It’s hard for young nerds to find any kind of sexual experience. It’s a fact of life. It’s worse nowadays because there is such an emphasis on being popular. Girls put so much time and effort into their clothing, make-up tans etc. that personality and intelligence seem to get left stuck to the curling iron and the mascara brush. Parties are where everyone seems to be on the weekends, which leaves the nerds out, because they have little chance of being invited to those parties and finding some drunk, random sluts to fool around with. I’m not advocating random, casual sex, but for someone nerdy teen whose only outlet is Internet porn and “Rosie Palm”, anything is better than nothing.
That’s were I was, as a senior in college, only having done some random kissing with those who took pity on me. I always had the attitude that kissing was better than nothing, but being inundated with MTV, the Internet, and such, sex was out there, taunting me, telling me that I was a nerd and that means celibacy.
The only comfort I had was the phrase, “Nice guys finish first,” which I took to mean that despite my low social stature, as long as I remained a nice guy, I would get my due. I wasn’t lonely by any means, I had friends, good friends, even girl friends (not girlfriends) but I was always “safe”, never the bad boy type that my friends always chased, and were always hurt by.
So I went to school, hung out on the weekends, spent my nights living fantasies in my head, and masturbating to them. I did have a little writing ability, so I started writing them down, after seeing erotica websites, and reading some stories. I submitted a few, even had one accepted. It still wasn’t real. As the months passed, I thought that I would not only go to college a virgin, but stay a virgin for longer, only submitting to a mercy deflowering when I was 35 by some younger woman I met on the internet who was quite ugly.
Around the middle of January, we were given an assignment to write a story, of any topic we chose, of at least 10 pages, for my advanced English class. It was one of the classes I really enjoyed that last semester, because it was very open, we could choose independently what we could read, and write about. Our teacher was also one of my favorites, a younger woman, about 30, Ms. Hysard, not beautiful, but pretty, with a very easygoing teaching style. She often came to class in jeans, which most of the teacher at our school shunned, because of their advanced age. I was pretty sure Ms. Hysard was the younger teacher on staff, which made her the most popular.
Writing the story was easy, I think it was about a young man who was dealing with the lost of his grandfather, the first death in his family. Much of it came from my own experience, which made it easy to write. The problem, in fact the beginning of well, you’ll see, was that we were supposed to submit the story by email. Ms. Hysard hated to waste paper, and was computer literate (also something the other teachers weren’t), and so every assignment was submitted by email. I was in a hurry the morning it was due so I sent it in a hasty manner, and two days later, at the end of class, Ms. Hysard told me to stay after the bell. I hadn’t done anything to need discipline, and I was sure she would have like my story, so I wasn’t too worried.
As the class left the room, I made my way toward her desk, and stood in front of it, facing her. She was still putting her papers away, so I stood silent for a few moments. Once the rest had left and the door was closed, she finally looked up at me, with a very peculiar look on her face.
“Sean, I wanted to talk to you about the story you submitted,” she said with that same strange look on her face.
“Is there something wrong with it? I know death is a pretty dark subject, but it was a story that had been brewing around in my head for awhile,” I said, with a little panic in my voice. I had never gotten anything but A’s, and this conversation was starting to worry me. Ms. Hysard, on hearing my answer turned a little red, then laughed out loud. A little too loud.
“I think I understand now. Sean, you must have sent me the wrong story by mistake,” she said evenly. My face turned a little red, embarrassed. Then my mind processed what she said, and my mouth dropped open. I think I understood her strange look. I sent her one of my erotic stories.
“I, ummm…” I found that I could find anything useful to say.
“I don’t often get stories like the one you sent, in fact I never have. I must say that it was an excellent story, despite it’s… racy plotline,” she said with a lighthearted smile. She had push away from the desk and was standing, leaning against the blackboard.
“Ummm, which story did I actually send you?” I asked, slowly, and with difficulty. I had written quite a few stories, exploring all the sexual ideas I had some across. She took off her glasses and set them down on the desk. For a moment, I thought I saw her cheeks turn a little red, but it may have been just her make-up. She walked towards the window and looked outside to the grounds.
