The Secret Michigan Blog of Quarterback Tom Brady
Part 2 of an Ongoing Series
My Republican sweetheart Cara lived in the turgid bowels of East Quad, next to a fetid student-run cafe that reeked of diner food and the pachouli of its patrons. Somehow by requesting a substance-free floor the poor darling had ended up in that bastion of communist activity and anachronistic hippie fashions, flourishes of the sixties with bizarre erratics from all eras spattering the walls and people. Nose rings, for instance, had no place with the psychotic children of the failed revolution the boomers chest beat about at any chance. Yet here was her roommate Sage with a face full of metal penetrating her youthful beauty and leaving it ravaged and spoiled. I had to look at Sage whenever Cara got dropped off at my apartment, because Cara had no car and Sage did, and I lived on the other side of Ann Arbor. Sage only vaguely knew that I existed outside the context of being a football player; like most she cast me out of my place among the scholars because I knew where to put a pigskin.
I liked Cara because she rarely left her dorm room, and that made it easier for me to keep her from my being discovered by my other sweethearts. Terrified by the bizarre pageantry of the student body’s gaudy forays into individual expression through bizarre bohemian fashion flourishes; terrified by the intoxicants that polluted the very air with noxious herbal fumes from incense to opium; terrified by the virile yet infected intellects attempting to take advantage of her vulnerable mind and fertilize it with notions so far from Republicanism that they couldn’t even be called Democratic; terrified of everything - it made sense the girl never left the room but to scurry to classes or be ferried to my bed for tender lovemaking. Cara was a really nice girl and I liked her a lot as she was: all mine.
So imagine my terror when I roll across my linens after a brownout night of Guinness spattered with cocaine to kiss a beauty as part of me rose - and there, curled supine, was Sage in nothing but a hemp necklace. Vague flashes of licking her hairy armpit flashed back into my mind with the horror of some erotic form of PTSD, and I remembered running into her in the basement of the hippie frat when buying drugs from Zac at a 2 AM on a night when I swore blow was right out. Yet here she was, fucking Sage, only not debating me because she was asleep, and I studied the women’s studies major’s body. At least that was worth something. She would clean up those flawless curves into a corporate simulacrum of her college self soon enough, get a job in organic food marketing or something and never look back as she plunged into a capitalistic reality no deluded college liberal can avoid. In the meantime though there was the quarterback beside her.
I rolled up right, leaned over, did the last line on a bedside mirror and started throwing on some corporate-sponsored underwear to get ready for the gym. At least there was cover and a need for us all to keep this quiet: Sage had a lesbian partner who rarely left her side. Maybe Sage and I could keep this to this bed and this night, but I saw a strange new future in a terrifying visceral recollection: last night was the best sex I had ever had. This was going to be the wrong kind of fun, and in a manner unlike myself, I began to look forward to the loss.