tagErotic CouplingsNancy Porter's Journal: 01

Nancy Porter's Journal: 01


Based in part on events in the life of a friend...

My name is Nancy Porter and I'm writing this journal because my therapist said it would be "crucial to my recovery" and anything that might get me out of here quicker is alright by me. Also, I'm considering writing a book about the last couple of years of my life, so maybe I can use this along with my diary. Everybody else seems to be making money off of me, so what the hell? It's not like there are many secrets left.

Unless you've been living in a cave or are an O.J. juror, I know you've heard of me. You're probably sick of hearing about me too, although I kinda doubt it, since I'm still in the top ten of every search engine going.

My lawyer, Daddy's lawyer that is, says that the offers keep pouring in. Montel, Oprah, 60 Minutes, even Regis and freakin' Kelly, they all want me when I get out of here. I can see it now, having Montel leaning toward me looking all sincere and stunned when I start detailing my story. All the while half the audience is in tears, the other half jerking off like deranged spider monkeys. I think I'll pass on that scene, at least for the time being.

Well, here's the story, up until now. No names have been changed to protect the innocent, because frankly there aren't any, not in this tale.

Nancy Porter, born in the summer of 1982, the second born of loving parents Miles and Tabitha. I have an older brother, Todd, who is seven years older than me. He went off to college so long ago I hardly remember him. I think he's one of these career college students.

Then comes the part of biographies that people always skim through so I might as well cut to the chase. I was a reasonably happy kid until I hit my teens. Financially we were pretty well off until my old man hit the jackpot with the tech company he had started up with a friend. Then we were very well off. We had to move to a bigger house, bigger cars, swimming pool, the whole nine yards.

Not so good for me. I was a wallflower to begin with, and now I had to start over in a new place with all new people to meet, which terrified me. I developed a wicked case of acne, probably from nerves. Other girls were developing breasts, I was developing pimples. Boys ran in terror from me. They used to touch me and then touch their friend and run away yelling "Porter's germs no returns." A real fun game of tag, unless your name is Porter.

That wasn't as bad as always being called the carpenter's dream, or being named the President of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee by your classmates. Then as now, nothing going on up there. With all this going for me, I next developed a little speech impediment. Just a little stutter, and I would eventually grow out of it, but just another one of life's blessings.

At 18, everybody was going out on dates, everyone but me. To get boys to like me, I felt I had to make them an offer they couldn't refuse. I became known unofficially as the queen of hand jobs. Any guy that wanted to take me out to a movie or a dance knew they were going to get something out of the deal at least. As for me, I gotta admit that I liked it too. Watching the guys squirm and being the one in control of the situation was a turn-on for me.

I guess word got around fast because I got pretty popular for awhile, so then in addition to the other comments I used to get, I got new ones! It sure was fun walk down the halls of school. It was sort of like running an insult gauntlet. "Boy that Nancy is real handy." "Hey Nancy, do you remember what you did last night, offhand?" "Here comes sticky fingers." "Is that glue?" The hands going up and down while making goofy twisted faces.

That was just the girls. The boys were even worse, especially after I made it clear on dates that there was no going any further than that. When they realized that was it, they told their friends I did the other stuff too, even though I didn't and wouldn't.

After that I closed up shop and turned inward. I hit the books with a vengenance. I never went out unless it was absolutely necessary. My grades skyrocketed and suddenly I found myself in an accelerated program which would get me out of high school when I was sixteen and into college. I taught Sunday School at our church and was a volunteer at the hospital. No proms, no dances and no fun. Did I miss something? I'm sure I did.

Fast forward to my sophomore year in college. It was easy to fast forward through because it was mostly blank. Grades: excellent. Friends: still zero. There were a few people who would talk to me, but it seemed I would alieniate most people with some cryptic remark at some point.

As far as boys go, forget it. By now my skin had cleared and I didn't usually stutter, but I was still a basket case. I had a couple of guys take me out from college and both were disasters.

My problem is that I'm flatchested. Not small breasted, there's a difference. My breasts, if I could be so bold as to call them that, well I think most people have seen me on the internet by now. If you haven't, go to the produce department of your local grocery, grab a lime and cut it in half. Make sure it's a small lime. There they are!

My mother asked me what present I wanted for my eighteenth birthday. "Breast implants" I stated without hesitation. She suddenly got all nervous and giddy, clucking and running around the kitchen straightening things that weren't messy.

"Oh that's silly, Nancy" she said while dusting some air. "You're just a late bloomer, I know I was. Besides, you don't want someone to just be interested in you because of your chest." Then she ran out of the room, probably ready to faint. I got a brand new Toyota Accord for my eighteenth birthday.

My father was not there for the unveiling, but then again when the hell was he ever there? Mom took me into the garage and was beaming when she turned on the light to show me the shiny red car with a big ribbon and bow on it,

"What do you think of that, honey?" giving me her patented bridge club president smile while she handed me the keys. I didn't stick around to see her face after I handed her back the keys and told her that "I asked for tits!"

I took the car, of course, but it was the truth. I even considered trading the car in for the money, until I found out that the title wasn't in my name. They kept that in their names "for insurance purposes only, but of course it's all yours!" they assured me.

Dear old mom did take me to a swank custom undergarment shop shortly afterward. She was going to help me "accentuate the positive" with the help of these caring professionals.

After we went in the back of the store and I had stripped to the waist for the matronly women to measure me, I saw my mom looking around the corner. When she saw me standing there topless, both literally and figuratively, the expression on her face was priceless. I think at that moment she wished they hadn't gotten me the car. Apparently Mom thought I was keeping my goodies underwraps all these years. How could you not know, after all we were under the same roof my entire life!

They fit me in a whole bunch of new bras there. I wasn't really a 32A, I was told. I was a 34A. Whoopee, my back had grown. The bras they ended up giving me were so outrageously padded they looked like quilts. Mom plunked down almost three hundred dollars for the crap and we left. In the car, Mom was really serious for quite a while until she finally blurted out that she would talk to Dad about my getting "that operation you had discussed."

All this bullshit and all I had to do was show her my tits? Hell, I would have walked around the house naked for a year if that was all she needed.

Well, one night shortly thereafter the old man came home, accidentally I guess, and I heard them arguing about something. Since they seldom argued (or talked or anything, how they had two kids is beyond me) it had to be about me.

The next morning Mom gave me the bad news. Dad said no. He's old fashioned. He thinks it's unnatural. It would attract the wrong type of men. What would the neighbors say if I started walking around with breasts? The church elders wouldn't let me teach Sunday School. I look so beautiful as I am.

The Porter's were big on what other people thought. Keep the family name spotless. Don't shame the family. Well, as far as I was concerned, I didn't give a rat's ass about that kind of thing. Besides, when you looked around at other families all you saw was their kids getting locked up, knocked up and fucked up. I was a saint compared to most of them.

Mom said that someday down the road, when I was not living at home and paid for everything myself, Dad had said he would permit me to go through with the operation if I wanted. Well, wasn't that sweet of him? I knew I wasn't going to win so I dropped it, although I have to admit that I was proud of Mom for actually trying to stand up for me. She was usually so Stepford about everything.

During the first semester of my junior year, one of my professors started being very friendly to me. Professor Martin was an older man, probably around sixty. He would always make a point of praising me after class, and wrote complimentary things on papers I turned in.

Well one day I was walking through the campus in my usual manner, my head down, not making eye contact with anyone, books held tight against my chest. I think there was a character on the old Saturday Night Live reruns that looked just like me. I think Gilda Radner used to play her, a total nerd. I didn't notice that Professor Martin was standing in front of me and I almost crashed into him.

"I'm sorry Nancy, I didn't mean to startle you. I thought you heard me call to you."

"Oh, I was probably daydreaming, Professor Martin. My fault."

"I was wondering if you would be interested in a part time job of sorts. I have a couple of Yorkshire Terriers who get crazy when no one is around. One of my neighbors has been complaining about the barking. I need someone to spend Friday nights at my place dogsitting, I guess that's what you would call it. If you wouldn't want to, I certainly understand, but maybe you would know someone that would be interested. I know friday nights are a big night out for you young people."

I resisted the urge to laugh at that and told Professor Martin that I would love to do it. Hey, score some points with the guy. It might make the difference between a 3.9 and a 4.0 in the end.

He sounded excited that I had agreed to do it and gave me directions to his house. I told him I would be there at 7 that friday. No more being alone on friday nights. Now I would get to listen to a couple of yapping dogs.

Friday night rolled around and I drove over to his house. It was clear on the other side of town and I got nearer I could see that this neighborhood was just as upper class as ours was, mostly huge Colonials that went for close to a million. There must be a lot of money in teaching.

As I pulled up the long two car driveway to his house, I began to get an unsettling feeling. What if this guy was going to try to cozy up with me? What would I do? He wasn't a bad looking guy, I guess. Professor Martin looked a little like the Skipper on Gilligan's Island only not as fat, but I wasn't interested in him like that at all. On the other hand, being Mrs. Martin in this house might not be too bad a gig, I laughed to myself. That was silly. There was no way he would be interested in me.

Professor Martin was waiting at the door when I arrived. He looked really neat, wearing a sharp looking tuxedo, and I told him so.

"Thank you thank you, Nancy!" he exclaimed, ushering me into the impeccably decorated house. "You're right on time! Monica? Monica, Nancy's here!"

We entered the kitchen area looking for Monica, whoever that was. When we found her, I felt incredibly stupid about even entertaining the thought that Professor Martin was trying to get into my pants. This Monica was a knockout!

"Dear, I'd like you to meet Nancy. She's one of my most brilliant students. Nancy, this is my wife, Mrs. Martin."

Mrs. Martin greeted me warmly with a big smile that was so bright it lit up the room. We shook hands and I walked along with her as she showed me where everything was. She had a trace of an accent that I couldn't quite place and spoke in a very stately kind of way. I could not take my eyes off of her. This was the kind of woman that, when she entered a room would get everyone's attention. Mrs. Martin was about five foot eight, a little taller than Professor Martin, and about a half foot taller than my five foot two.

Mrs. Martin had radiant long blonde hair that cascaded softly over her tanned shoulders. She had big blue eyes, magnificent cheekbones and her complexion was absolutely flawless. She was wearing a stunning black cocktail dress that barely contained her breasts, which threatened to explode out of the low cut front.

If Professor Martin was about sixty, I guessed Mrs. Martin couldn't be more than twenty five. How in the world did he manage to catch her? She was stunning. If he was the Skipper of Gilligan's Island, then Mrs. Martin was Ginger, in an even more stunning and more voluptuous package.

Mrs. Martin showed me around the house, giving a few instructions along the way. She led me to the refrigerator, opening it wide. She put her hand on my shoulder and told me to please make myself feel at home and eat and drink anything I wanted.

I met the dogs, Ziggy and Roy, who barked at me with mindless excitement. Professor and Mrs. Martin then left for the evening, saying they would be home by midnight.

All in all it was a pretty decent night. The dogs were okay too. They played, ate and shit and were kind enough to go to sleep pretty early so I could study the rest of the night.

Professor and Mrs. Martin got home just before midnight and we exchanged pleasantries. The professor looked tired but Mrs. Martin looked just as fresh and gorgeous as she did when they had left.

"Nancy, come upstairs while I write you a check. I hope a check will be alright, Nancy?" the Professor asked.

I told him that would be fine and followed them up the stairs. I waited in the hallway outside the door of his study while he hunted for his checkbook.

"Monica, have you seen the checkbook?" Professor Martin called out.

Mrs. Martin asked him if he had left it on the console of the car.

"Oh that's right, my old age is creeping in fast. I'm so sorry. I'll be right back, Nancy."

I waited out in the hall as Professor Martin walked slowly down the stairs. I heard some muttering and then Mrs. Martin called out "Nancy dear, are you still out there?"

I walked toward the voice down the hall. "Yes Mrs. Martin?" She was in what must have been their bedroom, standing in front of dresser. She was reaching back behind her head trying to undo the back of her dress.

"Nancy, would you help me get this thing undone? I think it's stuck."

I walked into the room and began to try to get the zipper started. It seemed to be caught in the fabric. Mrs. Martin was holding her hair up to keep it out of the way and that was really distracting me as well.

Her arms were beautifully toned and shapely, almost bordering on muscular. They were perfectly smooth except for just the faintest trace of very fine blonde down on her biceps and upper arms. I looked over Mrs. Martin's shoulder at the mirror we were standing in front of. Even her underarms were stunning, deep and impossibly smooth hollows faintly glistening with perspiration.

I glanced up and saw that Mrs. Martin was watching me examining her, which didn't seem to phase her in the least. I didn't blame her, in fact she was probably used to it. Man, if I looked like that people could stare at me all they wanted.

"Boy this thing is really stuck, Mrs. Martin," I told her, trying to get my mind back to the task at hand. I tugged at it a few more times before it finally came loose.

"Ah, there you go. Thank you so very much Nancy. You're a lifesaver."

I tried not to look as she stepped out of the dress but couldn't help myself. Mrs. Martin was wearing a black strapless bra which did very little to conceal a pair of breasts that did not seem genetically possible. Matching black panties and not surprisingly, didn't she have the most shapely legs imaginable?

I forced myself to turn away and started walking out the door, because I was starting to feel really weird at this point. As I neared the door Mrs. Martin called out to me. I turned around and Mrs. Martin had taken off her bra and was facing me. I forced myself to look her in the eyes, which was damn near impossible with those incredibly large, firm breasts looking back at me.

"Please call me Monica, won't you Nancy? I think we're going to become good friends, you and me."

I said that was great and I'd like that. Behind me Professor Martin cleared his throat.

"Here you go Nancy. Oh, this must be a little girl talk going on here. I don't want to get in the way of that." the Professor said laughingly.

I laughed and took the check, thanking him, thanking them both actually, and walked down the hall. Professor Martin followed me down the stairs and to the door, turning the outside light on as I grabbed my books.

"It was wonderful of you do this for us, Nancy. It was so nice to be able to go out and relax knowing the place was in such good hands. Next week, will that be okay?"

I told him that would be fine and headed for my car. I hadn't even looked at the check till then and I was shocked when I saw it was for fifty dollars. Hey, that was easy money. In addition, I had a friend now in Monica, and everybody needs a friend, don't they?

When I arrived at home I went right to bed but had trouble getting to sleep. I kept rehashing the night in my mind, the part in Mrs., I mean Monica's bedroom. Part of me realized that something was going on, something I couldn't quite get a handle on. It was almost like I was being seduced or teased in some way. Why on earth would they be doing that to someone like me?

Then I figured it had to be my imagination. I finally met people that seemed to like me and here I was finding ways to put them down. I put that all out of my mind as best I could. What I couldn't put out of my mind was Monica. The way she looked, the way she smiled, the way she smelled, the way she touched my shoulder when she showed me around the house.

I mostly thought about the way she looked, and as my hand slid down under the elastic of my pajama bottoms, my imagination concocted a scenario quite different that what had really taken place in that bedroom just an hour ago. After I was through, sleep came to me much easier.

In the next journal entry, the friendship becomes much closer.

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