It made sense now. Because just about the time his hand found my tit under my shirt and my hand found his cock bulging in his jeans, he shot his load right then and there against my hand.
I heard him grunt and suck air in through his teeth, and then I felt his cock pulse as it emptied its load of jizz all down his right leg.
Victor looked at me with horrified eyes and said, “Oh shit.”
He ran away, leaving me there with my mouth hanging open and my tits hanging out of my bra.
It was a sad attempt at losing my virginity.
I think it pretty much scarred me for life, because I haven’t even tried to get laid since.
My fingers and I are now closer than ever.
* * *
I knew Rachel wasn’t worried about her English Lit. grade. She never worried about grades because she didn’t have to. Rachel was not only more sexually active than me and most girls at Trent. She was also probably smarter than most of us as well. Heck, she was the smartest person I knew. And she had way more sex than most girls. I thought only the dumb girls fucked around a lot. Evidently not, because Rachel regularly made the dean’s list and had had sex with most of the football team and a few professors.
I loved her like a sister, but I must admit, I was jealous of Rachel in more ways than one.
The only grade I was really nervous about was English Lit. 105. It was a required class my senior year as a business major, and if I failed the class I would have to take it over again in the summer and pass it, or else I would not graduate in the fall.
Rachel sat next to me in Mr. Hollander’s English Lit. class, and even she said the class was the hardest one she’d ever had to take. She also said that Mr. Hollander was the hottest teacher at Trent, but he also had the reputation of being the biggest asshole when it came to giving students any leeway on grades.
He didn’t give makeup work and he didn’t grade on a curve. “You get the grade you earn,” he had said at the beginning of the semester. “Period. End of story. Don’t bother whining to me because I hate whiners.”
Well, if I didn’t get at least a B on this midterm, I would earn a D in the class. Maybe even an F. I’d never gotten an F in anything and had no desire to start now.
The problem was that I hated English Lit. I know, crazy. It was literature, not rocket science, but the topic bored me to tears. I thought it was because of my attention deficit disorder. I had a hard time focusing on some things, and English Lit. was one of those things.
Take this midterm for example. The assignment was to write a twenty-thousand-word essay on a fictional character from nineteenth-century literature. Sounds easy enough so far, right? Just hang on to your shorts, because here’s where it gets hard.
Once we chose a character, we had to hypothesize what motivated the author to create that character, what motivated the character to act as he or she did in the book, what repercussions the character’s actions had on the story and other characters, what effect the character had on the reader, and did we find the character to be sympathetic in any way and if so why.
Whew. I remembered nearly having a heart attack just reading the assignment sheet. Holy crap. I was screwed.
I had no idea why, but I chose the character of Frankenstein’s monster from the book by Mary Shelley. I had never read the book. God knows I tried several times, but I couldn’t get through the first chapter, so I just rented the top three Frankenstein movies on Netflix and tried to write the essay based on those.
The problem was, all the movies were different and none of them followed the book. I did the best I could with what I had. And I learned what I could about Mary Shelley on Wikipedia.
Writing that essay was one of the hardest things I’d ever had to do. I mentioned my ADD. Just try writing a twenty-thousand-word essay on what motivated fucking Frankenstein’s monster with ADD.
Crap, I couldn’t write twenty-thousand-words on any topic, much less one that forced me to pick apart the brain of a monster and a nineteenth-century writer.
But Mr. Hollander didn’t give a shit about my ADD or anything else as far as I was concerned. When I casually mentioned my ADD in an after-class meeting one time, he just looked at me with his deep blue eyes and his ruggedly handsome face and said, “Guess you’ll just have to work a little harder, huh?”
Guess I’d just have to work a little harder? Seriously?
What kind of fucking scholarly advice was that?
Rachel was right. Mr. Hollander was an asshole. An asshole who always smelled like cigarettes and booze. And an asshole was supposed to have all the grades posted by five this afternoon.
It was five-fifteen, and so far no grade was posted.
I’d bet he was holding back the grades on purpose because he knew it would drive me mad.