Friendly heads up, this is a slow burn. This has been bubbling in me for a few months and every character is over 18. Dependent on a response I will write part 1.
Chapter 1 -- The Backstory
The average American uses anywhere from 6000 to 16000 words a day and uses about 150 words on average for every minute they speak. Meaning an average American speaks anywhere from forty minutes a day, up to about an hour forty-seven tops. All these studies sound so generic, but they were from credible sources so here we are. There is probably some deviation from those numbers depending on education and upbringing, but let's be honest... No one finds themselves at Literotica because they are average. You wouldn't be reading this story and I wouldn't be writing this story if we were just average.
I skew a little outside of the average amounts of words used per day. I actually average about 40000 words, upwards to about 60,000 if I am riled up. However, don't be fooled. I meant using words, not speaking them. You see I was never much for speaking, instead I wrote... or I write I should say.
I was that girl who would silently observe and verbally use about 100 words a day... My conversations were best on the page, and since I never really cared to say much, I never really did.
I've been named many things, silent, mute, soft-spoken, and in an unsurprising fashion I chose writing as my profession. Just the type of job that would mean my voice was heard on my terms, and not on the terms of society, which often valued speed over content.
I was always bullied for my lack of using spoken words, but I didn't mind.
"Dell, dear why don't you ever speak up?"
"Dell, come on say more than a few words?"
"Dell, you need to say something! Engage boys so they know you are interested in them..."
That last one was from my patriarchy-loving, Trump-thumping, middle-American, never will do anything impressive in life mother. She was the queen of microaggressions.
Oh, and Dell is my name, it's actually Adele, but everyone calls me Dell, and I truly never spoke up against it... The literal mantra of my fucking life. But once again, I didn't mind.
I was born in the 90's when technology was finally catching up with the needs of closeted little writers like me.
Through the years we made away with clunky computers or landlines and introduced portable computers and cell phones.
Whether it be the sidekick, the Blackberry, the iPhone... the desktop, the laptop to the iPad... technology was on my side, and clearly every step forward meant I was being equipped with the arsenal that would propel me into being best at what I do... write.
It was a little bit of a surprise when the daughter of an Iowa dentist got into Bard College for creative writing, but I always knew I could thread that needle. I left my shitty little suburb of Des Moines, on a two-day drive to NY and never looked back.
I did however have my dad come up to me at my goodbye party, only to ask in a concerned manner "If I was a dyke". But he was the son of Christmas tree farmers, and someone of the stature who had no idea that there was a feminist movement, let alone that majoring in creative writing in a liberal college didn't automatically mean I was a dyke.
I suppose I didn't know how to answer him, as I had never tasted pussy, so I kindly just nodded my head in a disapproving manner, having him assume the rest.
Come to think about it I never did have a female OR male lover during the 18 years I spent in Iowa, nor did any of those Nascar-addicted losers deserve the tight virginal pussy that I had. The first person to sail through my seas had to be loving, caring, intellectually stimulating, and most of all, a feminist at heart who didn't see consent to be anything less than a verbal "please fuck me" coming out of my silent but seductive lips as his well-endowed but respectful penis entered my cunt.
I was in the heart of the action in a campus town of upper New York state, and my classmates were all the hippie, liberal, communist, earth-loving, intellectuals that I had dreamed them to be... but I didn't quite find that magical dick.
I must admit... I am not what most people call "hot". I am very much in shape and keep a well-manicured body, but my looks have always been classified as nerdy. Sadly, I never did fill into that girl next door body that deep down inside I hoped for, and I had the tiniest pair of A breasts, with almost no butt. I did however have the pussy of an angel and was the slightest little outie, with rose petal lips, and the cutest manicured V bush.
I am also a redhead in case you were wondering, and the carpet does match the drapes.
Come Junior year at Bard, I almost succumbed to my carnal desires and made it to second base with a rising star in the slam poetry circles, but his skills in poetry sadly did not transfer to kissing. During the entirety of the ordeal, he was too nice, he smelled of Abercrombie cologne and the thought of having his average cock be the first in my pussy was equal parts dread and disgust.
He was respectful as he should have been when I declined further advances, but I was branded as a nun after this experience and was regarded as asexual by both men and women of College Park, New York.
It wasn't until my Auteur Studies course that I had a shift in my career choice. Up until that point, writing short stories, poems and essays were all to attain the ultimate goal of writing a book or writing essays for Mayrevue on the morality crisis of someone heterosexual discovering the sudden re-awakening of their gay self.
In this course, we had a quack professor named Ms. Dumas, who showed us three movies a week by auteur filmmakers. The twist was that each film we watched was a movie with gratuitous nudity - bordering pornographic, and Ms. Dumas asked us to discuss "if not for the male gaze" how this feature would have been filmed. We would even theorize how actresses felt about being exposed so intimately. These discussions were invigorating.
We had an entire week dedicated to Kubric, Bertolucci, Verhoeven, Cronenberg, Hamilton, and Noé... each. We had lessons dedicated to the impact of nudity in movies like Pretty Baby or Romeo and Juliet and juxtaposed it with Animal House and Porky's. We talked about how our modern-day society has been so hooked on sex and provocation, that storytellers had corrupted the medium and were polluting the very identity of filmmaking.
Ms. Dumas argued that we needed entertainment and that nudity had room in art, but the closer the content came to porn in a studio film, the more likely it was made by a man.
Never mind Cannes, Oscar, or Venice recognition that these features received, Bard College was ready to wage war on the male-centric auteurs, and Ms. Dumas was ready to lead the charge.
I would leave those classes both pent up with rage surrounding Hollywood, and its indifference or even encouragement towards these rampant male directors, and their abuse of the artform.
I had nothing left to do but take to the modern-day public square of the internet and catalog these feelings in my blog. YES MY BLOG.
I had quite the reputation as a neo-liberal feminist who could critique any feature or series into guilt, and all I needed was a bottle of cabaret sauvignon and a three-hour-long lecture from Ms. Dumas on what should be and what shouldn't. I was righteous and I was motivated. I wrote my thoughts on everything from Tinto Brass to Steven Spielberg, and even though my monologues had a twinge of bias, my blog quickly became a go-to list on campus of movie critiques where I would tear anything white and male to shreds.
Things truly escalated in the classroom, and I even started emailing Ms. Dumas to have our extra-curricular digital trysts. It was glorious.
I never thought I would have such excitement from telling others what to think and enlightening the world on how sexualized everything was. Having discovered this class senior year was a shame and my wonderful teacher knew it too.
Ms. Dumas went as far as to quote me as the most silently vocal student she had ever met, and I actually even thanked her for it.
After my audible "Thank You" the class gasped, as most of the students had never heard me speak and might have even believed me to be a mute.
It was not until my second-semester senior year that Ms. Dumas asked me if I would be intrigued to stay a fifth year and finish a second major in Film Theory. The sixty grand it cost would be nothing in comparison to all the knowledge I was about to gain. I even became her TA and graded all the papers... But nothing could have prepared for what was about to happen next.
It was 2017 when Twitter gained traction on a certain trending topic titled #metoo.
