Nerd Girl at Faculty Stag Night

"I hate to break it to you gentlemen, but we are pathetic," sighed Roger Lamar, head of the Theater Department of the North Metropolitan Community College. "Look at us: six grown men on a Friday night, debating which Goddamned porno to watch. Back in the day, when fresh collegiate trim was a perquisite of our profession, guys like us would gather at the end of semester to share storis of all the coeds they'd bedded and cherries they'd popped. Nowadays, the best we can do is compare notes on which girls we'd like to bang, watch a few pornographic films and go home to jack off before bed. These are sad times, my friends. Sad times."

"And when exactly was this golden age of profs banging coeds, Roger?" asked Joel Weiss. He was in the Mathematics Department and was hosting the evening's festivities.

"Fuck if I know," admitted Roger as he took a long sip of his vodka tonic. "Certainly before my time."

"Pre Enlightenment?" said Kurt Williams from Poli-Sci with a shit-giving smile. He scratched at his chin with his mangled left hand: a memento from Afghanistan.

"With all the hair and that rangy beard, I'd say Neolithic," laughed Dr. James Basset - English Department - his smile flashing bright against his dark skin.

Martin Demarest, the new English Composition instructor, said nothing. He knew Roger was notorious among the students for being a dirty old man so his lament about the lack of teenagers willing to throw their thighs open for the faculty was hardly surprising. Personally, he thought the guy was full of shit.

Roger turned to Ernest Banyan - Economics - and cocked an eyebrow. "Aren't you going to take your dig at my age Ernie. I am over 40, after all."

"Naw. I agree with you," said Ernie. "Remember Sara Henjum?"

"Oh yeah, I forgot." Roger turned his large, shaggy head to Martin and explained. "Ernie here actually fucked a student a few years back."

Ernie nodded. "Yeah... Well, she had dropped out earlier that semester... And I had to pay for it. But it still counts, I think."

A few of the guys laughed at that.

"Oh, and none of this leaves this room, got it?" said James to Martin. "First law of Stag Night."

Martin nodded.

"So," said Roger to Martin. "You're a young guy, in good shape, moderately attractive, I'd bet some of the girls have been giving you the eye... you get any action this semester?"

"Um... actually..."

The room exploded in noise. "What? You did?!" - "Son. Of. A. Fucking. Bitch." - "Dude!"

"Cheers, rookie," said Rogers as he hoisted his glass.

"No! No. I didn't have sex with her, but... well, it's a long story."

"We are specifically here to share these types of long stories," said Joel. "Get the hell on with it."

Martin looked around the room. Every eye was on him.

"OK," he said. "She was a student in my Creative Writing section; not really what you'd call good looking although she seemed like the kind of person who really works at fading into the crowd: cheap glasses; straight, mousy brown hair; frumpy clothes; no makeup or even jewelry as far as I remember..."

"Name?"

"Jill Coode," he said, pronouncing it like the word 'could'. "Spelled C-O-O-D-E. "

"Oh shit," said James. "I had her in my English lit class last Fall and I mispronounced it as 'coodie' on the first day. Everyone laughed. I still remember how mortified the poor girl looked."

"What'd you think? She attractive?" asked Kurt.

"Hard to tell, just like Martin said. She certainly wasn't ugly, just kind of plain. One day she wore a tee-shirt; it looked like she might have an OK rack. But I don't know."

"How was she as a student?" asked Martin.

"Excellent, actually; except that she'd never participate in class discussions. Her papers were pretty fucking brilliant though."

"Does this ever get dirty?" asked Roger with a sigh.

"Yes. In fact it was in her assignments where things started getting weird. It started early in the semester, when I had them do a poem. Hers was good - wonderful word choice, powerful imagery, lovely rhythm - pretty amazing, especially considering it was entirely about masturbating. And I mean graphically. At the time I thought she was brave to be so achingly honest in her subject matter so I gave her an A. That was my first mistake.

"Her next assignment was worse. The main character goes to talk to her professor - who was described exactly like me - and he forces her to give him a blowjob. Again, the story was well written so I felt she deserved a good grade, but I told her she needs to keep the subject matter down to an 'R' rating, at the very least."

"Jesus," said Ernie.

"Then, another assignment comes along and she's even dirtier. Again I'm a character in the story but now I'm forcibly screwing her in every hole while she begs for mercy but, as she made amply clear in the story, she secretly loves every minute of it. I sent her a comment that she needs to cut that crap out, although, again, I still gave her a good grade.

"It continued to get worse. I spoke to her after class and told her to stop. I explained how uncomfortable she was making me. I told her that what she was doing was sexual harassment and if she didn't stop I'd have to take my complaint to administration. "

"What'd she say?" asked James.

"Nothing. She stammered a few 'yes sirs' and 'no sirs' but mostly she stared at her shoes and looked contrite. I thought I'd reached her. I thought she'd stop.

"She didn't? I hope," said Roger.

"Oh no. Each story still got filthier and filthier. They got really, really twisted by the end of the semester."

"Holy fuck. Why didn't you say anything to the department?" asked James.

"By the time it was so out of control that I felt like I needed help, I'd already let it go too long. I worried I could be accused of leading the girl on. So I hemmed and hawed until my only option was to ride it out until the end of the semester. Now it's over. Thank God."

"Wait a goddamned minute here...," said Roger. "You had this young thing writing you personally crafted pornography and you did nothing? Holy fuck!"

"The girl obviously has mental problems."

"Which you exacerbated by giving her A's for her weird little flights of fancy! If you'd've taken her aside and pounded her in her tight little cunt it might have at least have taught her a valuable lesson about being a clueless fucking cock-tease."

"Fuck you, dude," said Martin.

"Jesus guys, lighten up. We're here to have fun," said Joel.

"Yeah, you're right. I apologize," said Roger. "And to make it up to the rookie I'm going to let him get me some ice."

Everyone looked confused by the logic of that.

"Meaning: I got plenty of vodka and tonic, but not enough ice. And I've already knocked back a few so I'm in no shape to drive. If Marty runs up to the Quick Trip and gets me a bag of ice I promise to not be an asshole for the rest of the night."

Martin looked at his beer. He'd barely touched it and everyone else already seemed moderately buzzed. The logic of it was stupid but inescapable. He'd have to get Roger his God dammed ice.

"OK, give me some money."

Roger pulled himself off the couch, marched over to the pile of jackets and dug around until he brought out a ten. He handed it to Martin, saying "I'll want my change back."

Grumbling under his breath, Martin left.

Joel turned to Roger. "What are you up to man? We have plenty of ice."

"True. But I was able to snag Martin's phone from his jacket," said Roger as he held up a scuffed-up phone.

"What are you going to do with that?"

"I'll show you. Hey, who does this sound like: 'Jill Coode obviously has mental problems'?"

James, Kurt and Ernie broke out laughing at Roger's mimicry of Martin. Joel looked concerned.

"Roger, you better not..."

"Hey, I wonder if Jill Coode is in the student directory," interrupted Roger.

"Already looked her up," said Ernie holding up his phone. The NMCC directory app was open, showing the student profile for Jill Coode. No picture available, it said, but there was a phone number.

***

Jill Coode sat on her bed in her basement bedroom trying to write. Her story had just got to the good part: the princess was cornered and defenseless in her tower and the wild-eyed barbarians, smeared with the gore of her ineffectual defenders, were advancing ominously, lust twisting their hideous features into demonic countenances. But upstairs her grandfather's TV blared at full volume and every detail of Jessica Fletcher's latest case, circa 1987, came squawking down into Jill's brain. She looked at the clock and saw it was still before nine. There'd be yet another episode of Murder She Wrote before her granddad went to bed and she'd finally be able to think.

Jill sighed. Perhaps she could outline some story ideas until then, or proofread, or something. She opened the browser on her laptop and went to one of the free porno sites she liked, maybe they'd have a good video or something to spark her imagination. She was looking through lurid thumbnails of group sex scenes when her cell phone rang.

Jill jumped in alarm. Her phone never rang. Her granddad might call to check up on her when she was at school or attempting to do something social (although there hadn't been any of that since her disastrously tongue-tied attempts in the Fall semester), but he was upstairs watching MSW. If he wanted her, he'd just yell down the stairs. He certainly wasn't reluctant to do that.

Jill picked up the phone. The caller ID said it was from 'Martin Demarest'. Her mouth dropped open. Martin Demarest? Her creative writing teacher? AKA: Professor Dreamy? She took a deep breath and answered, not wanting to hope but unable to help herself.

"H-hello?"

"Jill?" said a voice. "Jill Coode?"

"Yes?"

"This is Martin Demarest."

"...Huh?"

"This is Martin Demarest, Jill, your creative writing professor."

Jill listened closely, scowling. "No it's not."

"Um... I assure you..."

"W-who is this really?"

"..."

"Hello? Who is this?"

"Eh, actually I'm a colleague of Martin's. He stepped away and we thought we'd play a joke on him with one of his students... so we, uh, randomly picked ..."

"No you didn't," she said, her voice a harsh, low whisper.

"What?"

"You didn't randomly pick me... professor Demarest t-t-told you about my stories, d-didn't he?"

"Uh... well... He did, um, he mentioned them, yes."

Jill swallowed hard and steadied herself before she allowed herself to speak further. But still her squeaky, halting voice betrayed her. "So what do... what do you w-want?"

There was a flustered pause suddenly interrupted by a distant thud, then a voice from afar raised in anger. "What the hell are you doing with my phone!"

Now that sounded like professor Demarest's voice.

Sounds of struggle. Swearing and fumbling. Then his voice again, speaking right into the phone. "Hello? Who is this? This is Martin Demarest, was someone representing themselves as me?"

"Hello professor," said Jill. Weird things seemed to be going on. Professor Demarest actually seemed more flustered than she. Jill steadied herself and spoke with a timid, coquettish confidence rare for her. "Have you been telling your friends about my stories?"

"Listen, Jill. Don't..."

"It's OK professor. Really."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Was there anything that... that m-maybe..." Jill halted, impossibly tongue tied again.

"Jill, this isn't..."

"Where are you now?"

The professor said nothing for a long while. Jill would have worried that he'd hung up, but she could hear his breath. Then, finally, he responded: "Two-eighty-four, North Pierce Drive."

He was only a few blocks away! "Thank you Professor," she said. "I'll be there in about an hour and a half. OK?"

"No, Jill, you don't need to..."

"You remember my stories, don't you professor?" she responded.

"Yes. Of course I do."

"I thought they were pretty clear."

"Yes, Jill. They were that."

"Good. So, how many of you are there?"

"...Six."

"Oh," she said as she imagined six men waiting for her at two-eight-four North Pierce. She swallowed heavily. "OK. See you in a w-while then," she said and hung up before Professor Demarest could change his mind.

As Jill put her phone down she heard the creak of the loose riser on the basement stairs. She composed herself before her grandfather got to her door.

"Hello grandfather," she said as he walked in without knocking.

"Did I hear your phone?" he asked.

"One of my professors called. I'd sent my final assignment to the wrong email address. He wanted to check on it before he gave me an incomplete."

"He? I don't know that I like grown men calling you at night like that."

"He was just doing his job."

"Jilly, honey, you're such a naïve girl. You just watch yourself. Just 'cause a man has an education doesn't make him a good man."

"He said the grades needed to be submitted before midnight," she said, her voice very small.

"Maybe so, maybe so. But you still need to be wary, Jill. Any man will say anything to get at your virtue. And any girl might say 'no' dozens of times but when you have unscrupulous men filling your head with sweet talk day after day it's too much for the feminine brain. God knows, your mother couldn't resist. I just thank God every day that you didn't turn out to be a attractive girl like her. I know it doesn't seem like it, but The Lord did you a great favor, my dear, when he denied you your mother's good looks. You should thank Him extra hard tonight."

"Yes, grandfather. I will."

Upstairs, they could hear the 9PM rerun of Murder She Wrote starting.

"Well, I gotta go catch my show, honey. Remember what I said" He turned and started back up the stairs.

How could I forget? thought Jill. You tell me every frickin' day.

She lay back on her bed, gripped the mattress and waited for her panic attack to run its course.

***

Stag Night had entered a holding pattern. No one believed that a timid freshman girl, when given nearly two hours to consider her upcoming 'appointment' with six horny professors, would really go through with it. But neither did they want to end up too drunk to perform if she actually did, so they drank cola or coffee or water, played a few hands of poker, argued again about which pornos to watch and petulantly agreed with each other how pathetic they were for falling for the whims of a teenage cock-tease like Jill Coode. Eventually Martin remembered he still had the semester's assignments saved on the college network. The guys turned off the video and took turns reading her stories to each other.

"God damn," said Roger, a while later. "That horny little slut sure can write! We're gonna have some fun if she ever shows."

"She'll show," said Martin.

James arched an eyebrow. "Really? What makes you think so?"

"Just a feeling. When I spoke with her she was weirdly confident. She was almost pushy. I've never seen her show so much spirit. I think we struck a nerve."

"You going to be able to go through with it if she shows up?" asked Joel.

"Yeah, you sounded like you were trying to talk her out of it on the phone," said Kurt.

"Why the hell do all of you think I'm terrified of fucking this girl?! Yeah, I'm a little worried we're taking advantage of her quite-possibly-fucked-up mental state, but I've been getting cock-teased for three fucking months. Believe me, I more ready to fuck Jill Coode than any of you can possibly imagine!"

Several of the guys laughed. Martin felt a little ridiculous about his outburst but he managed a smile.

"Well, that's a relief. We've got the rookie on board. Now all we need is the girl," said Roger. "Personally, I'd..."

Martin's phone rang. They all jumped slightly in their seats at the sound. Martin picked up his phone. "It's Jill," he announced to the guys. Into the phone he said, "Hello Jill."

"I'm outside," said Jill's squeaky voice into Martin's ear. She hung up.

"She's outside," said Martin to the guys.

They all looked at the door.

"Um... I was thinking," said Joel. "Before we let her into my house, maybe we should ask her explicitly if she's cool getting fucked by us all? I mean, we're all kind of assuming that's what's going to happen. I'd prefer it be out in the open."

"I hate to admit it, but that's not a bad idea," said Roger.

James and Ernie nodded.

"Jeez. And you guys accused me of being the timid one," grumbled Martin as he dialed the phone.

***

Out on the front porch Jill shivered in the unseasonably cool May night. She was nervous, terrified really, and it surprised her. She'd been dreaming and hoping for this opportunity for so long and, now that it was here, she felt both a lingering disbelief that it would actually happen and a bone-deep panic that it was mere minutes away.

Her phone rang. She answered.

"Jill," said Martin Demarest.

"What is it Professor Demarest?" She said. "I'm outside. Waiting."

"We just want to be sure..."

Jill interrupted him. "Please don't make me ask for it Professor Demarest."

"What?"

"That would ruin it. I wrote the... I wrote those s-stories so I wouldn't have to ask. I was v-very clear, wasn't I? J-just don't make me say the words, OK? Please."

"OK... I guess..."

"Thank you, Professor Demarest," she said and ended the call. She sighed.

She heard voices arguing indistinctly through the door. She shook her head. She'd never have guessed a bunch of grown men would act so nervous in a situation like this. It was never like this in porno films.

Finally, there was the click of the lock. The front door opened. Six men stood looking out at her. The disbelief in their eyes mirrored Jill's own. She tried to force a smile but her lips just quivered.

The guys stepped back from the doorway to admit Jill, looking her over as she stepped hesitantly into the room. She had worn her knee-length, oversized knit jacket that hung off her like a tent and some plain flat-soled shoes. Her long, brown hair was in her usual style: shapelessly crowded around the edges of her face like curtains she would prefer to keep drawn. She had used make-up for a change, but not much: lipstick, a little eyeliner. She gazed intently at her hosts through her plastic-framed glasses, looking for, but not expecting, any sign of approval.

"Hello Jill," said Martin.

"Hi Professor D-Demarest," said Jill. She attempted a smile.

"May I take your coat?"

Jill swallowed heavily. Her pulse hammered in her ears. This is it. Back at home she had agonized over what to wear. She wanted to look sexy and confident but everything she owned was oversized, loose, frumpy. So, she'd chosen the only option available and now it was the moment of truth. Unable to speak, she nodded 'yes' as she reached for the top button with a shaking hand. Six pairs of watching eyes grew wider with every button. At last she shrugged the jacket off her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. She resisted the urge to vomit as she stood nude in the center of the room while six men inspected her body from mere feet away.

It was an awful lot of attention for a girl like Jill. Too much. Instinctually her shoulders scrunched forward, her head slumped down, her arms drifted around to cover her breasts, her hands clasped together in front of her pubis. Her pale skin blushed vivid pink as her terrified eyes darted between the members of her wide-eyed, slack-jawed audience.

The big, older guy with the beard sighed loudly. "You are severely pissing me off young lady!" he said. He stepped towards her. Jill stepped back.

"Hey, back the fuck off Roger," warned Martin.

"Please, allow me a minute Demarest. Just look at this girl! She has the body of a goddess, yet she tries to hide behind herself like a frightened pup. It's a God-damned shame!" Roger stepped up behind her. Jill cowered. "Stand up straight, my dear, yes that's right. Shoulders back, chest out... oh my yes. Gentlemen, please take your seats, before we do anything we need to teach this young woman some confidence. James, my man, would you grab that mirror over there and put in front of the TV, yes that's the stuff."