(Part 1 in a five-part series) I’ve always had a thing for legs. When I was around fourteen, I distinctly remember reading a copy of my dad’s Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition and gawking at the smooth, tanned legs of the woman on the cover; her body brightened by her orange swimsuit, her feet curling together in the foreground of the picture on the sand of the beach where she sat. She looked at you with the coy, jaded look women are meant to have in these photos. I wondered, at that time, if I would ever be this close to a stunning female’s legs in real life and if she would ever look at me like so. Let’s fast-forward five years. My buddy Jason and I sat on the porch outside a house party in November, watching the partygoers exit. We were drinking scotch on ice and I was numerous sheets to the wind. Jason burped. “I’m gonna flunk that test tomorrow,” he said. I watched the legs of the girls wandering outside. A few of them stumbled on the doorstep like drunken high-schoolers (which was basically what we still were, as freshmen ages 18 to 19), some of them were helped out by their equally smashed, wonky boyfriends (or guys who wished they were their boyfriends), and others exited smoothly and without any help, thank you. Many wore those tight black silk pants that is a continuing fad among the hip middle class female set. But a surprising number wore skirts—short skirts—although it was a cold night. A girl in a flannel Irish skirt walked out. Her legs were amazing. They got thick and curvy towards the top, but nice and lean as you went down to her feet. She wore black shoes that looked like particularly warm slippers. I wondered why she was dressed like this was the original Saint Patrick’s Day. She had red hair and freckles and was chatting with two other girls, didn’t seem too drunk. “Look at the legs on that one,” Jason said. Jason had no tact whatsoever. They probably heard him. But I was secretly surprised someone else cared about legs as much as I did. “Yeah,” I responded. “They’re really something.” In a moment of utter cockiness, I called to her. “Ms. O’ Brien! What’s your name?” She and her friends looked toward me, perplexed. “Janis…” she said eventually. “Hi.” I raised my beer. “Great to make your acquaintance.” “Yeah,” she said, sort of smiling. “Same.” “You ladies get home safe,” I said. I can sound like a dick if I want, like a smooth operator if I want, like a drunk teenager if I want, or like a cop, if I really want. Janis and her friends trotted off to a car at the far end of the driveway and I felt proud of sounding like all four to her. I knew at that point that somehow, some way, I would bang Janis before the year was up. During most of the fall semester I was pretty diligent about going to classes and studying, I was kind of serious about not smoking as much pot as I had in high school and not getting arrested for it as I had once. But gradually that all went out the window because the school I go to (I'm not going to name it. It's somewhere in the Midwest), is one of the hardest partying institutions in the country. By the end of October I was crashing my bike in to the side of the student lounge because I was drunk and getting written up by the campus cops for playing beer pong outside, in the parking lot, with four other people. I was/am ridiculous. One of the people I played beer pong with that night was none other than Janis. We first hooked up that October night. I felt her boobs and made out with her against the brick wall of Dodson Hall. She had been a Catholic school girl; that explained the uniform. At one point she pulled away and said, “I like you…” “You’re not too bad yourself,” I said. “I don’t know if we’ll ever see each other again, but you’re not too bad.” I’d given this line many times before. The first time had been perhaps three years before in high school, around the time I’d trained myself to stop fearing girls. Janis looked vaguely disappointed after she heard it. Her freckles gleamed out of the darkness in the corner of the building we were scrunched up against and made her look lonely. I kissed her again and said goodnight and left. The next time we met was in December. I saw her in the student lounge after our Economics class and we ended up sitting and eating lunch together. We shot the shit for a while, and then she asked if I wanted to take a walk with her. I was like, "Sure." We walked around in the cold over to her dorm and I led her to her door. As soon as we got to her door, she pulled me in and we kissed again. Next thing you know, I'm on the top of her bunk bed, naked except for my boxers and she's naked except for the insane tan lines on her skin left by her bra and panties, even in winter. I'm doing a rotating pattern of sucking on the nipples of her tits while she runs her fingers through my hair like I'm a fucking pet dog. She whispers to me to go down on her.