Chapter 9

Jerry answered the knock at his dormitory door. Jennifer, with a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label, threw herself into his arms. They kissed long and sloppy.

And yet, and yet, this was after all a seminary men’s dormitory, a three story, red brick building with sharp angles and long hallways, single rooms door after door after door, single rooms with IKEA desks and book shelves, twin beds and single windows. Out Jerry’s loomed the colorless concrete wall of the building next door, as if the world outside had been deleted. 

His across the hall neighbor Alex would have greatly approved of this surprise visit.  A salt of the earth Idahoan, with a handlebar mustache, his penchant for pot and beer, pizza and gyros, Steve Martin and Cheech and Chong, made him Jerry’s kind of guy. They bonded instantly and fell into chummy competitions in tennis by day and backgammon by  night.

So when Jennifer came a knockin’,  Alex’s door zipped open. He quickly assessed the situation, gave Jerry a thumbs-up and a wink and retreated back into his room. 

Unfortunately, rockin’, Jerry and Jennifer did not. 

Jennifer didn’t get it, didn’t understand, why not let’s put a significant dent into this Black Label and fuck our brains out. 

For Jerry, he felt like everyone else was listening, some creak of the bed, some stifled moan, some telltale giveaway that would alert everyone about what they were doing. This was worse than being home with his parents listening outside his door. He just couldn’t, wouldn’t let go. Needless to say, his performance level suffered. Once again maintaining an erection took effort with a quick ejaculation before either of them could really settle in and enjoy.

When the weekend ended, Jerry was relieved.

It was the first Dear Jane letter he had ever written. It pained him to say goodbye. He truly liked Jennifer, her sense of fun, her athleticism, her enjoyment of sex. But, without hearing a word, without seeing a sign, he felt such moral condemnation, and that he could not suffer. He didn’t want to walk around with a scarlet letter on his chest.  

Yet more than regretting losing such a catch, something at a deeper, more primal level was disturbed. Its voice, though faint, carried great power. It was concerned, no, panicked that he was cutting off a critical food source without which he would die. This seminary was taking him into the desert. There was this promise of manna, the pure joy of Christ, but so far he had none. This was crazy; he’s gonna die. Get the fuck outta here. He consoled himself with psalm 61, “For God alone, O my soul, wait in silence, for my hope is from him.”