After posting today the narrative of the beginnings of that morning, it struck me that I should have also post-scripted this:

In years since that morning, I’ve been approached numbers of times by girls claiming to have been in that audience.  They knew my name.  Most often they asked about “that guy;” asking what happened to him.  Surprise and excited doesn’t adequately describe their reactions to my reply: “he’s my husband …”

A few years ago, on the beach at Waikiki:  “Meghan?  … Hi, I’m _____.  You may not remember me but I went to ___.  We both lived in ____ Hall.  I was in your apartment the morning your boyfriend was naked.”  etc., etc.

“Hi, I’m sorry; that morning has become a blur.”

“Whatever became of him?”

“He’s my husband.”

“Really?”

“Yes; he’s run for some drinks.  Wait a few and he’ll be back.”

… turns out she was accompanied by her husband …

“Krissi, this is _____.  She was in the apartment that morning when Karen waxed your cock.”

“Hi, ____”

“Hi, Krissi.”  She blushed; then, turning to me: ” I remember him without the swimsuit.”

… perfect opportunity: “would you like to see him without it?”

“Well, I’m with my husband.”

We agreed to meet for drinks at the hotel bar and later had a great conversation.

These kinds of things have happened repeatedly.

It is amazing how well the girls of that apartment house have traveled.