Fiction.

I stepped onto the bus and took a quick survey of the empty seats: six total with four adjacent to various females. The vacant seat nearest the front cozied up to a girl whose hobbies were probably field hockey and The Mists of Avalon, not even worth investigating.

Taking the bus is just one of countless indicators that I’ve fallen from grace. I never leave the ‘burg therefore I don’t own a car. I don’t own a car therefore I must take the bus to Richmond. On any normal bus this would mean four and a half hours of sweaty hellacious tedium — probably seated next to an overweight middle aged divorcée whose fat rolls spill over into my chair. The bus doesn’t bring out the best crowd.

Luckily Blacksburg does not have a high percentage of fatties. In fact, it has a high percentage of the fine hunnies. Even the finest of hunnies sometimes lack a mode of transportation back to see their parents … when they are needy and homesick. Hey, I’m just saying.

I took a couple steps forward and purposefully dropped my iPod near the next open seat right under a beautiful blonde. While picking it up I briefly touched the blonde’s foot and my mental Rolodex began to spin.

That’s the easiest way to describe it. When I touch a woman I get a mental image of a card containing intimate details of her life. I don’t know how or why it happens. It’s abnormal, weird, and freakish but it can be tremendously useful. It isn’t like an autobiography or anything, just a few personal data. Actually, it is information pertaining only to the second time she had sex. Rather specific I know, but if you know what you are looking for it is all the information you’ll ever need.

I pulled up the blonde’s card:

NAME: Naomi
DATE: Last year on our third anniversary.
PARTNER: Dale, he’s my boyfriend!
SETTING: His dorm room on the third floor of Pritchard.
PARTING THOUGHTS: “I hope Dale is the one. He’s such a great guy!”

The blonde, Naomi as it turned out, was obviously not a likely candidate for a late night bus hookup. She did the dirty for the second time just a year ago (in the largest all male dorm on the east coast — gag). Plus she wanted to marry the guy. Way too complicated.

Moving further towards the back I came to the next open seat and brushed against the arm of a cute girl wearing glasses:

NAME: –
DATE: –
PARTNER: –
SETTING: –
PARTING THOUGHTS: –

While exceedingly cute and hookupable she either was a virgin or a virgin minus one. The cards only have information about the second time they’ve had sex so some people have blanks. Cases like this can go either way. She could be an “everything but the whole enchilada” type of girl, or she could be a “I kissed dating goodbye” type of girl. The former is perfect for a bus related good time, the later not so much. I’d rather not take the chance.

I pressed onward. I’m convinced that if you ask ten people where their first sexual encounter took place nine will say “on a bus.” Think about it: field trips, church camps, band competitions. When you’re young there aren’t too many dark and semi-private places where you can get close to some fine hunnies. You’re options are basically a long nighttime bus ride or Yogi Bear’s Cave at King’s Dominion — don’t knock the cave unless you’ve tried it. For some mysterious reason the bus retains its magical make out vibes for people well into their college years. You just have to find the right person.

I took the last empty seat next to some post-goth rock-and-roller chick with two tattoos of sparrows half covered by her wifebeater. She introduced herself as “Blade,” and I made a joke about American Gladiators. As we shook hands I brought up her card:

NAME: Jennifer Lingwood
DATE: It’s been at least four or fives years now.
PARTNER: Some guy at a show downtown who had a beard and an awesome tattoo of a skull dripping blood that was on fire.
SETTING: His studio apartment on Franklin for about three hours.
PARTING THOUGHTS: “God I love beards.”

Luckily I have a beard.

After three hours Jennifer, or “Blade,” fell asleep with her face pressed against the window. I thought about my sister Diana and how she never approved of my spontaneous encounters. I’ve never approved of her annoyingly lanky and overly emotional husband, so I guess we’re even. I knew just how the rest of tonight would pan out. She’d pick me up, we’d hug (I’d try to ignore her card, it’s always awkward), Dan would put on some shitty Bright Eyes album and talk about how he was the next Bob Dylan. He’d also probably talk about how the Beatles influence on modern music is overrated. Then we’d go to Grandma’s.

Grandma’s is the hipsterest hangout bar in Richmond. If you love tight denim pants and weird fashion mullet rat-tail haircuts you’ll love Grandma’s. We’ll get there and Dan will see about thirty people he knows and disappear into the crowd until close. Diana and I will get a table in the back and she’ll berate me for a couple hours about how I need to stop pretending that I’m still in college. I’ll drink about six beers and occasionally wander through the crowd flipping through my infinite Rolodex of second time sexual encounters.

I can’t wait.