When I arrived at Wheaton College on the outskirts of Chicago, I was virginal as a Thomas Kinkade painting of springtime. Never held hands with, let alone kissed, a girl.

The problem (and it was a problem) was not a lack of interest on my part, nor (theoretically) on theirs. I mentioned before that I felt alone among other men. I should clarify: I did not feel that way around all other men and not all of the time. But among other man men–the kind that brag about conquests in the locker room after basketball practice, or drive loud cars or speak over others at the table–I refused to participate.

For this reason, I was alone around women, too. Not all women, and not all of the time. I was attracted to feminine women who seemed to prize the kind of man that I loathed. Now you see my situation. Quite a pickle.

In March of my freshman year new friendships were budding. I met Brandon, a sophomore, after he sat down at the big round table where my roommates and I were eating in the dining hall and bit into a dark chocolate cookie. None of us at the table knew this guy. With the cookie still in his mouth, he reached both of his long arms out to drape them around my shoulders and the shoulders of the guy sitting on his other side, and grinned at us in turn. Removing the cookie from his mouth, he pointed to another table full of football players with packs of ice strapped to their arms, necks and legs with clear cellophane wrap. They looked, and walked, like bears emerging from a snow drift. 

But Brandon wasn’t pointing at them. He was pointing at a blonde girl sitting in their ursine midst. “Blonde” comes in many sub genres. This one was no dirty blonde; she was platinum, so fair that she almost needed a diffrent category. Not dyed either, a natural born Daenerys–although George RR hadn’t written a word yet. Maybe he caught a glimpse of this girl one day, and that’s when he got the idea for the dragon queen.

When the football players heaved themselves up to get dessert, Brandon began working on his dark chocolate cookie, nibbling it in an odd way, hollowing out the middle except for a small bridge, then shaping the ends into wings. When the blonde rose to get some frozen yogurt, Brandon popped up, took a few long strides, dropped the bat-shaped cookie in front of her chair and returned. One minute later, she sat back down and stared at the bat symbol, then looked around the hall with her bright pink lipstick quizzical smile, until she caught sight of Brandon, waving his crossed hands like bat wings over my head. She laughed, Brandon laughed and then we all laughed. Even the football players laughed!

“Hi Linnea,” he called.

“Hi Brandon,” she called back.

Then she looked right at me, and she gave me a pink lipstick swimming in whole milk smile.

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Epilogue: I met Linnea a few weeks later on spring break. I piloted a jet ski, she wanted a ride, and I learned that football players don’t get all the girls. She called me “Josh Bond,” and I tried to live up to the name, which is probably why she broke up with me. But that’s another story.