The Joc and the Cheerleader

Some college, somewhere in the United States

I

The hot cheerleader was an American cliché, of course; Jason knew that. What's more, as a college quarterback, he was also aware of his own cliché-ness.

Ironically, however, he was only aware of this precisely because he

wasn't

a stereotypical jock. In his spare time, instead of consuming football and pornography, he read philosophy – especially Marxist critical theory. And so he knew that postmodernity in general was defined by its derivative nature. Modernity – the age of Joyce – was rampantly creative; old conventions were smashed by genius. But the postmodern age was marked by the exhaustion and saturation of culture. This is the age of the parody, the song cover, the sequel. All we do is rehash the same ideas again and again. Simply put, we have run out of things to say.

And so his girlfriend – Camila, the aforementioned hot cheerleader – was really more cultural trope than human being. But – dear reader! – never discount biology. In the end, man is not a cultural animal. Rather – à la Freud – he is a product of his drives. And so, when fucking is on the cards, he quickly forgets inconvenient beliefs.

Case in point: he was presently masturbating over Camila. The above intellectualisms were simply a diversion to stop himself cumming too soon, which would lessen the orgasm. But now his thoughts returned to her. Her black hair, just reaching past the shoulders. The length and smoothness of her legs. The electricity of her gyrating hips...

He came with a satisfied sigh.

What a fucking relief

.

And what could possibly be better than that? Only the prospect of having her for real, later that same day.

II

Camila was getting ready – she'd soon be going over to Jason's room. He had asked her to wear her cheerleading outfit, and she couldn't be bothered to complain. Yet she knew, at heart, that this was how he thought of her – The Sexy Cheerleader, like a character from some dumb TV-show. Truth be told, everyone thought of her this way. And who was she to correct them? Easier to just smile and agree. After all, that was the way her parents had raised her: smile, be happy, attract the right friends, attract the right boys (at the right times!), tick the right boxes, attend the right college, get the right job, marry the right man, have the right kids, then die with a smile on your face.

C'est-la-fucking-vie.

And so Jason was a douche, like everyone else. But he served his purpose – to be the

right

guy at the

right

time. His prestige as college quarterback could only enhance her own standing. Plus, in order to attain college coolness, you had to have sex – it was a post-sixties trope.

He was also beautiful, of course – she had to admit that. He was strong and perfectly toned, and it was a pleasure to run her hands all over him. In fact, it felt great to fuck him

period

. After all, the body wants what the body wants – his jock-ness was irrelevant to that.

And to cum was simply important in itself. It was something real amongst all this trash. And it was something she could have

for herself

– an unashamed dissolution into pleasure. Jason-The-Jock was a means to that end.

III

A short while later, Camila knocked on Jason's door. He answered promptly, and took a moment to enjoy the sight of her body in the cheerleading outfit. Both top and skirt were white, with lines of colored trim. White was the color of virginity – he almost chuckled at the irony.

A dumb "Niiiiiiice" was all he said aloud, but that was enough. It initiated the fumbling and kissing. A cliché perhaps, but they really were like animals – swept along with heat and hunger. She quickly stripped him naked; as usual, however, he left her clothing where it was – except, of course, for her panties.

He thought he probably had some sort of clothing fetish. Frankly, he preferred clothed women to naked ones (although naked women obviously weren't

ugly

; it was all relative). As for the reasons why... well, now was hardly the time for such speculation. So he just savored the touch of the fabric against his fingers, against his exploring mouth.

Her hands pored over his abs, over the power of his legs and arms.

At least all that football-playing enhanced something,

she thought,

even if it wasn't his brain

.

They moved quickly to the bed, where she perched herself on top of him. She lowered her moist pussy a little, tempting the stiffness of his cock. He obliged by driving it inside her, and she moaned at the impact.

He could have cum within a minute if he'd wanted to, but that would've been impolite. Or maybe it wasn't politeness that stalled him (this wasn't Austen's England after all), but a wish to see her cum

because of him –

an ironically jock-style assertion of manhood. If given long enough, did you just slide completely into your cultural role? An interesting thought, considering his cock slid deeper inside her at that moment – a motion coquettishly hidden by the folds of her skirt.

With this new depth, her moans became louder. Her body began to spasm. Still he held back his cum. Then she tilted her head back and gave an agonised, triumphant moan of pleasure – and he felt her juices splash against his flesh. So he finally let himself go – cumming with relief, with massive pride.