Interesting People on the Fringe: This Week - Becky Ferring!

“If you ever want to have sex, just throw a paper airplane at me.”

These provocative words were spoken to me by this week’s interesting person on the fringe, Becky Ferring, back in the fall of 1988. Becky and I were third year architecture students together that semester, and I never really saw that whole fling coming. But, after all, I was as of then, pretty much uninitiated into the female mysteries. For this initiation into the sensual and sexual realm, I am indebted to Becky.

It all started out pretty innocently. I was living back in the ruins of Immaculate Village that summer, having left Fortress Immacula just as the Xarlon invasion pretty much destroyed the place. Funny how destruction tends to follow my departures, but pretty much the entire Stingray Regime was on the run at this time. Some had taken refuge in the decrepit Red House, the Windowglass Man was in exile on Main Street, where I would eventually end up in a year’s time, and I was back in what was left of Immaculate Village, which was no longer immaculate nor a village. It was again a fraternity, but then again, it was not very fraternal. In those warm, humid days of August leading up to the start of the fall semester, however, my life changed.

I had sex.

At the age of twenty, I was perhaps a bit behind a lot of my friends in engaging in such activity. But it really had never been a high priority for me, I guess. Anyhow, the first time was with a lithe, 16-year old chick visiting friends at Iowa State probably for the very reason that she wanted sex as well. At least it seemed that way. Josie Hamilton, I believe was her name, and she was from Fort Dodge, Webster City or someplace “up” there in Webster County. That is about all I remember about her, other than the sex was pretty tame, probably due to our mutual inexperience, i.e. no Kama Sutra here! My friend, Loren, upon discovering me that morning in bed with the lass, shook his head and said, "Oh, no! Now you'll never be the same!" I suppose he was right.

That fall, however, I would link up with Becky Ferring, who, unlike a 16-year old Iowa farm girl, was a quite worldly implant from the East Coast, Jersey to be specific, and she taught me enough in one evening to bring me from Padowan to Jedi Master.

Becky kind of reminded me of a modern-day faerie queen: impish in height, with long, straight, brown hair, kind of quiet, mysterious. I guess you could call her a hippie-chick. We were in Dick Roseman’s architecture studio 301 together, sitting a few drawing tables away from each other. We never really spoke too much when we were in class together, other than project-related stuff, but somehow we had decided to go to a party together in the suburban blocks between Ames’ Campustown and downtown. She picked me up in her once-white, rusty VW bug and we drove to the party, together with some guy friend of hers. It was chilly in the way that those fall, October evenings can be, with your breath clouded and hanging in the air, but the party was outside regardless, a result perhaps of a host not wanting a lot of cleanup duties on Sunday morning. At least the keg did not have to be put on ice.

After introductions and a few rounds of beers, I noticed that Becky had other things on her mind rather than just partying, at least in this fashion. At some point in the evening, she gave her keys to the dude who had ridden to the party with us, with the excuse that she could no longer drive, and she suggested we go for a walk, which we did. This stroll turned into a sort of weird, suburban love march.

As we began our trek, with no real goal in mind, I managed to grab a beer for the road. After a couple of blocks and a few flirty comments, she drew herself close to me and kissed me. Not wanting to spoil the moment, I kissed back. Somehow in our somewhat intoxicated passion, we decided it would be a good idea to crawl into a hedge. Going under cover of the earth mother, so to speak, we then made out unseen to the world, probably putting on a nice show for the little mammals, birds and creepy-crawly creatures that inhabited said hedge.

After crawling out of the bush, we tramped on over to Brookside Park, a traditional nighttime hangout for Ames lovers, walkers and stoners. At least in the good old days. Once I walked over there in the summer of 1997 with Kyle Horn to watch the approach of a large summer thunderstorm from the west, when we were accosted by members of the Ames PD, saying that we weren’t allowed to be in the park after dark, blah, blah, blah. We obligingly left, but I can remember one time at Brookside when Dr. Ted Solomon and I stumbled upon three students and a keg hidden off one of the paths in the back of the park on an evening in the spring of 1993. Times certainly had changed. But back to our current love march story: no police in 1988, nor other people, just more making out, this time on the picnic tables. I was feasting on Becky and she on me. But, wait, there’s more! This was just an appetizer. The main course was still to come.

Becky lived at the time in a run-down, two-story house west of campus. Some absentee landlord was obviously making a wad of monthly cash on this firetrap, which may have been a nice family dwelling in 1930, but no longer. That being our eventual goal, we continued to make our way westward, leaving Brookside for the ISU campus. Since the modern concrete and glass monster of the ISU College of Design never slept in those days, we headed thataway. We drunkenly giggled our way to our architecture studio, where some diligent schmuck was working on his project on a Saturday night, and then Becky whispered to me, “There is something I want to show you.” I replied anticipatively, gulping an “OK,” and followed her into the stairwell.

Becky was working part-time at the University architects, who are responsible for building improvements and such at ISU, and she had a key to the roof. We went out and gazed upon the entire campus from the top of the five-story building. Then she showed me her creation. On the barrel-domed, glass roof of the building's atrium rested a curved ladder Becky had designed herself at her job. She suggested we climb up, which we did, I suggested that perhaps we should do more on the ladder, which we didn’t. “Too uncomfortable here,” was her sensible answer, but just making out with her while gazing down through the glass about eighty feet to the floor was exciting enough for the moment. It was freaking weird watching people walking back and forth in plan view, unaware of our presence, sort of like a hawk circling above a stubbled wheatfield looking for a mouse. The cold wind was pretty much ignored during the thrill, but we then decided it would be best to head back to her place.

We finally managed to reach her place and went upstairs to her room. The décor in her room was surprisingly feminine. I guess I had expected something a little more psychedelic and trippy, befitting a hippie chick, but the iron bed was soft and cushy, covered with comforters. We disrobed and got down to some serious lovemaking, the likes of which I had not seen before, and, honestly, some things which I haven’t experienced since. I felt like an initiate being brought into some funky, female-centered, mystery religion of the Near East. She was the teacher, I was the student, the lesson plan was tough, but I was intent upon getting high marks. A few hours later, we were both exhausted, resting in each other's arms within the warmth of her bed.

Then, suddenly, as the first bits of astronomical twilight were appearing in the eastern sky, for reasons inexplicable, I felt the need to go. I don’t know why, but I felt like I should get out of there before morning. Sure, sounds like probably some kind of deep-seated, male escape instinct, like a coon chewing off his foot to get out of a trap, breaking the hearts of many a girl since time immemorial, but I had cold-sweated feeling come over me that I needed to leave and leave now. Slipping into my clothes, I apologized for having to split, and Becky, while telling me I could stay for breakfast if I wanted, somehow understood and then said those words with which I began this essay. I nodded, thinking, this is pretty weird, and then said adieu, making my way out into the now quite frosty morning air.

Getting my bearings, I decided to make my way to the nearby Red House on Lincoln Way to discuss this newly-won, mysterious feminine knowledge with my personal guru, Budwan, the Mystic Master, but alas, as I looked into the dimly-lit basement windows and knocked on the door, no one was either awake or even there. Perhaps they were partying after hours at the bar downtown. Who knows? Cold and shaken, I managed to steal an old bike someone had left by the sidewalk and ride back to the frat house.

Becky and I remained good friends, but I never did throw that paper airplane. I guess it just wasn’t meant to fly.

The last I heard, she was working as an architect in Denver.

Becky, wherever your are…Origami!