanted to be sure she had a pretty good idea of what I’d say.

And I said it, "No, no, of course not," sticking to the close truth, which, as anyone who has read this can tell, is that it is about Kathy and not Virginia. But yet, like everything else in my life, it’s finely peppered with Virginia, and, given the murkiness of human motive, I can’t say with certainty that Kathy’s close association with Virginia wasn’t one of the reasons that made me want to get to know her so badly. But we were there and Virginia wasn’t, which was good enough for both of us.

And then? Well, to quote Dryden again:

Ah what a joy to hear, Shall we again?