A Literary Mistae

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.

“It was about a college student, a virgin, who found a girl at a party, fell in love, made love, and then lost her to illness. It was very romantic and quite sad,” she said, almost murmuring. I relaxed a little bit. Although there was quite a lot of lovemaking in the story, and it was lovemaking, not sex, it was romantic, sensual and passionate. There were other stories that I had written that were much more raw, more sexual and animalistic.

“I’m sorry I sent you that story by accident. I don’t want you to think I’m some sort of pervert who just writes erotica,” I said. I was fidgeting a little, despite my calming fears. I was still talking to my English teacher about sexual stories I’d written. Not what I expected for that day.

“You need not apologize, Sean, although you can be sure that you won’t be reading that story to the class,” she said with a soft laugh. ” You’ll still get an A, because it was such a wonderful story. I really enjoy reading it.” There was that reddening face again. “Do you write a lot of erotica?” she asked, and turned to face me. I found I had trouble looking at her in the eye.

“I, ummm, I mean… yes I do. We nerds don’t have much of a chance to act out our sexual ideas, and I find it’s good for my psyche to purge extra ideas onto paper,” I said quickly. I was becoming more and more nervous about where this conversation was going, but I was surprised at how honest I was. This just showed how relaxed and comfortable I was with her.

“I would guess then, that all the stories you’ve submitted this year have been personal stories, coming from your own experiences?” She was now moving slowly toward me, looking at me intently. I felt a drop of sweat on the back of my neck, and I didn’t know why.

“It’s the only way I know how to write a good story.”

“But you write wonderful erotica, but you haven’t had those kind of experiences?”

“Ummm, I guess you’re right. I can’t explain that one.”

“I’m sure you’ll make a wonderful lover Sean.”

“Excuse me?” Now I was panicking. Where did that statement come from?

She was right in front of me, just inches away. It felt like a story was writing itself before my eyes, like in a dream, but it was happening in real time. It was so easy to write something, and change it later if I needed, but this time, there was no going back, if I did what my mind, and my body was telling me to do.

My arm started to rise, against my will, it seemed. My palm and fingers were throbbing, my heart pounding. She never once looked at my hand, or moved away from me, instead, she closed her eyes. When my palm touched her cheek, she released and soft sigh from her lips. She raised her hand and put it on top of mine, pressing gently. With her eyes still closed she said,

“Ever since I read that story, I wanted to be that girl,” she said breathily. “I wanted to be held, and kissed and touched like she was.” I felt her other hand grab my waist. “I could feel that you put your soul into that story, even if you haven’t done any of those things, it was still you in that story.” I could feel her breath on me as she spoke those words. I had lived for just over 18 years, and I felt as if this was the first moment I was really alive.

My heart was swollen and throbbing in my throat, and I have to admit that it wasn’t the only thing swollen and throbbing. I couldn’t think, and I didn’t know what to do. I opened my mouth, but silence was the only thing to come out. She stared at me, even through me it seemed.

“I…”, I began, finally able to make some sort of sound, but she silenced my right away with her finger.

“No, please don’t say anything. I want, I just… Hold me, please, just hold me.” She leaned her head against me shoulder, and moved her body towards mine. Something finally clicked in my head, and I took my hand away from her cheek, brushed against her neck, and moved it down to the small of her back. My other hand pushed underneath her arm and gently held her head. Her breathing was hot against my neck, and once my hands came to rest, she wrapped her arms around me and squeezed. It was as though she needed me at that moment. I was just surprised, and happy that anyone wanted me, especially someone older, and attractive like Ms. Hysard.

Just as I closed my eyes, to savor that feeling of first intimate human contact, I felt her start to pull away. When she came back into my vision, I saw how flushed her face was, either from excitement, or embarrassment.

“I want so much, but not here.” Her hand went between my leg, just for moment, and felt how hard I was. She gasped, and hand squeezed a few times. If she had done it for any longer, I would have lost it right there. She pulled away and went to the desk. I scribbled something on a piece of paper, and handed it to me.

“Come to my place tonight, please. We won’t be at risk of being caught there. Although, the idea of being caught…” she let the thought drop, but moved back to me. She took my hand and guided it between her legs. I instinctively started to rub my hand back and forth, and she grabbed me with both hands, moaning. The fleeting moments of pleasure were broken when we heard footsteps at the door. We separated quickly and attempted to compose ourselves. School wasn’t over at that point, but I was done for the day and could leave early. Ms. Hysard had a free period, but had meetings after school. She motioned me to go quickly, but before I moved away, I leaned in a kissed her quickly on the cheek. She flushed red, and gave me a devilish smile. I managed to get myself out the door, and struggled to catch my breath. It was almost too much to comprehend. In a matter of 20 minutes my world seemed to have turned itself inside out. A teenager so deeply rooted in his own stories was now living moments that could have come from one of them. I don’t remember walking to my car, driving home, or getting to my room, but before I knew it, I was naked in my bedroom, starting at the piece of paper with Ms. Hysard’s address, rubbing my cock furiously to a massive orgasm.

As I laid back in semi-exhaustion, I thought about what would happen that evening. There wasn’t a problem getting away from the house; my parents were laid back and as long as I told them where I was, it would be cool. I’d just tell them I was out with friends and would be back late. Staying overnight somewhere else was common place for me, so it wouldn’t arouse suspicion.

But a curious question came to me. What would Ms. Hysard want from me? I had written a lot of things, but I had never done anything my characters had done. I had so many ideas and fantasies, I could just go from that; I would have to go from that. I just didn’t want to be some bumbling teenager, even though I was. The fact that I didn’t lose my cool in the classroom gave me some hope.

I showered, changed into my usual evening clothes, ate dinner with my folks and headed out the door. I couldn’t help but get hard on the drive over, thinking about what would happen. By the time I reached Ms. Hysard’s driveway, I had to sit in the car for a few moments, trying to will my cock to soften. After several long moments, I composed myself enough to walk up the steps. Her house was small, the right size for someone, and from the outside, also well kept. I reached up to ring the doorbell, but before I could, Ms. Hysard opened the door, looking flushed, and gorgeous. She was wearing a thin-strapped summer dress that came to just above her knee, but above the waist seemed to fit her almost like a glove. Her typical school apparel didn’t do justice to her body. She seemed to glow as she took my hand and pulled me inside. I started to speak but before any words came out, she pull me to her and was kissing me fiercely, as though she hadn’t had intimate contact with another being for years (which I found out later was the honest truth).

I had never tasted anything as wonderful or sweet as her lips. I didn’t that kissing could be so sensual, but as out lips danced, and our tongues met, I understood what I had been missing, sitting in my room and writing stories. After many minute of standing inside the door, she finally moved away, leaving me with my eyes closed, leaning in to where she had been. When I opened my eyes she was stifling a laugh, and then laughed out load, amused at how enthralled I had been.

“Don’t worry,” she said,” there is so much more time. I didn’t want to spend the whole evening standing in the door way.” She walked into the living room and turned to me. Her face suddenly went from laughing to intense passion. She beckoned me inside, and as I took my steps, she reached to her shoulder and pulled one of her straps to the side. Before she do the same with the other one, I protested,

“Wait. Please Ms. Hysard , let me do that.”

“Sean, I think you can call me Anna.”