I was in Eton. Jail to approximately one thousand two-hundred boys. No girls. Tsk tsk. I was one of those tourists who flocked to the fabled brick quadrangle because of the faint hope to catch a fleeting glimpse of a certain Etonian. Blonde hair, hazel eyes, destined to wear a hat with spikes one day, call it a crown. His name: Prince William. (Who is he again?) I attended the tour which would've been boring save the young Etonian who was giving it. He had a tight bum! To pass time I decided to have lunch, and planned to finish by the time Peter, a friend and gentleman enough to chauffeur, was going to pick me up. After obtaining my order, French fries and a chocolate shake (artery-clogging stuff), I turned around. In my attempt to balance everything in my arms: lunch, camera, purse, I dropped my folder.
A boy picked it up before I could. Young adult, if you prefer the term. My heart began to beat fast as I recognized the striped pants (hate those stripes). My gaze moved upwards. Black vest. Waistcoat. Hmmm... No bowtie? Etonian. I was standing within arm's reach of an ETONIAN! Close enough to touch. Did I dare? Aiyeee! Remember to breathe.
He was attractive. Good-looking. Not intimidatingly movie-star gorgeous (the worst kind). His hair was dark, cut in a way that can only be described as preppy (praise the Eton dress code!). No zits; a feat for a teenager. No earring (again, the Eton dress code to thank). Blue eyes (my fave). And lips with a the most perfect pout in existence. I wonder how he kisses...
He flipped through the folder casually, my webpage in printed form. It also contained articles and pictures of Prince William. Never knew when I needed an inspiration strike.
I watched unmoving, wondering what he thought of me as people made their way around us.
"You're a writer?" he asked me.
I met his gaze. My eyes fixed on the white rectangular form. "I write words," I said non-comittally, .
He arched an eyebrow, "Starrside?"
Vanity on my part. My screen name was emblazoned in slick paint on the folder's right-hand corner. A friend did it. "Yes," I affirmed through clenched teeth.
He closed it but didn't hand it back. "The Prince Chronicles," he looked at me.
Okay! That does it. Psycho! my brain analyzed. I grabbed one end of the folder and yanked on it.
He held it in a tight grip.
"Give it back Britboy!" I hissed.
"I'm an American," he retorted, not letting go.
"What-evah!" American? Then he should understand what this word meant. "Gimme!"
"No."
"It's mine," I reminded.
He said nothing, only held on tighter.
Was he enjoying this? What was up with that smile on his face? I wondered as we did tug-of-war. In my mind I imagined a cartoon scene where the folder would rip in half, my fry container would fly out of my hand, flip in the air, and rain ketchup-covered potato sticks on us while we both landed on our rear ends. "Gimme!" I said again.
"No," he said again with calm that infuriated me.
Is this what they learn in Eton? "How to annoy the tourists"? Class count must be full. There were various ways I could've won the struggle had I chosen to take them. I could've stomped on his feet, but alas! That would mean I'd have to smudge his shoes which were a critical part of the oh-so-sexy Eton uniform. He better be grateful. Biting would've been sufficient but in a public place where guys were already staring, a girl has to reserve some dignity! The fry container (I was still holding it) was about to slip from my grasp. The shake was on the verge of tipping over, and my camera was about to crash to the floor. So...I let go of the folder. Damn!
"I'll give it back," he promised.
I sighed, blowing my bangs away from my eyes. There was the catch. I waited.
"I have a proposition for you."
Oooh, proposition. Big word. What was he? A business major?
"I want you to write a story about me."
"You want me to write a story about you?" I echoed.
"Yeah."
I stared at him harder. "You. Want. Me. To. Write. A. Story. About. You?"
"Yes. Definitely."
He's so NICE, isn't he? He tells me straight out what he's using me for. I mean, heaven forbid we go through formalities first. Heaven forbid, we get to know each other. If that happened I might've made the WRETCHED mistake of thinking that he liked me for me. Oh no! Heaven forbid THAT!
"Do I have a choice?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No. No, you don't."
There's your answer, bub! "I'll write down what you have to say. As for putting it in a story... I make no promises."
"Fair enough," he considered. "My name's Hunter," he introduced, leading me to an empty table. (Roll that last R girls. It's a purr...) He turned to me. "Yours?"
"Starrside."
Hunter raised an eyebrow.
I smirked. He blackmails me and expects me to give him my name? Let him go crazy guessing!
The table he chose was by a picture window which allowed me to see outside. The pre-noon sun shone lazily on the people who were walking to one destination or another. I sat down, fully aware of the strange looks the other Etonians were aiming in our direction. The looks clearly said: "What is SHE doing with HIM?" Yeah, guys. Exactly what I'm thinking. Ask the insane maniac sitting in front of me.
I munched on fries when he began.
Nostalgic tone. "I was born in the year 1982..."
"You want me to--" I said with my mouth full. Ooops! Didn't Miss Manners say that was rude? I swallowed. "You expect me to write all of this down?" I said incredulously. It's the same tone you use when you tell your teacher, "What do you mean you want a fifty-page typewritten double-spaced report on the history of gasoline on your front desk by tomorrow morning?!?!"
Hunter paused. "I have a tape recorder in my room. We can do the interview there if you want."
Hmmm... hunky Etonian inviting me to go up to his room? Guess where I can take this little scenario... "I'll stay here while you get it." Hunk yes, but who knew if he was a gentleman or not? Or if I wanted him be a gentleman or not. A sense of adventure comes with international travel.
"Okay," he stood up, taking my folder with him. "Ill be holding this as hostage."
Booger! I thought sourly, though I couldn't help but half-admire him in his pursuit of what he wanted. I handed him some notes to buy the blank tapes. The value of which, due to my ignorance of British currency, I'm not able to approximate. I could tape over them, so whether this guy had a worthwhile story to tell it would still be a good investment.
"Don't leave," were his last words.
So he left. And I was stuck there with nothing to do. I played with my fries, inevitably limp and lost in all desirability. The shake bland too. I had a pen but no paper. On the edge of the table was the letter F. Next was a half formed U. Hmmm... I wonder what word the person was trying to spell. Boredom and me is a dangerous combination which happens often. When I'm bored I start to think. Not pretty.
I started to think about Hunter. Who was he? Why did I meet him? What cologne does he wear? Why did he answer "Yes, definitely" as opposed to a simple "Yes"? For emphasis? Why emphasize? Then again, I did ask him twice. Maybe I forced him into saying it.
I thought about Prince William. Where was he in Eton? Did he know Hunter? Most likely no. Eton was a big place. Would I meet him?
Where was Harry?
I looked around and began feeling out of place. I was watching the Etonians naturally. There's just something about a guy in uniform. A challenge. The temptation to unearth the bad boy underneath the prim and proper clothing. There was one in particular which caught my eye. He looked twelve to me so he was probably fourteen. His hair was light blonde and had a stubborn cowlick. His eyes were green. Or blue-green. I wasn't close enough to be tell. He looked really good when he laughed. His expression said, "I'm no angel, but you just gotta love me."
He caught me staring, stopped laughing and turned away. The smile still there though.
One of his companions exchanged looks with the rest of the boys. His lips clearly formed the words, "What is SHE doing here?" Gee, where did he come from? The Brat Academy? Where the motto is: come in as brats, come out as bigger brats?
I looked at my lap. I really dont know, boy. I'm sitting here, twiddling my thumbs, looking at the ceiling, waiting for Hunter...
I thought about my page and how every single unfinished plot was on stand still. I had even dubbed them: "The Neglected Nine." I had writer's block! Should I mention this to Hunter? Would he let me go if he knew? Did he know what writer's block was?
Doo wee doo wee, I thought. The theme song for Disney's Winnie the Pooh played in my mind.

Deep in the Hundred Acred Wood
Where Christopher Robin played
You'll find the enchanted neighborhood
Of Christopher's childhood days
A donkey named Eeyore is his friend...

I stood up. Forget it! I thought, sick of waiting. I don't care what consequential action he'll do to my stories should I leave. Had he intended to do something vile with them he would've printed them off the net and done so already. In a state akin to anger I stormed for the exit.
"Hey," a voice stopped me at the door.
I looked up. It was Hunter. His jacket was off.
"I thought we were going to--" he held up the tape recorder.
"Oh, you just--" I prepared to insult him.
He raised an eyebrow.
Grrr! Do you know how there are just some guys who you can forgive for almost anything? I think Hunter's one of them. "Fine," I told him unenthusiastically (couldn't he take the hint?) and followed him to the table.
He sat in front of me. His hair was a little mussed. It appealed to me. As if he can't be tamed. Beads of sweat glided down his neck...
"When do you think we'll be finished?" I looked at the clock on the wall.
Hunter placed four sixty-minute tapes still in their plastic wrapper on the table and handed me the change. (Nice boy. I know some scum who'd keep it). "It'll be a while," he predicted.
A groan escaped me. Did he hear? What was I getting myself into? "I'll warn Peter," I informed, standing up. I found a phone booth (you know, those red-painted ones London's famous for) and dropped in the proper change.
"Hello?" someone picked up the other end.
"Pete?"
"Starr?" as a joke, he calls me Starr. But he does know my name.
"Yes. Listen. I'm going stay in Eton a bit longer. Can you pick me up at closing time?"
"What happened?" he wanted to know.
"Just met some guy..." I answered vaguely not wanting him to relay anything to my mother.
I could almost see his grin. "Prince William?"
"Ha ha."
"I'll be there. And Starr?"
"Yes?"
"Don't fall in love there, okay?"
I saw a group of boys pass me. Hunter's image came to mind. And of course there was Prince William. Etonians, they were pretty darn hunky. "I'll try not to," I promised then hung up.
"So, who's this Peter guy?" Hunter asked when I came back to the table. "Anyone I should be afraid of?"
"Yes," I snapped, sitting down. I picked up a pen and flipped the folder over so the blank sides of the papers were facing me. See? Earth-friendly. We recycle. I placed a tape in the recorder. I looked at the black box and then at him. "Do you know what writer's block is?" I asked.
"Yes."
I handed the recorder back. "I have it."
Hunter pushed it to me. "You won't really be writing anything. Just relaying what I'm telling you. I'm a writer too and I think this would be a good story."
He was a writer too? Good. I handed back the recorder. "Why don't you write it?"
He handed it back to me. "I want you to do it." he said simply.
In other words, if this was a science project, he comes up with the concept, I do all the leg work and at the end we slap both our names on the product. Grrrrr! There was this one guy on the net I collaborated with to make a PW story (all copies of which I hope are burned). He got all the fun parts. Namely: Harry and William. The parts I had to write? Liz's, Charles', Harry's GF's and all the technical boring stuff like what they were having for dinner. So FAIR, don't you think? "Why me?" I asked Hunter.
"You're here."
True. I was running out of excuses. One more question. "Why do you want to do this?"
A suspicious pause. "To inflate my ego?"
I wanted to laugh. He wasn't the first guy with this request (though youd think it) The first guy's reason "I want to be famous", another guy's reason, "I think it would be cool." Is there some male ego deficiency in the world that I'm not aware of? Last time I heard it was at an all time high. The first time a guy asked me to put him in a story (the infamous Trevor. Love you babe), it was flattering. Very flattering. Second time, I started to get a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. Third time, I wanted to strangle the guy. And fourth... actually, I'm not sure if there is a fourth. There was a guy who asked me to be his online GF. I said "yes." Then "no." I think he just asked so that one day he'll say "If you're my GF why don't you write a story about me?" Maybe it's just paranoia. Anyway, if the fourth time does exist... I feel like killing every boy who asked. (PS. Hunter was the second).
"What color boxers are you wearing?" I asked.
"Excuse me?"
"What color boxers are you wearing?" I repeated. Hey, if he can ask me to write a story about him -- I can very darn well ask the pigment of his undies.
He answered slowly, "Paisley blue."
All right... I thought the situation over, wondering how he wanted me to start this. A stray piece of paper floated to the floor.
"What's this?" he asked, picking it up.
"No! Don--!" I objected. It didn't do any good.

Full Monty with the Eton Uniform.

Hmm just wondering how Mr. Windsor will do it.
Song of choice: You sexy thing (what else?)

First the bow tie.... then the coat slips down... swings coat around. Throws it to the screaming girls in the crowd... slowly unbuttons vest... He's throwing looks that make your heart melt and pulse race... the vest goes off... next article of clothing: the white long sleeved shirt. Buttons again. He takes his time. Top button first, working his way down... He's swiveling his hips like Elvis. He flashes a smile knowing how he's driving every girl in the room to the point of insanity... The shirt is off, baring that muscular royal chest... He throws the shirt in the air... A lucky girl catches it (you?) inhales its fragrance...Mmmm. Heaven....William gives the crowd another look (yeah, he looks good and he knows it)... the belt (does the uniform have a belt?) is slipped off the loops ... Slowly, slowly... prolonging everyone's anticipation for what's going to happen next... The pants are RIPPED OFF (Rawr!)... Okay, there he is in his boxers... Looking very good in his boxers... The sweat from the dance is shining on his body....and... and... AND... I can't write anymore because I need a cold shower.

I forgot about the socks and the shoes. They're not particularly sexy pieces of clothing. Anyway they're off too.

Hunter laughed.
I wanted to sink through the floor.
Etonians were staring in our direction.
I buried my face in my hands
"Can I keep this?" he asked.
"Sure. Why not?" I asked through my palms. I might as well resign myself to my fate. I'll never be able to show my face in Eton again. That's what brown paper bags with eyeholes are for, right? I slammed my folder closed. Oh hell! A terrifying thought went through me. What if it fell to into William's hands? I comforted myself in the slim probability that Hunter didn't know the prince.
Two guys headed our way.
I shot Hunter a look.
He calmly folded the paper and tucked it into his shirt pocket.
They greeted Hunter and when they took notice of me they said something which sounded like: "Char."
Char??? Charbroiled? What in the-- I turned to Hunter.
"It's like 'yo' over here," he informed.
"Ummm... char back?" I said, feeling myself blush. Can I understandably faint now?
"Trefor and Andrew," Hunter introduced them. "This is--" he waited for me to supply my name. "Starrside," he said, when I didn't.
"What the hell kind of name is that?" Andrew grinned.
"Her parents didn't like her," Hunter joked.
"I bet they were hippies," Trefor laughed.
Lacking in words, I just smiled back.
We shook hands. (Oh, my goodness. Physical contact with an Etonian! Make that two. Death by overactive hormones. Does such a thing exist?) The gesture was firm, dry and strong. Just like daddy taught them I suppose.
Out of both of them I liked Trefor's looks more. Brown hair that fell casually into his eyes, dark chocolate-brown eyes. An angular face. His lips curving as if a smile can't help but escape from them.
But overall I was more drawn to Andrew. Reddish blonde hair, ice-blue eyes. He had the face and body of a Greek god. Something in his stance that made him seem powerful.
They talked with Hunter.
I tried to tune out their conversation, not wanting to eavesdrop. It was so tempting though, with their British accents.
Andrew's hands were in his pockets. "(mumble)(mumble) Wills (mumble)..."
Trefor ran his hands through his hair. "Yeah, (mumble) Wills."
Hunter gestured with his hands. "So, Wills (mumble) (mumble) (mumble)."
Wills? The name stood out. Wills as in Prince William? That Wills? I guess I was leaning a little too far forward because Andrew started giving me this weird look. I leaned back in my chair.
"Well, we have to go," Trefor wrapped it up.
"Nice meeting you," Andrew said. Oh, so much the gentleman.
"Bye," I murmured, not wanting to look up. Why did I feel so embarrassed?
"Strange strange people I go to school with," he muttered as he watched them go.
Gorgeous gorgeous people you go to school with, I thought. "Birds of a feather flock together." I cliched. From the window I watched as three girls came to Andrew and Tref and stopped to ask them questions. The boys answered them politely, nodding graciously. The girls were jumping up and down, smiling with excitement.
Hunter groaned.
"What's the matter?" I asked, though I had my guesses.
He mimicked a girl's voice. "Wow, you go to school with the prince? Do you know the prince? Prove that you know the prince."
"Prove?"
"Tests," he reworded. "Trying to make us slip. Or give away information."
Uh, is it safe to say it's happened often and he's ticked off by it? "Am I like that?" I was genuinely worried.
A pause. "No. No, you've never done that."
I smiled wryly. Maybe hes never given me a chance. Just give me time. I'll slip. "Will you tell me when I start?"
He nodded. As an afterthought he added. "I don't get why girls just can't deal with the fact that they're never going to meet, date, marry Wills."
And give up the Cinderella dream? Surely he jests! "I think Prince William has a girlfriend anyways." I looked at him sideways, sure he was going to correct me.
"Oh really?" Hunter smiled. I think he saw through my ploy. "What makes you say that?"
"He has all these girls after him. Surely, he's chosen one of them to be with," I reasoned.
"Objection!" he hit the top of the table with his palm.
I jumped from shock.
"Just because a guy has thousands of girls falling at his feet it doesn't matter-- if he can't get the girl he wants."
Speaking from experience? "Are we talking about you? Guys at Eton? Or guys in general?"
"Guys in general," he answered matter-of-factly.
There was a pause.

Twice: Part 2