A week ago I was a flawed human being, but I hadn’t yet made out with the least likable and trustworthy guy in school - twice. In the words of Cher, if I could turn back time.
Yesterday, just as I was thinking it was a sensible idea to talk to him, my cell phone went all X rated on me again. This time it wanted to know if I had been playing with myself, and if so, whose cock was I thinking about? I angrily, deleted the message. Angrily, because I hate to admit it, but in between worrying about how he is going to destroy me, I have been thinking about his cock. This is very wrong, but I have no control of the visions in my head. I threw my cell under the bed and hunted around for my boots. I had to go somewhere far away from that evil piece of metal. But just as I was heading for the door it started ringing. I KNOW, I should have ignored it but I have never been able to ignore a ringing phone, it’s a genetic thing. It might have been Stu. He might have been beaten up again.
“Hi,’ said a deep voice. It wasn’t Stu.
I took a deep breath, “OK. Listen up. We made out. A week ago. It will never happen again and I would appreciate it if you kept it to yourself.”
“Let’s do it again.”
“I wanna do it again.”
I was speechless.
“I wanna make you come.”
I snorted in a most unattractive manner. “Are you out of your mind? Oh ...wait a minute... are you recording this call?”
“No. I’ll pick you up in 20.” And he hung up.
What could I do? If I hadn’t got in the car he would have sat outside my house honking his horn and causing a scene. What would the neighbours have thought? The star of the school football team sitting outside my house, acting like his heart had been broken in a scene from some alternative universe? So I got in the car, and once I was in the car it was pretty much a done deal that he would drive us to the lookout and we would make out, like the next scene from that alternative universe. It appears that I have suddenly become the star of a teen movie, the one where the geek gets a makeover. Although I’m not sure the geek would have done all the things I did to him quite so readily. Feeling up The Quarterback against a wall at 2pm on a Sunday afternoon had been surreal enough, but making out with him in his car was positively insane. And very enjoyable, I have to admit. Wet panties and all.
He has a girlfriend. I have been trying not to consider this. The list of my sins is long enough as it is without taking that particular crime into account. She is blonde and blue-eyed, of course but there the stereotype ends. I hate to say it, but she is actually quite nice. And intelligent. She isn’t even a cheerleader. She has never paid me any attention, of course. In 3 years of school she hasn’t once spoken to me, or even acknowledged me. But why would she? She has a crowd of friends, all gorgeous and wealthy and glowing with the joys of being 18 and full of potential. Why would she even notice me, skulking around, hiding under my existentialist fringe, totally unsure of my place in the world? And with that word ‘fringe’ I give away the reason for my insecurities. I am hardly an All-American Homecoming Queen. I’m not even American. I am dark haired, with a liking for clunky boots and scarves that hide most of my body, into which I mumble the remnants of my once strong Northern English accent.
The Quarterback thinks my accent is sexy. I have just remembered something he said yesterday as his breath tickled my skin and I can feel a hot blush radiating across my face. The girl opposite me is trying to see what I am writing.
I can hear The Girlfriend laughing on the other side of the library. It is a tinkly, joyous laugh and it twists my guts.
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