Peyton Maxwell was the blond bombshell sex doll of 1000 men's fledgling fantasies.
I'd met her on the coed soccer team I'd joined my Freshman year at NC State. I was 18 and she was 19 and when I tell you she had blonde Sophie Turner vibes but with an even better body, I am not joking.
She was one of our best players too.
She exuded all the confidence and swagger of the expanding world and over the course of the season I'd gotten to know her much better, even as I watched a large number of men both on an off the field strike out in their attempts with her.
Our dynamic was always friendly but never overly flirtatious; or at least that's what I thought. I just never figured she was in my league. I'm in good shape and have a goofy but likable smile and get along with people well, but she seemed like some sort of sports car I wouldn't know how to handle. A stick I wouldn't know how to drive.
I had short, brown hair and green eyes which seemed forgettable next to her bright blue stunners and Swedish supermodel blonde curls, which might-as-well have been literal chantilly cream. She was like that naked Katy Perry album cover on the clouds. She was soft and smooth and perfect.
Her hair wasn't too long, and the way it hung at her sides gave off serious girl-next-door-that-you-want-to-study-session-fuck, sort of vibes. She typically just threw it in a simple hair-tie when we had games, and there was nothing delicate about the way she threw her perfectly sculpted body around on a pitch.
I never understood why she didn't seem all that interested in any of the men she briefly dated. Our team would often go out for drinks after games and I had seen her take men home to her dorm and I had seen her on her various Instagram stories showing off couplings that appeared more than friendly.
And yet, all of her online profiles remained single. She just seemed perfectly content to be a free, college girl. And that made her even more attractive in many ways.
We were passing a ball back and forth before our Wednesday night game one late October night. I could see the faded black X's that that had been drawn on the backs of her hands the night before, from whatever bar or club setup she had attended.
Every night was a possible drinking night when you attended college in Raleigh, North Carolina. NC State was a killer school for engineering and science and agriculture and booty shaking. The combined confluence of nearby schools and age demographics of the downtown area made for a perfect storm of nightlife activities.
"What's everyone doing after the game?" She excitedly asked our circle of teammates, as the whistle blew for us to get into position for kickoff.
Everyone deferred to previous plans or studies, a rare instance where there wasn't at least four or five of us down to have some post-footie fun.
But my night was completely free. And I certainly wasn't going to say no to Peyton fucking Maxwell.
"Yeah, I'm down to go out," I said to her as the huddle broke.
"And it's Austin to the rescue!" She said, giving me a little wink as the other team made the first pass of the game and the narrative was paused for the next ninety minutes.
A sweaty couple of hours later we were at a dive bar not that far from campus which was still unusually busy for a Wednesday night. Mostly, this bar was popular for giving two shits about fake ID's, and Peyton's was the stuff of 'Catch Me If You Can' quality.
She sauntered back from the bar in her soccer shorts, gray zip-up Nike sweatshirt, and slip-on post-game Adidas sandals, which she wore over tall soccer socks which looked like thigh-high tights the way she had them pulled up. Her pony was wild and pushed to the side. I was dressed in my charcoal Adidas sweats and a pullover. We were in extreme relaxation mode.
"Cheers to getting our asses absolutely destroyed tonight," she said jokingly, as we clinked our glasses of beer.
She'd brought over a couple of shots of tequila and a couple of lagers.
"Mmmm, that hits the spot," I said. "We really did get wrecked, didn't we?"
"Oh yes, but ya know? Sometimes ya gotta get wrecked to get better, ya know...or something?" She laughed at the silliness of the random bit of philosophy, and we said cheers to our shots and gulped down the fiery medicine.
She wiped the salt from her lips with the back of her hand and I saw the X's again.
"So where'd you go last night?" I asked.
"Oh...Tin Roof...my friend's band was performing so I had to come out and support but I didn't have my ID on me so I was left in underage purgatory," she explained as we found a table in the corner.
"Ah...that sucks," I sympathized. "Live music and no booze to get the blood flowing? Not fun."
"Yeah, luckily I had my pen on me and was able to flirt the fuck out of one of the bartenders...so I ended up being okay in the tipsy department," she said proudly.
This girl was so effortless.
"I would've been disappointed if you hadn't," I said.
We did a couple rounds of drinks and shots over the next hour, and soon we were both a little intoxicated. The conversation was naturally getting spicier, which I was all about.
"So who are you seeing these days, Austin?" She asked, as she swigged a big sip from her foamy beer.
"Well...her name is Jack...eline...Off...erman," I joked in perfect timing, making the distant look with my hand in a light cock hold pantomime.
She immediately giggled and slapped the table.
"Ahh FUCK! Yes...I actually had a class with Jack...eline's sister last semester...Flicky Offerman..."
Now we were both cackling even as the music was fairly loud in the bar.
"Flicky? That's the best you could do??" I razzed her.
"Well...I had to think fast...what is the female equivalent to jacking off...you guys have way better nicknames for sex acts. Flicking the bean? That sounds so stupid and gross," we were both laughing still.
"It's true...you are correct about that," I agreed. "Yeeaahhh, but no...not seeing anyone right now...and not for lack of trying, just in a slump," I admitted.
"That surprises me," she said, a little more serious now. And that made my heart click up a beat.
"What about you? I feel like I constantly see you going out with guys and then very quickly...poof! Like magic, they're gone. Are you just in casual college mode right now?" I asked very pointedly, clearly showing my past observations of her dating habits.
"Ahh...well, not exactly. I'm just looking for something VERY specific and I don't think I've found it yet," she said, a little conspiratorially.
"Hmmm, well now I'm very curious," I replied. And I was.
"Oh I BET you are," she gave me a cute little smile and raised brow. "I mean, to be clear, I like being single...I LOVE having sex with whoever I want, whenever I want," she admitted, more loosened up from the booze as the night continued.
"Oh, yes, of course. Same with me. I can't interrupt the flow of women from my harem, ya dig?" I joked back.
"Oh, totally, me too...my cock harem is in full supply...you should see my Tinder...just a bunch of dudes desperate to send me their Coors Light-fueled cock-pics photo shoots," and we were both laughing again.
"Well, cheers to that," and we clinked and drank up.
"So when was the last time you actually hooked up with someone?" She asked me now, and I swear I felt her foot bump mine below the high top table we were seated at.
"Woof. It's been four months," I told her, and she gasped.
"Oh, AUSTIN!" She literally crooned this sympathetic sound that could've almost been sexual.
I was very turned on by this girl.
"I know, I know. It's...not ideal," I blushed a little.
"What about you?" I asked her.