Once a Nerd Ch. 09

While it's not an outrageous scene from the likes of 'Project X', it makes Kayla's graduation bash feel as tame as a toddler's birthday party. Seizure-inducing strobes, a debris-littered lawn before ten p.m., a generic Spotify playlist probably titled 'COLLEGE PARTY SONGS' threatening the integrity of the foundation, fold-up tables boasting a beer pong tournament that's being taken way, way too seriously. Good God, is that..."Swimming Pools"? Kendrick, forgive me, man.

Stepping up from the curb to the lawn, you'd think my name was fucking Beyoncé. The reaction seems a little inflated considering no one's seen me play in an actual match, but who am I to turn my nose up at a warm welcome? They're not wrong for having high hopes, as I won't be satisfied with anything less than the Bowl. My teammates break away to pursue their preferred activity, whether that's in the kitchen for shots, finding a body to perform an uncoordinated grind against, or skipping the line for beer pong. Many of the upperclassmen are also 'brothers' of a fraternity, so they reconnect with their housemates.

I've never understood the appeal.

Unfortunately, my celebrity status doesn't show signs of waning. Wherever I go, I'm forced to mingle. I know I made the politics analogy earlier, but it's more apt than I realized. Except, instead of shaking hands, it's all limp-wristed daps. Wall to wall, corner to corner, there's an abundance of feminine wiles. Tits, legs, ass. Campus-wide, if they've got a pussy and a heartbeat, they're at this party. The less sober they become, the more unsolicited touching there is to dodge. The fact that I'm so keen on dodging it really puts into perspective how much I've changed. There are a ton of different takes on love, and I get that.

But, if it's the real fucking deal, why do people focus so much on the labor that goes into it? Like, it's hard work? The amount of times I've heard my buddies say something along the lines of: "I love my girl, but I've got needs, man."

I nodded my head like it was common sense, the inherent nature of man. It was easy to agree when I knew fuck-all about love. Back then, I thought 'love' just meant wanting to spend time with a girl outside of sex, and I'd never even experienced that much. It seemed perfectly reasonable to meet your physical needs externally if they weren't being met internally, because sex felt just as necessary as water, food, and air. Now? That's...literally fucking insane to me. Without Sam, even if it's just his afterimage in my imagination or a picture, my dick is out of order. I still have eyes and a brain. I know when a person's hot, but it's just a passing fact.

I'm pent up. I'm hornier than a coked-up chimp, to the point it's starting to sharpen the edge of my temper. Even so, if I singled out the baddest bitch on the property, whisked her upstairs, and sat through a heartfelt striptease, she'd stomp from the room after ten minutes with a bruised ego and blab the news of my erectile dysfunction. To me, that's a big part of love. Some would call it loyalty, but even that implies a bit of conscious effort. My body's on the same page as my brain, and there's no effort or labor required, no matter how perky the breast or voluptuous the ass. If it's not attached to Sam's body, it holds no sway over mine.

That being said, it doesn't stop anyone from trying, and I'm not yet in the position where I can shut it down cold. It's a lot of polite misdirection, and the next hour and a half passes by strategically. One round of shots with about twenty faces I couldn't pick out of a line up, then it's strictly beer. After winning four straight games of beer pong, a plastered Max comes to me with the sudden urge for passing drills. We launch a football across the lawn, over the heads of a band of half-naked coeds who've christened themselves monkeys in the middle. I can't be mad at the blatant attention-seeking behavior, as it's not a legitimate drill. Finnus is too fucked to even rely on muscle memory.

"Yo! Delaney! Come toss to Finnus, it's the only thing keepin' him on his feet." I swap out with one of our beefier linemen posted up on the house's veranda. "I'm grabbing a beer."

Then going the fuck back to the dorm. It's already eleven. My phone's been burning a hole in my pocket. I've scooped it out at least a dozen times to check for a reply, only to find the minutes trudging onward. Sam read it, but that's it. Maybe he's asleep, fuck. It's not that late, and it's Saturday. I'll call him when I get back—

"That's one lucky girl."

Digging a beer out of the back of the fridge, I'm caught red-handed staring at our text thread. I'd already saved Sam's picture and deleted it from the thread, that way there's no risk of it being glimpsed over my shoulder. It'd make me look defensive if I hastily shut my phone off and crammed it back in my pocket, so I don't. To the right of the big, double-door fridge smeared with greasy prints, there's a girl leaning against the counter. My brain tickles with recognition, but no names float to the surface. She's pretty enough that it's strange for her to be unattended by a sloshed suitor or three. On the tall side for a woman, biracial, skin like too-creamy coffee. Dark, coily hair sprouts around her sultry-done face in a healthy afro. Her tit to ass ratio is damn near the golden standard, a skinny waist sloping between.

It honestly boggles my mind that I barely recognize a girl like this. She's worth a shitton more than a passing glance, but that must've been all I had to give. Closing the fridge, I casually return my phone to its designated pocket.

"Which girl would that be?"

"Whichever girl is on the other side of that phone." She quirks a little smile, teasing but unbothered. "Every time I see you, you're on it."

"Oh? You keepin' tabs on me?"

"I don't have to keep tabs, you stand out."

"I wouldn't call you a wallflower either." I accuse, brows lifted.

"Exactly, that's my point." She laughs, swiping bouncy hair over a smooth, naked shoulder. "I wouldn't call myself forgettable, but you don't know my name, do you? We're in three classes together, Dean."

I admit awkwardly: "Ah, you caught me."

"Cecilia."

"Pretty name."

"Oh, please, keep the bogus flattery to yourself. You know, a lot of these girls think they've got a chance. If I was your girlfriend, I might be upset that you're not loud and proud about your status. I'm guessing she doesn't go here?"

Sammy would probably have a panic attack if I went around advertising it, as she's suggesting I do. Leaning against the opposite counter, I size her up. I can't tell if she's flirting or nosy. "You seem very, very interested in this relationship you're assuming I'm in."

"Because it is interesting. Dean Saunders, nineteen, D1 starter in less than two months. Face like that, abs like those, and you know what it all adds up to? Manwhore, creatine for brains."

I bust a laugh: "Holy shit, are you...negging me right now?"

She scoffs: "Negging is a form of flirting. I'm just curious, that's all."

"Why's that?"

"Mm, you want the honest answer? It might hurt your feelings."

"They're pretty hard to hurt, but give it your best shot."

Cecilia grins, and it's far from a kind or jovial expression. Excitable, almost mocking, but she's no less gorgeous for the strange sharpness of it. She shines like a wicked villainess. "I'm a psych major."

"So, I'm interesting...psychologically?"

"Very. I can't spell it out for you, since I'm a few years shy of a degree. It wouldn't be ethical to diagnose a guy I just met."

Diagnose? I've been accused of narcissism, but I don't think that's the implication. While I'm curious to know what brand of insane she suspects me of, I'm not curious enough to press her for it or loiter around in this kitchen. We have classes together, apparently, so it's not like I'll never see her again. I'm also not convinced this isn't her subtle way of negging, trying to foster my interest in her. Maybe that's the narcissism cropping up. Once my bottle is empty, I excuse myself from her presence. She wiggles her fingers at me, and again, her smile is uncomfortably knowing.

Now that a majority of the crowd is on the train to Shit-faced Station, it's easy to slip out. One shot and six beers isn't enough to inebriate me, but there's a pleasant warmth spread through my limbs. The ground feels soft and padded under my feet, and the muscle tension of a rigorous practice is fuzzed out. It's a thirty minute walk back to the dorms, but for a few reasons, I turn that into a fifteen minute run. I'll get back to the room by 11:45, give or take a few minutes. If I call Sam before midnight, he might answer. Even if he doesn't, I fully intend to blow the world's fattest load while eye-fucking that picture.

It's not like I took our summer for granted. No, I cherished every fucking second, took pains to commit it all to memory: every smile, laugh, look, touch. It's almost a double-edged sword, remembering him so vividly. If I'm not dwelling in a memory, I'm agonizing over how he's doing now. We talk every day, but he's not the type to ramble or tell prolonged stories. When discussing his coursework or events of interest, he's painfully succinct. He's name-dropped a few acquaintances, but no real details. I, however, am the type to ramble, and he encourages it. It doesn't occur to me how little I know about his daily life until we're off the phone.

FaceTimes are even rarer. I miss him, and I can feel my head about to go through the metaphorical ceiling. Patience isn't my strongest virtue.

Clambering into the dorm, I'm not surprised to find it dark and empty. John often leaves for home on Friday afternoons after classes let out, returning Sunday evening. There's the vague desire to shower again, brush my teeth to avoid waking with the squalid aftertaste of a Miller Lite, but it's too low on the priority list. I'm already half-hard just thinking about that picture. Shucking out of my jeans, I replace them with a pair of mesh shorts. I'm running the risk of pissing Sammy off if my call wakes him up, but I give less than an iota of a fuck. I crash back onto the bed, snug my earbuds in, and anxiously send the call through.

When it rings a fifth time, the little spark of hope in my chest dies. I wasn't really expecting him to answer, but—

"...Sammy?"

He picked up! But, there's no greeting. He doesn't say anything for several long seconds, but there's a slight shuffling. Did he slap the phone in his sleep, thinking it was an alarm? Hell, I'll take it. I'm not above beating off to his quiet, rhythmic breathing. Then, I'll fall asleep to it, pretending we're in bed together. I'll take whatever I can fucking get. I'm just about to swipe out of the call screen and into my photo gallery, when his voice hums through the buds. I stiffen up like I've made eyes at Medusa. Rationality blinks out of my brain, and half my body's blood is siphoned off into my cock.

"Dean...? I...hah..."

That's his 'I'm about to cum' voice.

—

Dean will never comprehend the culmination of emotions behind that picture, both taking it and sending it.

He asks for nudes all the time, but it always comes as a throwaway comment like that. I know he isn't joking, but he's also never expecting anything. Tonight, however, a seed was planted. I tried to deprive it of water and sunlight, but before I knew it, it'd sprouted. Then, it was a magnificent tree with branches and hearty leaves casting shadows on every corner of my mind. When he said he had both news and a party to attend, I knew it's because he made the starting line-up.

I wanted...to do something for him, somehow.

Dean upheld the fierce promises he laid at my feet at the airport before we parted ways. He texts me any moment he gets during the day, and he calls me faithfully every night. If I didn't boot him off the phone, he'd find something to talk about until morning. I've been doing my best to uphold my own end of that promise, and it comes more naturally than I thought it would. I catch myself anticipating his correspondence, and I have to stop myself from initiating it. Even after almost two months, I'm still clinging to passivity, like that makes it less morally compromising.

He tells me he loves me, he misses me, and there's no less passion in his voice than the day we parted ways. If anything, it sounds like he's feeling it more keenly. There's a desperate edge to him sometimes, and it takes my breath away to hear it. It frightens me. Dean's...such an intense person, and I can't help but worry about the both of us. Am I a distraction for him? Is he doing well in classes? Practice? Making friends? I'm scared for if/when we'll meet again, too. If he's well and truly abstained from sex all this time, he might cripple me.

I'm also scared for the day that his messages and calls become fewer and fewer, or perhaps there won't be a slow tapering. Maybe they'll just stop altogether. It's the first thought that crosses my mind when I open my eyes in the morning, dreams traded for the start of a new day. Dean wakes up much, much earlier than I do, and he never fails to send some sort of corny 'good morning' text. I glance at my phone, wondering if today's the day there won't be one. I shouldn't be so content existing in this state of limbo, as it's doing no one any favors. At this point, I should either dive in or get the fuck out of the pool.

But, wouldn't God find it so funny if the second I start investing just as much energy into Dean as he's invested into me, the kid goes off and gets a girlfriend? He'd be laughing through the next millennium off a joke as sick as that. In any case, we're both swamped in our own way. Dean's balancing all the responsibility of a student athlete on top of testing and coursework, and while I've only got the academia side of things to sweat, it's just as strenuous as I'd feared. I was able to jump right into the TA program with the MA I already possess and my background as an educator, but I still have my own courses to participate in.

I worried about Dean's ability to make friends, but I hardly have a spare second to exchange words with anyone if they aren't related to a course's material. I might not have even spoken more than a few sentences to my mother if we didn't have at least one dinner date a week, but she'd be the first one to be understanding of my plight. That being said, the interest I've received at UC Berkeley is...

Bold and overwhelming. I can't bring myself to tell Dean, as I'm not sure how I'd even say something like that. It would just seem like I'm trying to rile him up. "Yeah, I've been asked out, like, fifty times. Isn't that funny?"

Even though I'm sure he's in a similar boat. Or, a much, much bigger boat. God, he probably has a fanclub.

It's about a seventy/thirty disparity in gender. Seventy percent women, thirty percent men. Thirty is still a staggering percentage. Most of the men who've been venturesome enough to flirt in broad daylight are all typecasted: older, larger, distinguished, scholarly. They're either upperclassmen in a hoity-toity major or professors of said major. But, to my vague horror, I've been approached on the lowest of down-lows by a few men of Dean's breed. Burly athletes who must be able to smell some sort of pheromone on me: "Yeah, that guy definitely takes it in the ass."

Dean would shit a brick.

I tell myself, as long as I don't reciprocate in any way, he doesn't need to know. I hate to admit it, but he's ruined me. Plenty of those aforementioned men were objectively good-looking, some muscular, but none of them were...Dean. He's raised the bar into the goddamn stratosphere. It should be illegal to be that hot, athletic, likable, and endowed. Despite the lack of down time afforded to me, he's rewritten the code of my body. Namely, my libido. I never used to be this insatiable, but we were having mind-blowing sex multiple times a day, almost daily.

If my phone's in hand, you can assume I'm taking a quick swipe through the many, many pictures he's sent. Especially those of the shirtless-and-sweaty variety. It's a guilty pleasure. Phone tucked to my chest, thighs squeezing together, heat blistering in my belly. If I told him just how badly I want him, I know he'd appreciate it. More than appreciate it, he'd probably commit GTA and break every traffic law in California to get here. It's also just plain embarrassing. What would I even say?

"How was your day, Sammy?"

"It was fine. Somewhere between 'ModPo' and lunch, I daydreamed about you using my face like a fleshlight and emptying your balls directly into my stomach. How was your's?"

Dean might be able to flippantly announce whatever filthy thought pops into his head, but I'm not so nonchalant. It's hard enough to say such things during sex, I might die from too much blood rushing to my head if I tried sending it in text or saying it over the phone. Three weeks into the semester, it felt like I'd lose my mind if I didn't find some form of release. I purchased a toy online, a little ashamed of myself for forking out the extra money for express shipping. I've used them before, just not in a long, long time. Before Dean, I had no issue with occasional celibacy periods between relationships or flings. The package arrived two days after placing the order, but my workload suddenly saw an increase. Until tonight, I've yet to use it.

Tonight, I was already feeling particularly needy.

There are no classes on Saturday, and I'd caught up on my work by two in the afternoon. My mother and I met for lunch, and then there was suddenly fuck-all to do. Coming back to the empty, barely-furnished apartment, I was crushed by a deep, consuming loneliness. I miss Dean taking up all of my time, space, and attention. I missed him so much, my eyes started to burn and my chest throbbed. I hated myself for missing him to a point of physicality. With fuck-all to do, I drank and languished, periodically checking my phone. I'm embarrassed to recall how many times I opened our thread and began typing up a message, just to delete it in a flush of humiliation. I don't know how to express myself to him properly, even though he makes it look so fucking easy.

Being honest with him feels the equivalent of becoming an active party in a wrongdoing, whereas previously I could call myself a bystander.

By the time his text came through later in the evening, the catalyst of scotch had metamorphosed that loneliness into a raw, searing need. It was a relief he'd be too preoccupied to call, as he'd definitely hear it in my voice, and he'd definitely call me out on it. But, there it was again, a casual request for nudes. He throws it in almost like a punctuation mark. My uninhibited subconscious latched onto it, and a bloody battle waged inside my head for ten straight minutes. I haven't taken a picture like that in ages, but I desperately wanted to know what he'd say. How would he react? Does he really want me as much as I'm wanting him right now?

But, if I do it, I'm crossing a line. The line I've clung to for months. I'd be making myself extremely fucking vulnerable to him, and that still terrifies me. I'd be admitting this is...something. We're something, even though it's twenty shades of wrong and fucked-up. Even though it's bound not to last.

Ultimately, I was drunk enough for butterflies and desire to tip the scales against rationality and fear. I disrobed with shameful quickness and crawled onto the bed, pose already in mind. I kept telling myself that as long as my face isn't in it, there are no identifying tells on my body. No tattoos, scars, or large marks. There are no photographs or decor in the backdrop of my bedroom to give anything away. Dean's the only one who will know it's me, and fuck, if that thought doesn't pitch heat through my guts like a beachside bonfire. With my arms extended in front of myself, I press my cheek to the mattress, keeping most of my face from the screen.