The USS Nimitz, Chivalry, and Codpieces

When I first got to Pitt, I was 19 years old, hung over, high enough to hunt ducks with a rake, horny, stupid, inexperienced, and totally unprepared for college. My downfall realistically started the first week on campus. That week, I was introduced in quick succession to the three true loves of my life: the internet, dark beer, and loose women.

We didn’t exactly have much financially when I was growing up; we got by but both my folks had to work hard to make that happen, and we had to skimp on a few of the luxuries. That’s why my first access to the internet was when they gave me my login information at Pitt. Now this was in ‘94, so it wasn’t too uncommon; DSL wouldn’t even be available to homes for another 3-4 years and the cable modem was still a good ways off too, and it was far from being affordable, with the only real options being dial-up services like AOL. It opened up a whole new world.

The dark beer happened that night when my floor in Forbes Hall (which was coed by wing) threw a party. That was when I first tasted Yuengling Porter, and anything lighter or thinner would never satisfy my appetites again. At the opposite end of the hall (where the girls were) I spied a couple hot prospects, and if it weren’t for what had happened prior to my return to the dorm that evening, the entire rest of my life might have been different.

Part of orientation was meeting with various clubs and student groups, and there were two I was interested in. The gaming club and the SCA. The first is pretty obvious, but the second may require some description. I’m going to cheat and copy Wikipedia for that:

The Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA) is an international living history group with the aim of studying and recreating mainly Medieval European cultures and their histories before the 17th century. A quip often used within the SCA describes it as a group devoted to the Middle Ages "as they ought to have been", choosing to "selectively recreate the culture, choosing elements of the culture that interest and attract us". Founded in 1966, the non-profit educational corporation has over 30,000 paid members as of 2017 with about 60,000 total participants in the society (including members and non-member participants).

So yeah. Dressing up in funny clothes and hitting each other with sticks. But there’s a lot that Wikipedia doesn’t tell you. For example, in the early 70s an FBI analyst misread the Anachronism as Anarchism and put the organization on a watch list, something that was only compounded when they realized that it’s literally the world’s largest militia, albeit one skilled only in melee and archery. This misunderstanding was later resolved, leading to a few amusing anecdotes involving the SCA and the US military, like the story about a boot private schooling a bunch of Marine DIs with pugil sticks, and when this was brought to the attention of the guy in charge the exchange going something like:

“…said he was part of the SCA. What does that mean, sir?”

“It means we can’t beat him. Did he mention a title?”

“Yeah… I think it was Duke. So?”

“Which means they can’t beat him either.”

Or the incident in the 80s when a MIG flyover of the USS Nimitz (which at the time was known in the SCA as the Shire of Curragh Mor, which is Irish for ‘Big Boat’) caused the skipper to call for all active Scadians on board to attend fighter practice on the deck in full armor just to fuck with the commies.

I only bring this up because there’s a certain subset of slut that throws herself at brutish men who can beat someone to within an inch of their life with a piece of rattan, but can also dance and do calligraphy (I like to call guys like that, like me, action nerds). And the SCA attracts that kind of slut the way tax shelters attract Republicans.

Another of my weird fetishes when it comes to clothing is laces and buckles on a woman. The more stuff in the way, the more I want to undo it. Sort of like opening a particularly intricately wrapped present. The garb worn by the women at that first presentation sealed my fate.

I attended the first dance practice, flirted shamelessly with any woman who would meet my gaze, attended fighter practice the following Sunday, went to an after-party, and ended up in bed with a 5’2” redhead with 38 GGs. That was pretty much the end of school for me, and the start of a three year relationship that probably taught me more about life than any four year college ever could.

BigWig’s place is a triplex. Most of Chesterfield is duplexes or triplexes. Debatably affordable housing for students or drop outs, marginally more expensive and less shitty than my third floor walk-up. The moment of vulnerability in the car and the one at the restaurant were replaced with a blast of **** awkwardness there in her living room. No roommates in sight and a cursory glance revealed very little about the occupants. She was in the kitchen making tea. I’m pretty sure she used the offer as an excuse to escape.

The tea was excellent. She claimed it was her own concoction, rose hips, hibiscus, skullcap and valerian, from what I recall. When she pressed it into my hands and wouldn’t meet my eyes, I determined that my best move was to break the ice. So I asked her what she liked to read.

We ended up talking about Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Bukowski, both of us decided that all three were nearly unreadable and moved on to Stephen King, Robert Heinlein, and Christopher Moore (I’d read Coyote Blue, she’d read Practical Demonkeeping). That really broke the ice, and from there we went down the rabbit hole to music.

The process of really getting to know someone is slow, and can take years, even decades, but a lot of things can bridge the gap. Common ground makes all the difference in the world when forging a connection. So when we both simultaneously reached for the chips she’d managed to scrounge up and our hands touched, and our lips were only inches apart, it only seemed natural to lean those extra inches forward and kiss her.

So I do.

Well, she stiffens up as soon as my lips touch hers, but only for a second and then she’s kissing back. Her hands tangle in my wild mane of hair (fun fact: I’m bald as a cue ball these days but back then I had hair almost down to my ass) and we tumble into a heap on the couch.