Revenge of the Nerd Ch. 01byrpsuch©
This is the start of the edited version of the original Revenge of the Nerd. It is broken up into 11 chapters. I thought it would look stupid to have the original, in effect chapter 1, followed by chapter 12.
I regularly receive feedback on Revenge and reread it. I liked it. I liked it enough to post more of what is already written, though not completed. I haven't decided whether to change the pacing to make it a book, or to post the whole thing online, so don't have any expectations except that a lot more will be posted.
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Perhaps I should have been an actress
Up until my junior year in college I played every role impeccably, until I met him.
I played the compliant daughter of wealthy, socially-connected parents so well, neither of them had an inkling I might have wanted something else, let alone chafed under the expectation.
I played the supremely confident, breathtakingly beautiful girl who had absolute power over any man, and absolute power corrupted me absolutely. It helped me play the quintessential queen of the popular crowd. Supplicants lined up to offer me things, do things for me, just for the opportunity to bask in my presence.
Watch any teen movie. I was the one hated by the vast majority of the other girls. I could see it in their faces. But when you're playing that role, you can't show any indecision, you can't even feel any in their presence: it might show.
I think it's an interesting commentary on the values of our society, and not a little disturbing, that the age is getting ever lower when boys are worshipped as athletes and given special treatment.
It's down to seventh grade in basketball. Middle schools try to recruit the top players away from their neighborhoods, even supplying bogus addresses so they can play for them. These guys don't have much academic pressure either. They get all the help they need, including alteration of grades to keep them eligible.
What do they learn from this? That they are special; that the rules don't apply to them; that almost any kind of behavior they engage in will be tolerated as long as they continue to contribute to victory.
The result for those who don't make it as professional athletes is predictably disastrous: They never learn to control their impulsive behavior; they are not equipped to do anything and often suffer the rest of their lives as a result.
What has this got to do with me, little more than a mere slip of a girl, you may ask? Nothing, really, except you may not realize there is a similar situation for a small number of girls.
We're not necessarily intelligent. We don't excel at athletics. We just have the one personal characteristic most valued by our society - we look good, very good.
I am the archetypal example. I started to notice it in grade school. Guys would offer to provide all kinds of services to me just for the favor of my time. They would carry my books, do my homework and offer to beat each other up, though how that was supposed to be of any value to me I never quite understood.
As I moved up to middle school and high school, I was more revered than our star power forward. I was prom queen not only for the junior and senior proms, but the write-in vote picked me senior prom queen when I was a sophomore, though the principal disallowed it.
In high school I got even better service. Guys did my homework, wrote my papers, wrote my book reports, chauffeured me wherever my fancy desired, bought me things just because I wanted them and granted any other whim that came into my mind.
A perfect example was this nerd named Bill. I mockingly took to calling him Little Willie in a sing song voice just to let him know his place.
Despite the fact that he was younger, he would prep me for tests. He was absolutely amazing. He didn't just go over the material with me. He analyzed it, came up with the questions most likely to be asked on the test and wrote the answers most likely to be successful for the style of the teacher.
How did I reward him for these services? The way I did everyone else: I let him provide them. He got to spend time to bask in my presence.
He foolishly thought he might be entitled to more than that. He asked me out to a movie.
I could have been cruel. I could have told him I was so far out of his league that no matter what he did the rest of his life he would never catch up.
But I was kind. I just told him he was too immature and that when he grew up he could consider asking me again.
The majority of these services were provided by nerds and other lesser individuals, but the elite were not immune to my charms. The quarterback and the star forward had their pick of girls, except me.
With most of the other girls, not only did they have a reasonable expectation that sex would be provided, they could name the particular sex act in which they were interested and the girls would comply.
But my status was so exalted they had no expectation I would do anything for them or with them. I might become involved in serious kissing, but it was the rare occasion on which I "forgot" and allowed one of them to touch my breast - on the outside of my clothing, of course.
Those rules were necessary to maintain my status in high school, but in college, I did have some competition, not serious competition, but competition nonetheless.
It wasn't just that there was competition. I wanted to enjoy some sexual experiences myself, and I was eighteen, which meant I was legal. So I became a bit freer with, of course, the college elite.
Only juniors and seniors need apply. I dated the wealthy, the top athletes and the children of famous people even as a freshman. I was so knock-out, drop-dead gorgeous that I was readily recruited into these circles.
I was also far smarter than your average jock. I knew I could not completely succeed on the work of others. I knew, for example, that I couldn't get anybody to take my college boards for me and would, therefore, need to actually understand much of the work other people did for me in high school.
I could have made it on my own. My family had almost limitless money. I guess that's not really making it on my own, and making it on my own was what I wanted to do.
I absolutely could have been a model. But I'd been told it's a lot of work and, from what I had learned when I was young, I could achieve the same or greater level of wealth by marrying well.
I wouldn't marry just for money. But surely there would be wealthy, successful guys out there worthy of loving me. In the meantime, whatever temporary profession I chose, I would have lots of useful contacts to help me generate business.
Best of all, I didn't have to make a choice now. I could pursue other interests, including sexual interests, without interfering with my overall plan. I didn't even have to be especially promiscuous to get the range of experience I desired because, secret's out guys, girls talk. I knew who was hung, who had special talents, whom I could go to if I wanted to try out some kinky experiment.
Not only do girls talk, they especially wanted to talk to me to curry favor. I was the hottest woman on campus and my stature grew steadily until, by my sophomore year, I was an undisputed phenomenon.
As Thanksgiving break approached in my junior year I began to notice unusual things happening within my coterie. A couple of the girls who had been climbing the social ladder were unaccountably absent from some key events and parties.
On a random Tuesday I saw one of them heading in my general direction. I considered it my responsibility to investigate what was happening to one of my retinue. I may have been curious as well.
"Hi, Jennifer. I haven't seen you around lately. What's keeping you so busy?"
"Hi, Ashley. You know, just taking care of school, enjoying life."
There was something different about her. We were all happy with the lifestyle we were leading, but she seemed to have a level of contentment I had not seen before. She had a man.
"Who is he?"
"Your new guy. You haven't been sifting through the prospects lately but you seem, I don't know, peaceful, happy. Who is he?"
She blushed. "Nobody you know. A friend introduced us."
"A blind date? Wow. You must really trust her."
"So tell me about him. Jock? Connected? Classy? What?"
I had never seen her so reticent. In fact, I don't think I had ever seen her reticent at all. Not only would we talk about our guys, we would try to make them seem even better than they were.
"Just a sweet guy."
"He must be some kind of stud to keep you away from the action. He must be hung like a horse."
She blushed again and turned her head slightly away. I had never seen this girl blush at anything before and she had done it twice in one short conversation.
"Are you really that shallow, Ashley?"
"What's wrong with shallow?" I asked without much conviction.
I knew it sounded shallow. But in any field or group, there are key phrases that identify you as a member of the club, and even the leader needs to talk the talk now and then.
"He's just a very special guy."
"Very? So what is he, nine inches, ten?" No response. "A foot? My goodness." I waved my hand back and forth in front of my face as if to cool off a sudden flush.
"That's personal. I don't think I should be talking about it."
"Oh my God, he's even bigger. I want a crack at that." If she wasn't serious about the guy, she was honor bound to give me the opportunity.
"I, I really didn't measure. Anyway, that has nothing to do with it."
"Right. Only guys with little dicks say size has nothing to do with it."
"He doesn't say anything about it. He's just the most unbelievable lover I've ever had."
I could see instant regret in her face that I had pushed her to talk about it. I would have to push to get more.
"My God, how big is he? Can you even take it all?"
"I don't know. Average." She looked down, avoiding my eyes.
I was shocked. I had no idea what to say. A guy would have to have an awful lot of money to get me to have anything to do with his average dick.
"So what does he do that makes it so fantastic." I said it with real curiosity, not derision.
"He knows things," she said softly.
"I really don't want to talk about it. We're just friends with privileges, so if you really want to find out, I'll introduce you to him."
"Is he at least a hunk?"
I almost winced as I heard it come out of my mouth. He was lighting up her life and I was trying to find out if there was any justification whatsoever for her seeing him.
"He looks nice enough, though certainly not what you would call a hunk." > This was like pulling teeth. I was asking open-ended questions and she was giving me clipped responses.
"So who introduced you to this," don't use derisive words, "special guy?"
"No fucking way." It just slipped out. Candy was the other girl who had been AWOL. Jennifer was offering no unsolicited information so I had to press on. "So what is it that's so special about this guy?"
"He's sweet and sincere. He treats me with respect, not at all like a sex object, even though, you know. And he has such a quiet self confidence it's hard not to be captivated by him."
"Do I hear love?"
"I don't know." But her tone said, "I don't think so." She shrugged. "He's great to be with and he's -- just amazing. I know people like to exaggerate about someone they know; to say he's so unique. In this case, it's true. He's one of a kind. They didn't break the mold when they made him, they can't even find the mold. Anyway, neither of us is ready to settle down right now. He's especially not ready."
"But you keep fucking him anyway?"
"And I have no plans to stop." She beamed. "He's too good. We do a lot of other stuff too, not just sex."
"So how did Candy know him?" I asked.
"She started seeing him first. She's not in love with him either, but she may be addicted."
"Wow. Wow. So how has this incredible guy managed to keep himself so well hidden for so long?"
She giggled and looked down again. "He's a freshman."
It was unthinkable that I, or any of us really, would go out with a freshman. Not that a twenty-year-old girl can't go out with an eighteen-year-old guy, but for God's sake, he was a freshman, completely devoid of status.
However it was intriguing as well. I could spin it as doing a favor for a friend and make myself look courageous, supremely confident.
"I must meet this interesting man." Would "boy" have been more appropriate?
"I'll see what I can do."
I haven't gone into any detail about my looks because, frankly, I don't want to sound like a narcissist. I'm five foot eight, and I have blond hair. I know it's become fashionable to shave off pubic hair, but I don't do it because I want to leave no doubt that I'm a natural blond for those who are lucky enough to see me naked.
Suffice it to say that if you were out on the date with the most beautiful woman you had ever met and I walked by, your eyes would follow me until I disappeared from sight as if you were alone.
Jennifer called later that day. She had negotiated a coffee shop, study date. I could easily spin a study date. A movie or dinner or, god forbid, dancing at a club, would be a serious breach of protocol requiring flagrant misrepresentation.
You don't get your way almost all the time without being a little pushy.
"Come on Jen, tell me something. Give me something to look forward to."
I call her Jennifer to emphasize my status over her. I called her Jen to make her feel I was her friend; to make her want to please me.
"Okay. He's a great kisser."