After putting my boxers back on, I climb into my empty bed and close my laptop, still feeling frustrated.
I don’t know how much longer this fantasy of my teacher will suffice. I want her so desperately sometimes that I wonder if my dick will explode if I don’t feel her wrapped around it soon.
I turn on to my side and close my eyes, thinking of her gorgeous face when I’ll see her at debate next week.
Chapter Two
I wake the next morning and hear the clattering of pots and pans in the kitchen. After a piss and quick stretch, I head straight for my desk and pull up my password-protected Excel sheets: my babies. I have an Excel spreadsheet for just about everything in my life.
The first document is a schedule of all the girls that I’ve said I’d keep in contact with after I’ve fooled around with them—cell phone numbers and addresses. I’ve also charted the dates, locations, and certain things they enjoyed: If she was a soft touch kind of girl. Did she expect sweet nothings whispered in her ear afterwards? Did she like it rough and hard? And could I get away with wiping my dick on her skirt and leaving without saying a word?
I set the alarm on my phone with a message with each girl’s name—as a reminder to text them at certain times for the next week—and stare at Andrea’s name.
She brought the total count to nine last week. Nine notches of sexual exploration. The ninth girl I’ve charmed, seduced, screwed, and promised to call the next day.
Glancing back up at my computer screen, I look at each of the names, then stop when I get to the bottom.
Andrea is what I categorize as the Volkswagen.
It’s not as bad as you think.
I first got the idea for categorizing girls based on cars a little over a year ago. For this category, its purpose is to say she’s efficient, but exotic in her own right. Not quite like the Ford—which will be explained later—Volkswagen means "people's car" in German. She’s sweet, has a lot of friends, and you’d never predict the kind of smooth and easy ride she gives just by looking at her.
Each girl is then categorized even further into a specific model—in this case, Andrea started out the evening as the Beetle—but by the time the night ended, she was a shiny new Passat.
Then there is the girl that every guy wants to be with and every girl wants to be. She’s the Jaguar. You know—the sleek, trim, beautiful model that’s all about showing off to your friends. It’s the ride you’ve dreamed about your entire life; you know it’ll be smooth, unforgettable, and unattainable.
Miss Shields is what I consider my Jaguar.
Not only after the animal—an animal who has a strong bite, does the majority of its hunting around dawn and dusk, and is more than likely to stalk-and-ambush its prey rather than chase it—but also after the original 1922 slogan of the British sports car: “Grace, Space, Pace.” The Jaguar is the kind of woman you don’t rush, unless it’s on her terms. She’s at the top of her food chain. And she’s the kind of woman you want to pamper and polish.
I’ve had sex nine times in my life—with nine unique and perfectly attractive girls. Not bad, considering I’m a senior in high school and just turned eighteen.
Now I’m looking for one more.
The mythical ten.
I decided a long time ago that ten was my magic number. Why? Ten is when I can say I’m experienced. When my sexual conquests hit double digits, I can feel confident enough to get Miss Shields.
I just need one more—one more willing participant in this game of the flesh—and then I can say I’m man enough to have her. Worthy enough. Because she’s the kind of woman that would expect only the best.
My body still buzzes from last night’s fantasy, and it hums from her imaginary touch. One day I’d capture my Jaguar.
The memory of our first encounter still lingers in my mind after all this time.
It was during a party over the summer between my sophomore and junior years of high school.
My parents were rich, so that afforded me a certain kind of status at my school. But I wasn’t a jock. And I wasn’t the fucking prom king. But in my own small world of geeks and outcasts, I was king. And the chicks ate my I’m-too-cool-to-hang-with-the-popular-crowd attitude with a fucking spoon.
That night at the party I’d stayed outside by the pool in the backyard most of the night, alone. Kids would come and go, and I could hear the laughter and music coming from inside the house, but I never ventured back in.
It wasn’t until about eleven o’clock that I questioned my presence there at all, and made my way around the house to get to my car.
And there she stood.
Miss Shields.