The Unexpected Girlfriend Ch 01

This is a short series with vignettes about Paul D'Amato's time with his first girlfriend Nora Meara. These fill in some incidents that I left out of my previous stories about their relationship. I decided to put some of these new chapters in the Romance category even though they met in a very unconventional way

The first section covers what is in Nora's description in

College Hooking Memories Ch. 04

. Paul narrates as how he perceived it happened.

*****

I met my first girlfriend, Nora Meara when I was a freshman at the City College of New York. It was not an audacious start. She was an unexpected girlfriend because I thought that I had no chance of landing her.

On a cold, overcast day in January 1974, I was waiting for the first class of my modern European history class to start. The room was on the third floor of an old brick classroom building, Wagner Hall. I was about halfway back from the front of the class.

As I sat there a young woman came into the room and looked around. She was attractive but not startling so, but I immediately was interested in knowing who she was. She was on the tall side at about five-seven, and she had dark blonde hair down to her shoulders and steel-rimmed glasses.

Her long coat was open, and she was better dressed than many female students at that school. Under that, she had a pullover wool blouse, a skirt, and gray leather boots. Her body was trim but not particularly curvy.

What caught my attention was the regal, almost imperious attitude she immediately projected.

This girl thinks she's a queen and an arrogant one at that.

She noticed that I was gazing at her, and she shot back an expression that said,

Whoever you are, don't even think about me.

I had heard that women can size up a guy sexually within anywhere from ten seconds to five minutes depending on whose opinion I was listening to. Whatever, it was true I had generated not the slightest bit of interest among the female students at CCNY. On that day the girl had decided against me in an instant.

She then found a seat by one of the windows, took her coat off, put it on the sill, and sat down. Instead of focusing on the room, she looked out the window at St. Nicolas Park and the tenements and housing projects of Harlem down the hill beyond the barren trees. I was about ten feet away from her.

I was a nineteen-year-old virgin, and I had arrived at the school the previous fall expecting that I would surely meet some girls who were interested in me. I had even joined one of the college's five newspapers,

The Salient,

which had an amorphous reputation for being the "radical/hippie" publication. At least, they had published some controversial materials, including R. Crumb cartoons that they had just lifted without permission.

By the beginning of that semester, I had been at City since September, and I hadn't been on a single date yet. There were only about four or five women on the newspaper staff of around thirty or so. That "student activity" seemed like my best chance, and nothing came of it. As for the classes I attended, it was strictly a commuter school and people didn't hang around much after sessions were over.

That was my situation the day Nora walked in, and I thought,

She's way out of my league and she knows it too.

In fact, she confirmed it a few moments after claiming her seat. She turned towards me and said, "Hey you, I want to talk to you about something."

That seemed promising as she was at least willing to talk to me. "Yeah sure, what do you want to discuss?"

Her voice was calm but I heard the menace in it. "I don't want you staring at me like you've been doing since I came in here. Keep your eyes to yourself. In fact, I don't want you looking at me at all."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Instantly I knew I had made a rookie mistake by apologizing to her. I tried to rally. "By the way, my name is Paul."

"I really don't care what your name is." The she broke off the conversation and turned back to look out the window again. It was embarrassing and a bit shocking that she showed such enmity to me so suddenly.

Yet from then on I was intrigued by her. She had an aura of sexuality mixed with that arrogance, and I couldn't stop thinking about her. I found out her name because the professor took a roll call after he came in. After that, she never participated in any of the classes.

Of course, I masturbated twice about her that night, first imagining banging her on the professor's desk. The second time, she was up on her hands and knees on the desktop as I took her from behind.

You hot leggie chick, you like my big cock in you after all.

What I didn't know was that she was also a freshman, my age, and halfway through her ten-month stint as the part-time, ad hoc campus hooker. She handled most of it through phone calls, and she'd turn many of the tricks at her house in Queens when her uncle, the owner of the place, was at work during the day.

*****

Twice a week we sat there with her at the window (on days that she showed up) and me in a chair a little to her right. On a few occasions when I turned to her in an attempt to start a conversation, she sneered in a way that made it clear that I shouldn't even start.

Yet I kept having fantasies about her. The first kind were sexual, involving coupling with her in ever more diverse places:

The Salient

office at night (it had a single, threadbare red couch), the back seat of my dad's Bonneville when I could borrow it, or on a blanket somewhere in the back hills of Van Cortlandt Park when the summer came.

I imagined taking her vaginally, anally, orally, or just getting a handjob. At that age, I was going to shoot out a lot of semen drawn out by my own hands, either in my bed at home or in one of the college restroom stalls. Nora fit perfectly as my go-to girl for many of those scenarios.

Yet I also craved going on dates with her, having her as my girlfriend. It was particularly sweet to picture her on

The Salient

staff with me. I wanted to share one of those take-out Chinese meals with her during those long "printer's nights" down at a Chelsea typesetting firm before an issue went to press.

The staff box would have our names in the alphabetical list: Paul D'Amato and Nora Meara, fellow student journalists as well as lovers. I would look at the masthead and imagine her name in it. Articles with our bylines would be printed next to each other.

By the time spring started, I had a serious crush on her. Like the previous infatuation at the end of my high school career, it bordered on an obsession and was based entirely on my fantasies.

But I would think about her every day, and I had imaginary conversations and took imaginary trips with her. We would go to bars in the Village and make out on a bench in Washington Square Park. I would then picture having those sexual scenes with her when I needed to come for a physical release.

Oh, Nora, I love you so much. But why, because I know nothing about you?

I never once saw a boyfriend arrive to meet her after class. I felt that might give me a chance with her but she would have nothing to do with me. There was never an opportunity to ask her for a date.

One of the few times she spoke to me was when she wanted to gripe about her low grade -- a D -- on her midterm paper. She was envious of the A I had gotten, and that seemed to intensify her disdain for me.

As the weather warmed up, she increasingly wore "bad girl" outfits that caught my attention in every class.

What is she going to be flaunting herself with today?

She'd mix and match various items, including shorts, mini-skirts and mini-dresses, halter tops, and tight jeans or trousers.

On one memorable day, she had a Catholic schoolgirl look with a plaid skirt and red cotton knee socks. Regardless of the weather, she might include one of the several pairs of boots she owned.

I thought,

She has to know the effect all of those garments are having on me. Was she dressing that way just to bug me?

If that was true, being taunted by her was better than being ignored, perhaps. My lustful fantasies were even more vivid when those provocative costumes were part of my scenes.

Of course, I was looking at her more often even though I knew I could get into trouble with that. And indeed she did call me out twice about my behavior that spring.

One day she sat down and leaned towards me for emphasis. "I want you to stop trying to look under my skirts every time I'm wearing one."

"I haven't been doing that."

"Of course you are, I've noticed it. How dumb do you think I am?"

I thought,

It would help if you didn't splay your legs out so much.

By then I was sure she had been deliberately provoking me with her short skirts and her shorts. But I didn't want to argue with her any further and perhaps cause a scene.

I tried to sound indifferent but it came out more as resigned. "All right, I get it." I could feel my face warming with embarrassment, but I was angry at her for making me look like a boorish jerk.

After that, a darker side came to my mind. I had seen a few English spanking magazines that guys at

The Salient

had brought in. Girls with like her with too much sass -- call it rudeness -- needed to get some good whackings on their naughty bare behinds. That is what I wished to do to Nora.

I had never spanked a girl, but after that brief conversation punishing her became another regular part of my jerk-off sessions.

The Salient

office in the evening was the only place I knew where I could get her panties down and her body over my lap. Thus it became the setting for those spanking fantasies.

It would be for her own good.

That was my delusional thought, but I was upset because she had challenged and intimidated me. I hoped that there would be some resolution, perhaps involving a confrontation, to that increasingly fraught situation.

*****

Around the end of May, she had an even more dramatic tirade against me. Again, it was about my allegedly salacious looks at her.

At the end of one session, just as we were all about to get up and leave, she turned to me and quietly said, "Stay in your seat. I've got something to discuss in a moment." That time, I knew she was going to berate me again.

Instead of scoffing at her demand and just leaving, I stayed in my chair and said nothing. After the room cleared out, she got up, closed the door, and flipped the lock. That was a bad sign, but it was the beginning of the longest conversation she had with me up to that point.

She came back and stood leaning against the back of a chair right in front of where I was sitting. My dress was short, but she also had a light jacket so I couldn't tell if it was sleeveless or not.

We looked at each other for a few moments, and I tried to gauge her expression.

Oh, what a shot you could be if you could shoot at me with those angry eyes.

Then she began to speak. There was a phony flirtatiousness in her tone.

"So, Paul, do you like my warm-weather outfit today? And I'm sure you're wondering what kind of panties I have on under it. That is, if I have any panties at all."

Even though I could feel myself blushing, I tried to push back. "What makes you think that?"

"Because you've spent all semester trying to look under my skirts, that's why."

I tried to justify myself. "It might help if you weren't always displaying yourself."

At that point, her real feelings emerged. "You lying little prick. I'll dress any way that pleases me, and that's not your concern at all. I've already told you earlier not to look at me, and you ignored me. You're a real creep, do you know that?"

I was rattled, and I tried to think of a response. She, however, seemed to have a plan that was ready to go. "You know what? I'll show you right now what you've been craving to see for so long."

She grabbed the hem of my dress and pulled it above her waist. Her panties were white with red polka dots on them. Then she turned around to give me the rear view and she wiggled my ass at me.

In a moment, she dropped the hem and turned to face me again. She said, "So there it was, are you happy now? Now you certainly have something new to fantasize about. I know your kind. You're one of those pathetic virginal losers who infest this campus."

I was having trouble dealing with her sudden nastiness. The best I could come up with was, "What was that all about? I mean, what do you want from me?"

She answered, "I don't want anything from you, that's the point. I definitely know what you want from me. I bet you've been masturbating for months thinking about me and my underwear, and we both know that."

She stepped closer and wagged a finger at me. "You've been imagining pulling my panties off and then spanking me because you think I'm such a bad girl." That was better than a guess; she seemed to have read my mind. "Then on your second whack-off, you picture yourself shooting off into whatever orifice interests you." It didn't occur to me that she was protesting too much and was actually interested in doing those things.

Yet her anger had gained momentum and she continued, "Since your curiosity has been satisfied, you can do whatever you want when you're by yourself. I can't control your masturbation fantasies, even if I'm in them. But when you're in here, leave me the hell alone."

Yet she didn't request one obvious solution which occurred to me. "If you are so unhappy, why don't you just change where you sit?"

"Because that's my window, and I'm not leaving it."

Somehow I stuck up for myself. "Well, too bad, because I'm not changing my seat either."

That flummoxed her, I think, and she changed the topic. "We're leaving here now, but you're going out the door first. So get up and get out of here."

"And why is that important?"

"Because I don't want you watching me, specifically you examining my behind as I walk away."

That was rather paranoid. I gave in because I was tired of her drama.

All right honey, you'll be able to sway your ass without me witnessing it.

"If that is what you want, then I'll go right now." I wanted to look back at her on the way out, but I controlled myself and didn't glance at her. It occurred to me that maybe she was alienated from all men, and I might just be a handy target.

After that day, my feelings about Nora became even more intense and complicated. Even though she had tried to shame me and had mostly succeeded at that, she still gripped my mind. Yet I wanted so much to take her down a few pegs by humiliating her, dominating her, and finally banging her if I could do it.

That seemed entirely unlikely, thus I knew the worst part would be that even the end of the semester and her disappearance from my life wouldn't solve the problem immediately. I'd spend all summer and, if I was unlucky, most of the next fall in a love/hate relationship that was entirely in my mind.

What I hadn't realized is that her status as a hooker would pull me in. It wasn't my money that she wanted, it was my ability to write her end-of-term paper. That was the first time she had ever traded sex for an academic boast, but that was all I had to offer and she knew it. My sense of shame was overruled by a desire to have physical contact of any kind with her, no matter how degraded it was.

Over awful coffee at the Finley snack bar that June, she agreed to give me a blowjob in

The Salient

office in turn for writing that paper for her. I had reached a point where such a dismal act seemed better than never having sex with her at all. Yet it was a straightforward business transaction. She had a phony smile as she was closing that deal, "I knew you'd come through for me."

When I left the building, I tried to cover my distress by thinking,

All right Nora, you're never going to be my girlfriend, but for once you're going to be my whore.

I was somewhat surprised to find out the truth about her, but it seemed to fit with the way she had acted since I had met her.

A big disappointment was that she wasn't going to swallow my cum. I was supposed to pull out near the end and ejaculate elsewhere else. When I asked her why, she responded, "Because that's the way I want it, that's why." I supposed queens might suck on the cocks of commoners, but they didn't have to drink their semen while during it.

*****

Wagner Hall was a real building, but it was demolished in the 1980s. Nora tells her own story about her life during that semester in

Freshman Hooker.

######

The next scene continues the restaurant date he had with her at the end of

My Summer with Nora Ch. 01

. It explains her offer to make their relationship "permanent" (or at least long-term) and his reaction to what she says.

Maspeth is her neighborhood in southwest Queens, New York.

*****

As we had our dinner, Nora ordered another vodka and tonic, and I ordered another beer. We certainly were talkative, more than we had ever been before. Yet even though I was glad I was on that first date with her, I was beginning to wonder what it was leading up to. The spring term was almost over, and I had no idea how to continue that new relationship because I had never had one before.

She, however, was good at making quick decisions and had thought it through. First, I was surprised to find out that she was finished, after ten months, with hooking. She said, "I never mentioned this, but I am leaving this -- I guess I could call it a profession, or simply a job. I've got two more clients I'm committed to, and that's it, forever."

Of course, I wanted to know why, and I blurted out an opinion, "That's a good thing. You are wasting your life doing this."

I didn't have evidence of her potential; it was just my intuition that she was a lot smarter than she let on. Yet I had done all of the work of writing a paper for her. In any case, she wasn't insulted but readily agreed with me. "Absolutely. Next semester, I have to finally get serious about being in college. My grades this year were horrible."

It wouldn't be until a few days later that we found out that she had gotten a C on the paper I had written for her. She would be disappointed and blame me even though I had put the same amount of effort into it as I had put into my own. I even got a hint that she might end our relationship before it had really gotten started.

Yet I was already learning that I had to push back against her when she challenged me. I dared her to leave me, and she backed down from her threat.

At the restaurant she brought up a detail of her hooking career she had told me about earlier. "I mentioned that I never accepted vaginal sex for pay. That means my notch count is technically two, that Maspeth mook from last year and, well, you earlier this evening."

Hey, I'm a member of a select few.

I was bold enough to say, "Yeah, but you certainly got paid for oral sex and I think you said anal sex a couple of times."

"Three times for that, I think, and I certainly charged a lot for it."

"I've heard that women sometimes think those acts don't 'count,' and therefore their purity is still intact."

She readily answered, "That's the way I wanted it from the very start, I guess as a way to protect myself emotionally." I doubted that had worked, but I let it pass. It occurred to me that she was only fooling herself.

Then she got to the point she really wanted to make. "Look, I learned a lot about how to read men during that time, and I know what you've been thinking. You've been looking for a girlfriend since you arrived at this school last September, and you haven't found one yet."