Yeah, yeah, yeah. I've heard all the stories about sexy international students in college. In fact I am good friends with several ones at my school. We eat and watch movies together, exchange chocolate candy our parents sent us from home, and then they go and get drunk on a Friday night, and get fucked into oblivion by some blond football player or perhaps two of them. I know because I hear the stories in the locker rooms on Monday morning. And what irritates me most is that all of the sex stories are about hot international girls.
Ok, Ok, I admit that there are numerous international guys who get some. Jamaica scores big and so do Brazil, France and Spain. If you are a bespectacled dork from one of those countries, you are guaranteed a lay because sleeping with you imparts bragging rights. But what sane chick will ever want to boast she slept with a hot Romanian guy? No one!
Or at least I thought so right until Deirdre shattered my beliefs and made me realize what a land of opportunity the US truly was. You see: I have been here for three years getting my college education and working hard, keeping a 20-hour workweek and good GPA so I could maintain my scholarship. I didn't have much time for girls or parties. Still, I was neither ugly, nor cloistered or shy, so I did what I could to utilize the little free time I had. On the evenings I would go to the gym and work out or run on the indoor track until I was tired and sweaty, and ready for a cold shower and another night of poring over my physics textbook. One day, I thought to myself, I would become one of the engineers this country desperately needs. Then I will have the time and money to get myself a hot wife from Idaho or someplace like that and treat her right.
But it happened that one of the awesome coed babes had her sights on me even as college was molding the right Ivy League stuff into the brawny and dreamy Romanian guy that I was. Deirdre was a student gym instructor with long blond hair and a 320-carat smile that must have cost her lawyer dad a fortune. I have seen too many girls in sweatpants since I came to US higher education, but she was the one you could put rags on and she would still look gorgeous. The sight of her curves in the weight room made all the lift machines screech from vein-splitting strain. She didn't talk to anyone who wasn't her charge much, but all eyes were on her at all times, and even the football players avoided hitting on her for fear of being shot down.
So I did my workouts quietly and never shed Deirdre more than a glance through a mirror or a casual nod when she walked past. One time I sat on the bench press and realized that the seat was a little moist from where her legs and tight lavender shorts had rested a moment ago. That gave me what we in Romania call the Big Leek. With 150 lb over my head, I imagined the moist thighs on my stomach with my 6.9-inch wide uncircumcised cock inside of her. I visualized fucking her right there, on the bench, till her cunt nectar seeped down to the floor. I imagined her tasting like Gatorade. Hmm. But as I was not that type of guy I just shook the thoughts away, and focused on benching instead. I had three more sets to do and some pull-ups before the gym closed at 11pm.
Deirdre was the person to escort the last students out, turn off the lights and lock up. The usual night crowd consisting of a couple of middle aged professors, half of the lacrosse team, several newly molted butch lesbians, plus some rednecks from town who had paid to use the gym, had already departed by that time. Deirdre walked past my bench press jingling her keys, letting me know that this was the signal for me to clear our. I sat up, wiped the seat with a towel and was looking for my jacket flung in a corner when the lights went out. Now that was rude. In the murky halogen glow from the hallway, I saw the perfect outline of Deirdre pass by the doorway and slip out. She was obviously in a hurry, I decided.
I made three steps in the direction of the jacket and then total darkness descended. Deirdre had switched off the corridor lights. What was she thinking? I spun around disoriented, straining to figure out where the door was and trying to avoid the heavy weights and dumbbells that hung around in the darkness. I started in the direction I thought the exit was situated and cursed under my breath because I didn't want to get locked in for the night especially as I had not bothered to take my textbooks with me. I had made perhaps a dozen steps when I bumped into a person standing still. I heard the soft breath almost at the level of my lips. My eyes were adjusting to the dark now and I could see who it was. It was Deirdre.
"I like your accent," she said.
"What?" I shouted, half annoyed and half incredulous at what was happening.
"I just like how you speak and move," her voice came out of the darkness.
"But what are you talking about? I've never even spoken to you!" I managed to say, more softly this time, since it was dawning on me that Deirdre might actually have on her mind the same thing I did.
