Extra Bonus #80: Homesick at Yale - Part One (Patreon)

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RESOURCES:  Check out this narrative timeline graphic to visually see when this bonus scene takes place.

MUSIC: We listened to "Like a Stone" by Audioslave while writing this bonus scene.

NEVER THOUGHT I COULD love a city more than Philly.

And I still don’t.

Like a worm, New Haven has tried to slither its way into my heart. It’s put up a good effort. Pizza isn’t half-bad. Got steady enough work out here tattooing college students at a local shop called The Ivy Ink. Found a place open 24/7 that serves cheesecake.

But it’s not PA. Never will be.

Maybe I’m feeling extra homesick since I’ve been at Yale all summer. Farrow grinded through some chem class, and I stuck around. Been sticking around a lot lately. I guess it feels like this might be some fever dream that’ll come to an end.

Farrow is already a senior since he started college as a junior, skipping grades and such, and he’s got his whole life mapped out. Med school next year. Philly General after. Never had much of a roadmap myself, but it’s been easygoing just hitching on the back of Farrow’s bumper for the last year.

He hasn’t seemed to mind.

But if he told me to get lost, I don’t think it’d surprise me. It’s not like I’m waiting for that shoe to drop, but I just know it usually comes.

Warm water cascades down my body, and I shut my eyes as steam builds in the stall. Running the unscented bar of soap against my neck, I relax my muscles, and my mind begins to wander.

Straight to my 18th birthday. Two weeks ago. I open my eyes, but the navy-blue tiles aren’t vivid in front of me.

I sat on a bench in a quad eating a bagel sandwich slathered with cream cheese while watching Yale students hustle to their classes. Morning of my birthday was celebratory ‘cause birthdays were worth celebrating, I’d always thought. This year most especially. One year older, one year stronger—there was a lot to be happy about.

Then my phone rang. I swallowed my bite and answered it, just to hear an automated voice asking if I wanted to accept a call from prison.

Not really. I said, “Yeah.”

“Hi, baby,” my mom said, and I froze. She didn’t usually call. Mostly, my dad was the one trying to get ahold of me.

“Hey.” I had the phone perched with my shoulder so I could grip my bagel sandwich with two hands, but as soon as I heard her voice, I dropped my phone to my palm and held it against my ear.

Long silence. “…how have you been?” she asked.

“Been good.” I leaned back against the stiff wooden bench. It dug into my spine. Probably ‘cause I was sitting so upright. I tried to slouch. Couldn’t even do that, so I bowed forward. “You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “…well, really, it’s been tough in here.” Her voice cracked, and my stomach plunged. She’d been in prison since I was sixteen. My parents were serving four years apiece for possession of meth, more than ten grams.

Sometimes I pictured them getting out when I turn twenty. And they’re clean. It’s better. We’re a family, but other than what I’ve seen on TV, I’m not sure what that looks like. A mom and dad and their son. I dunno what I have, but it’d never been concerned parents like the ones from these teen dramas. I’d stream the shows in the campus library. Farrow had given me and Oscar his Netflix and HBO passwords.

“You think you can get let out early?” I asked.

“Maybe not. I’m so sorry, baby.” Her voice sounded clearer, like she held the phone closer to her mouth. “Have you talked to Vanessa? She’s been trying to call you.”

My tongue felt dry and heavy. I blocked Vanessa. “Nah, I haven’t.”

“Please, please talk to her. You know she loves you. She’s your godmother.”

Some godmother. “More like she’s your best friend.”

“Baby, please.” Her voice went stern, then hurried. “I-I need you. I need you to help me here. You can help me and your dad. If you’d just listen to Vanessa.” She spoke more hushed. “She’s on parole, but you’re not—you can come visit us and-and—”

“I’m not in Philly,” I told her. “I’m not around, and I already told this to Dad. I can’t be…I can’t help give you that shit.” I tried to lean back again. Birds chirped, and the students now strolled at a leisurely pace. Class must’ve already started for some. The quad was emptier.

“It’s not to use,” she said. “You don’t understand how things work here, baby. It’s about what you can trade.”

I’d heard it all from my dad. They never said it outright since the calls were recorded, but they were asking me to smuggle meth into the prison via visitation. I never asked how I was supposed to do that. I didn’t contact the names they mentioned like Vanessa's, and I tried not to let these other people reach me. It was easier being miles away from where my parents were locked up.

“Please,” she begged. “Please.”

It tore at me, and I didn’t know how hard life was in prison. I stared at my half-eaten bagel. “I can maybe try to send some money—”

“Could you?” I heard her relief, and she repeated how much she loved me. When I got off the phone, I counted the cash in my worn leather wallet.

I needed more, but work had been slow this summer. Most students went back home, and I profited off bodies coming into the shop. A ghost town and no drunken decisions meant less people were looking to get tattooed.

That night, I tried to forget about the call. It’d be another problem for another day. ‘Cause the 13th of August was about me celebrating another year where I didn’t wind up behind bars and where I didn't get a girl pregnant.

But I couldn’t totally shake off the call. The new friends I’d made around Yale—most knew my parents were serving time. But I didn’t want any of them asking questions about why I seemed…down. What was I gonna say? My mom called. She needs me to send her money for commissary (hopefully). I don’t have much extra to give, so I’m in a tight bind.

I didn’t want anyone to feel like I was asking for somethin’. I didn’t hang around my friends so I could take from them.

I just liked the company.

But I ditched on the plans to go bar-hopping for my birthday. Instead, I took a bus to a rich area of Bridgeport and toasted to myself at a fancy club with overpriced liquor. Stuck to beer. Stayed at the club because I wasn’t sure if my fake would pass at other wealthy establishments over there.

Place started filling up. I danced with some cute girls. Went back to the bar. Got another beer, and a bachelorette party stormed the club, cheering for shots.

A twenty-something redhead with a Maid of Honor sash squeezed up beside me. I helped her flag down the bartender, and then she looked me over like I was something she’d never seen up-close and personal before.

It was like she was a girl who’d never touched a cigarette—never thought she could—and I was a pack of twenty and the lighter. Sitting right there.

Normally, I’d take the opportunity to get laid, maybe see if anything else was there between us, but she was a redhead. My mom had red hair, and I couldn’t stay hard around redheads, no offense to them.

But she got to talking to me. We exchanged names, and hers was Eloise. She asked if I’ve ever stripped.

I glanced back at the rowdy bachelorette party, then at her. “Nah, not like that.”

“Not like what?” She flirted.

I replied.

She couldn’t hear me or understand me.

“Professionally!” I shouted over the music.

“What about tonight?! We have a house on the beach!” Eloise moved closer so I could hear, but she already sounded loud to me. “My friends would love you! It wouldn’t be free—we’d pay, of course!!”

I had never seen Magic Mike, but I had been to a strip club before. Except, women were the ones stripping. Not men. But it couldn’t be that hard.

“How much?” I asked her.

She offered a number that sounded unreal.

All to take off my shirt and give the bride a lap dance? Seemed too easy and pretty fun, and if I was afraid of a half-chub, all I had to do was look at the redhead for an instant boner-killer. I grinned, downed the beer, and accepted. “You’ve got a deal.”

That’s how I found myself at a million-dollar beach house with shrieking girls pawing all over me, some more drunk than others. It wasn’t a bad time. Until the bride grabbed my face and kissed me, and I went with it because her friends were encouraging her and I didn’t know her life’s circumstances. What if her fiancé was a dick? What if they didn’t consider this cheating?

Then her friends started talking over one another. It nailed my eardrums and quickened my pulse, but I stayed still, trying to piece it all apart. My eyes darted around to each person who spoke. Felt a hundred percent sober at that point, and they wanted the bride to spend “alone-time” with me in one of the bedrooms.

“Do it, Sally!”

“You’re never going to get this chance again!”

“You only live once!”

“DO IT! DO IT!” they chanted. Her reluctance was barely there anyway. She never seemed too hesitant, and looking back, I should’ve said no. I should’ve asked for more details, at least.

They were an ocean, and I didn’t want to fight against the riptide. I don’t know about most people, but when I start to feel myself drowning, I don’t flail.

It only makes it worse.

I knew I’d figure a way out. Always did.

I ended up in this dark room with a clearly inebriated girl, who might’ve been six or seven years older than me, and I tried to get her onto the bed, told her she needed new friends (doubt she remembered), then brought her a glass of water.

I left the room before she protested.

In the kitchen, I told Eloise that the bride was drunk, she should check on her, and that I didn’t do anything but give her water. She was about to pay me for my time. Then two more girls started flirting with me, and they weren’t stumbling around or slurring their words. They were only a little tipsy, and they’d been nursing waters while I’d been there.

“I gotta go,” I said, counting the cash in the envelope.

“Not yet,” the blonde said with a coy smile, her hand sliding down my arm. My cock wanted her. Can’t speak for my big brain at the time. Think he was taking a back seat.

They wanted to be fucked by me, and I wanted birthday sex. Win-win. “You have condoms?” I asked.

They did. 

The room was pitch-black. I tried to turn on a lamp because they wanted to see me, but it kept flickering out. I asked, “You sure” so many times that the blonde finally told me to “stop talking” and I did.

“That was,” the blonde panted in a post-come high and she smiled over at her friend, and she giggled. “Amazing.”

It felt great.

And then they tried to pay me.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said.

They insisted, slipping more cash in the envelope. As hot as it should’ve been, I almost wish I didn’t come. It wasn’t just a fun birthday threesome anymore. It was a transaction. But I counted the cash on my bus ride home.

It was the easiest grand I’ve ever made.

And somehow, it’s been the hardest. ‘Cause I opened a door to doing it again.

Eloise gave my number to her humongous friend group, and I’ve been paid for sex another two times. One was a blow job. I blew a guy. Experimenting and whatnot. Found out I was still straight but I'd suck a dick for cash. 

I ended up telling my dad about it when he asked how I was able to send so much. I didn’t want him thinking I was willing to sell drugs, but I couldn’t wrap my head around whether this was better. It’s not like I was getting high and killing myself.

I loved having sex. I loved making girls feel good, and I loved post-nut clarity. The moments after, where I lay in bed and everything was just still and calm, and I looked over and the other person was satisfied. Happy.

But turning tricks—it's different. I know that. It’s why I’m in this shower thinking about that night. Again.

The water suddenly cuts off.

“Fuck,” I curse and rotate the faucet nozzle. Only droplets fall from the metal showerhead. I didn’t even wash my hair. I daydreamed my shower away.

Shit.

At least I smell clean. I step out, towel off and rifle for fresh boxer-briefs in my duffel. I glance up at the mirror. Carved muscles across my arms and my abs still catch me by surprise, and it didn’t take me that many MMA classes to gain them.

I smile.

Farrow and I made a swap. I tattoo him, and he pays for my membership to the gym. I’m eating more than I ever have. A new strength has taken root inside me. Might’ve always been there and just needed some old-fashioned H20. Life’s good.

Even if the shower cost me twelve bucks.

I exit the truck stop’s shower after changing. Then I hitchhike a ride back to Yale’s campus. I spend most of my afternoon at the laundromat, and I listen to eighties rock and read a free post-apocalyptic book on my phone.

Afterwards, I call Farrow and ask what he’s doing tonight. Whatever he’s up to is better than being stuck on a turntable of the past. I’m jumping off that ride before it flings me in a direction I’m not hoping to land.

I talk to Farrow for a few minutes.

Start of the new semester at Yale means parties. Lots of ‘em. And there’s no better wingman than me, myself, and I.

Only problem: Farrow would rather attend a silent book club than the ABC (Anything But a Cup) party that an a cappella group is throwing. Normally, I don’t throw a stink about Farrow’s Saturday night plans, but that’s usually because he chooses the fun shit.

We're off-campus now. Our strides are casual as we meander down the sidewalk in New Haven and pass a coffee shop and breakfast diner, both already closed. I don’t like it. Breakfast places should be open 24/7.

I mentally mark it off as another knock against New Haven.

Right now, my phone is saying it’s closer to ten than nine. The sun has already set. Farrow isn’t in a hurry to reach the book club. His pace is as leisure as mine. He smacks a pack of cigarettes on his palm, takes one out, and passes me the rest.

I only take one, then toss him the pack. “It doesn’t make much sense,” I tell him. “How can it be a book club if it’s silent?”

“It’s no pressure,” Farrow tells me, lighting his cigarette. He takes a deep inhale and blows out smoke before continuing. “You can read whatever you want.”

I narrow my eyes at the cracked sidewalk, then the quaint brick buildings we pass. “Wait, so why is there a club for this? Seems like I can read whatever I want anywhere I want.”

“To share space with other readers,” he says indifferently.

“Like a library?” I slip the cigarette behind my ear. Gonna save it for a later.

Farrow lifts a shoulder. “Eh, I guess. I don’t know, man. It’s my first time going too.”

“And why are we going?” I wonder. “Not that it doesn’t sound dope. But the ABC party starts in five, and I’m dreaming of drinking out of my shoe.”

His brows rise. “Man, you need better dreams.”

“It’s just one of ‘em.” I put my cigarette between my lips but don’t light it. “I’ve got many more.”

Farrow nods like he gets it. Like it’s not a joke. Now I light my cigarette, and we keep our steady pace to the bookstore. There must be book club perks where they can gather inside the store this late at night.

We smoke and walk, and it takes Farrow a solid minute before he says, “There’s a guy—”

I’m already grinning, which causes him to side-eye me.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says casually.

I laugh, excitement surging forth. Fuck the ABC party. This is way better. “Is he cute?” I taunt.

“He’s hot,” Farrow says, then sucks on his cigarette.

“On a scale of one to Donnelly? How hot?”

“That’s too small of a range.”

I laugh, and I catch his stretching smile. Farrow said he was fine after his last breakup, but he’s gone through several casual short-term situations that I think he hoped would be longer. When those end, it’s like he’s searching for something that’s not in reach. Maybe it’s back in Philly.

That’s where the Wawas are.

God, I miss a ham hoagie. Don’t get me started on a real Philly cheesesteak. My stomach will start growling.

“Good girth?” I joke.

“Why? You want to fuck him?” he asks lightly, blowing smoke away from me.

“Nah, I’m not into girthy dicks,” I mumble with the cigarette between my lips. “I love a wet pussy though.”

“No shit,” Farrow says.

I smirk, exhaling a stream of smoke into the night sky. “Been told if a guy has pepperoni nipples, he gives good head.”

Oscar is snappier with the back-and-forth than Farrow can be. He’d say something like, Your pepperoni nipple friend is spreading rumors, or is that just you?

I don’t have pepperoni nipples, but I’ve got nothing against them.

Farrow says, “Do not need that visual.”

I love the banter with Farrow just as much because it’s fun teasing the fuck outta him when he takes nearly nothing to heart. “Best visual. Other than my cock.”

He sucks in a breath. “It’s getting worse.”

“Gonna pierce it soon, I think.”

“That sounds fucking painful.”

“Pain for a minute. Pleasure for a lifetime.”

Farrow is shaking his head. “Just don’t get it done in a back alley. Last thing you’ll want is a dead nerve in your dick.”

“You wanna do it for me?” I joke.

“No.”

I grin, then take another drag. “I like that we’re both invested in my dick working to maximum efficiency.”

“Did not say that,” Farrow replies casually, but he’s smiling in more amusement while he blows out smoke.

I laugh, and then we both step into the bookstore. 

Thanks so much for reading this month's extra bonus! We really have been on such a Paul Donnelly high lately. You can blame the creation of Nobody Like Us for all the Donnelly-centric bonuses. The first week of December, you shall get Part Two to this bonus and see what goes down at the silent book club. Keep on the lookout!

This does mark the last of the content for November, so you will be getting all new bonuses and podcasts next month!

xoxo Krista & Becca

"Homesick at Yale - Part One," Copyright © 2023 by K.B. Ritchie