The Art Gangster Brie had a habit of pressing her face against my neck during some point usually towards the end of our sessions. But there were also times when she clutched the back of my neck and suddenly I felt her nose bearing down on my Adam’s apple only about two minutes in, so maybe she was just nervous and didn’t know what to do. There was this one time in my dorm room, during a bout of midday horniness that needed some relief. And this time was sexy as shit because she was sitting on top of me and I bounced her up and down and felt my thumb digging in to her belly button and watched her moan up at the low hanging light that she could have bonked her head against if she leaned much closer. As if she were practicing modern dance choreography (and she had been a dancer, which she’d given up for studying painting and banging me), she curled her head down so she was looking straight down at my lower belly. And she turned up the volume of her moans as if the hairier part of my stomach made it so much sexier. She dipped downward and buried her face in my neck, while at the same time, amazingly, reaching back with one hand and grasping my cock to make sure it stayed inside her. This time I was being responsible and wearing a condom. It felt very awkward, but for the next minute or so, I got an inch-away view of her thin, stringy black hair with even a single gray hair near the top of her head where it parted. She’d worn her hair in a ponytail when we first met, but that had gone the way of all bad ideas. Her breath felt hot on my neck and her moans vibrated off my pillow like a surround sound museum piece. I felt her hand that wasn’t on my cock slither around in to my hair. I felt her eyelashes fluttering against my neck. I peered up over her head to see what the action was like south of the great hill. Her ass bobbed in the air and my dick felt like it could fling out of her at any second. So I scooted down and, in a feat of gymnastics, curled my legs up so they forked between her legs and spread them out on either side and got my old pal more firmly situated in her pussy. I thrusted with more authority and her hand jerked away from my cock. It writhed across her ass and rested at the edge of her crack. I could see my nuts flailing above her ass like two fat kids trying to jump over a wall, but then I started coming and shut my eyes and put both of my hands around her cheeks. I raised her face so she looked in to mine and at the moment our eyes met she stopped her staccato moans. Her face was flushed and her lips were parted and her eyes were squinted, like they had been shut for duration of their acquaintance with my neck. The fat of her cheeks was balled up between my thumbs and forefingers. I finished and let my legs fall flat. I didn’t kiss her. I just held her face and we stared at each other, breathing. She bent down and kissed me for a long time. She sat on the bed, dabbing at her groin with a tissue and got back in to her slip. I rolled off the condom and wrapped it in a couple tissues and threw it away. When we were both fully dressed, we looked at each other again, smiling and she raised her arms in a partial shrug. We really didn’t know what to say. What can you say? “I guess I’ll see you soon?” she said. “Yeah,” I said. “Call me or something.” “Why don’t you give me a call?” A pause. “If I feel like it.” “Bye Dennis.” She walked out the door with her handbag swinging from her shoulder loosely enough that it could have spilled all over the floor. I wanted to be something like an art gangster that past semester (Spring). I hung out with a few other dudes who knew spray painting and we went around campus at night with spray cans, spraying designs on the sides of buildings and in classrooms holding classes we hated. Then a campus cop, this total fatty, saw us walking around and one guy, I think Jim (dumbshit), was holding his spray can in plain view. The cop said, “Hey! What are you kids up to?” And I remember saying, “Fuck, let’s run.” And we did and the fat cop hardly bothered to chase us. He yelled some shit and I heard him running, but then he stopped and I heard the crackle of his radio. He said something about these five kids, holding a can of something, etcetera. Nobody came after us, and we all dispersed at the top of Crest Hill and ran back to our dorms. From that point on, we A) tooled on Jim a lot and B) stuck to spraying places downtown, like at the abandoned train tracks under the Orono bridge, and the vacant lot at Sidberry Street. What a name, Sidberry. I picture a sleazy guy named Sid with tattoos and sunglasses smoking a cigarette and dropping trow, but the sleaziest people down there were us, and we smoked joints. I got laid the most of any of us. The other guys were either virgins or had gotten it maybe a couple times. Stevie was once bragging about getting head the previous week, and I whipped out the picture of Janis and he stopped bragging. Nate once asked me if Brie had any hot friends. I was surprised, because I didn’t even remember telling them about Brie. Brie and I would smoke weed and talk about painting and music. Things that we actually had in common. I think she mostly stayed with me because of the sex, which was the same reason I stayed with her (who woulda thunk it?). But sometimes she behaved like an actual girlfriend. Like one evening when we sat on the bench outside the library, after checking out a couple books on Rembrandt that she needed to help her study. She sat on one of my legs and nestled her head against mine. Her other leg hung loosely down the side of the bench and I noticed a tear in her jeans. I put my hand on it and rubbed that spot. I looked out over the campus and saw a number of other girls walking around. Most of them I could probably fuck if I really wanted to. But I didn’t care at that moment. I was glad to be with this artsy, intellectual, slim, dark-haired young woman in my lap. Brie's Orgasm I walked in to Brie's painting studio one afternoon. It was really her classroom, but she always stayed late. She was more driven than the other students. She stood there in a splattered smock in the center of the room, moving her brush back and forth. She wore her khaki shorts. When she bent forward to get a closer look at what she’d just painted, her shorts moved upward on her thighs. Even then, after I'd already had her for months, her thighs looked too good to be true. Brie didn't hear me. I wrapped my arms around her from behind and she gasped and the paintbrush jerked off the canvas. "Oh God, Dennis," she said, laughing. "You scared me." I kissed her on the cheek. I looked at the painting. It was a lot of swirled shapes in vibrant colors; chiefly red, blue and green. Primary colors. “What’s your painting about?” I asked. I'll tell you what it was about. It showed a normal looking woman, dressed in a drab shirt and jeans, fighting a muscular body-building caricature of a man who wore no shirt. In the background, news articles (which she had cut out of their original magazines and papers and pasted on the canvas), comments from Internet forums, and a few out of focus Instagram-ish selfies--half of them taken by women, half of them taken by men-- looked like they were swirling towards them, unfurling from the canvas edges. The woman was delivering a comic-book style punch to the man's chin and his head was jolting back. Brie looked at me for a moment, seeing if I could figure it out. "Feminism," she said.