The first few sessions, you ride on top of him. You take control. You rock back and forth on his hard, little dick. Not too aggressive. Not too soft either. You don’t want to overwhelm him, but you don’t want to baby him. The trick is to take it nice and easy. You have to remember that he’s never done this before. You have to remember that you’re an expert. This is your fiftieth, your hundredth, your thousandth time. You’ve lost count. You could do this in your sleep the same way your grandma can bake cookies. The kid you’re banging, the one you’re going to turn into a man, today his name is Patrick. He’s your tenth, your twentieth client. You’ve lost count.
One day, you look in the mirror, and you’re beautiful. It’s as simple as that. One day, you step out of the shower, and you wipe the fog off the bathroom mirror, and the naked girl looking back at you, skin still slick and shiny, she’s gorgeous. For the first time, you look at yourself from an outsider’s perspective. You see yourself the way other people see you. You stand there like an idiot for you don’t know how long, astonished by your own reflection.
You hold an ample breast in each hand. They’re round, firm, gravity-defiant. Your prominent, half-dollar nipples poke out between your fingers. Your tits are so perfect, they’re almost fake. You turn sideways and rub your flat stomach. Not an ounce of fat to be found. You turn your back to the mirror and peer over your shoulder. That sweet ass, not too big or too small, it’s so tight you could bounce a quarter off of it. The elegant curve of your back, it merges gracefully into the curve of your ass, the curve of your slender legs. The smooth curve of your body, the way it goes in and out, no interruptions. No time to think.
Then you lean forward to examine your face. Your eyes are unusually blue, unnaturally intense. Your nose, your lips, your cheekbones, it’s all flawless. You realize you’ve never had a pimple, you’ve never gotten sunburn. Your blonde, wavy hair is damp and disordered but sexy nonetheless. Your face is a woman’s face, but it will be forever young.
You step back. You close your eyes and open them. You take it all in. Everything in the precise proportion. Everything working in harmony. Where did this girl come from? You were always pretty, but you don’t ever recall being this magnificent. This exhilarating. Puberty crept up on you gradually, chipping away a little bit at a time, molding you into a goddess. Yes, it sounds narcissistic, but it’s true. You didn’t choose it; it chose you.
You leave that bathroom a different person. You’re not you anymore. You’re a better you, a you that’s been given a wonderful gift. You perceive the world in a new light. Those perverts who wiggle their tongues at imaginary clits, who stick imaginary penises in their mouths, who squeeze imaginary breasts as you walk by them in the hall, they’re not jerks. They’re critics, Eberts and Roepers giving you two thumbs up. They like what they see is all. You still act disgusted, of course. You shake your head and roll your eyes, but you’re nodding on the inside. You’re thinking, of course you want me to suck your dick, just look at me. I’m fucking beautiful. It’s not egotism. It’s a fact.
The third or fourth session, you let him be on top. You let him roll on his own condom. You lie on your back and spread your legs. You pull back your knees, and you tell him, fuck me. Fuck me right now. His hands shake nervously as he puts his thing in you. You help him gently glide it through. It pokes around awkwardly in your vagina, no rhythm, no consistency, and you remind yourself that he’s an amateur. You moan a little, you breathe harder, you pretend you like it. The way you fake pleasure is you exaggerate everything. If it doesn’t feel like anything, it feels good. If it feels kind of good, it feels really good. Nothing feels great though. If you overdo it, it looks like mockery, the way you ask your boyfriend’s hideous mother if she’s lost weight, that for a moment, you mistook her for Julia Roberts. Playing with your clit helps. But do it offhandedly. It’s merely complementing his actions. It’s an extra in the background of his movie. The trick is to make him the center of attention.
After you discover you’re smokin’, not much really happens. You feel different, but you act pretty much the same. You see other attractive girls abuse their power, taking advantage of horny boys with pussy on the brains and then breaking their hearts. You don’t want to do that. You want to use your cleavage for good, not evil. In what way, you don’t know yet.
Eventually, you get a boyfriend named Stephen. He’s tall, thin, handsome. Stephen isn’t too bright, but he plays football and rumor has it that he’s got a great big cock. He’s in your English and History classes, and you notice him eyeing you from time to time. When you look back at him, he doesn’t look away like most guys, which means he’s confident and secure. One day he comes up to you at your locker and asks you out, and you can’t not say no. He is, after all, pretty cute.
The first few dates, he’s a perfect gentlemen, opening doors for you, complimenting you on how you look, hanging on to your every word like he really cares about yesterday’s episode of House. He’s polite, charming, funny. You start to really like him. Then you find out he’s a great kisser. Gentle, coordinated, not too wet, easy with the tongue.
About a month into the relationship, you’re making out on his living room couch. His parents are out of town for the weekend. The lights are off, and the TV’s on, flickering behind your closed eyelids. He has a hand up your shirt. You can sense his other hand fiddling in the dark, trying to open something or take something out. For a brief moment, you think maybe it’s his cell phone, maybe his parents are checking up on him. He takes your hand and wraps it around something thick and sweaty, and for a brief moment, you still think it’s a cell phone, some kind of weird, phallus-shaped cell phone. You open your eyes, and there it is—his wanker in all its glory. Your hand only covers half of what’s there. A part of you is impressed, and the other part of you thinks this is the most disgusting thing you’ve ever seen. His hand moves to the back of your neck, and he says, “Suck it, baby.” You don’t want to suck it, but you can’t not suck it, so you lean forward and wrap your lips around his sausage. Your head moves up and down, and the whole time you’re thinking, oh my God, I can’t believe I’m giving a blowjob. You’re thinking, it kind of tastes like penis.
Five minutes later, he’s nice and hard, and he pushes you away. Quick as a cat, he takes off your shirt, your bra. He unbuttons your pants and slips them off with your panties. He takes off his own shirt and pants. Twenty seconds and you’re both completely naked. He sticks a finger inside you. He sticks two fingers inside you. While he’s fingering you, he sucks on your nipples, he buries his face in your chest. Foreplay is another word for preparation, another word for getting you wet. When you’re ready, he stops and digs through the pile of clothes on the floor. He finds his wallet, finds a condom, rolls it on his throbbing manhood. He slips his big cock in your tight pussy. You gasp, you wince. It hurts, but the more he works it inside you, the less it hurts. It hurts less and less until it feels good. Really good. You can tell Stephen knows what he’s doing. He’s got the whole thing perfectly timed, starting off slow, then going faster and faster. Twenty, thirty, forty-five minutes go by. You lose count. On TV, an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond, an episode of Seinfeld. Kramer slides through the door, and the invisible audience laughs.
Your arms wrapped around him, your hands digging into the meat of his back. You feel his warm breath against the side of your neck. All of a sudden, you freeze, you stop breathing, your body tenses up, your legs twitch. Ten seconds later and he does the same thing. You hold each other for a few minutes, gasping for air. The thing inside you is melting, shrinking, the way the Incredible Hulk shrinks after destroying a city block. Eventually, he goes to the bathroom and flushes the condom down the toilet. He returns and holds you in his arms. Together, you watch the television in silence. The whole time you’re thinking, I can’t believe I just had sex. You’re trying to remember what just happened, but it’s all a blur. Some people plan on losing their virginity. They set a time, a date, a location. For some, it just happens, and you don’t realize it happened until afterward.
Losing your virginity isn’t the same as losing your wisdom teeth or your tonsils or your pet goldfish. People use the term like it’s a tangible item, a physical attachment that you can have surgically removed. The fact is you’re not losing anything; you’re losing the lack of something. You’re losing a state of mind, the way you lose ignorance through education. You’re losing the idea of not knowing what it feels like. After the first time, it’s no big deal. It depreciates in value the way a new car depreciates in value as you drive it off the lot. The way your favorite movie loses its power every time you watch it. You may still enjoy it, you may pick up on details you missed before, you may even admire it more with each viewing. But you’ll never get that initial feeling again, that feeling of wonderment when you think, wow, this is the best movie I’ve ever seen. That’s what losing your virginity is like.
The seventh or eighth session, this loser you’re turning into a winner, you let him take you from behind. You give him complete control. You let him spank you. You let him pull your hair a little. You let him stick a wet thumb up your butt. This is stuff he’s seen in pornos, stuff he thinks all women like. Later, you’ll tell him the truth, but for now, you let him think what he wants. You let him live out his fantasies, because this is his time to shine. At this point, his nervousness is minimal. He’s beginning to develop rhythm. He’s starting to pace himself. He’s still a long way from great, but he’s showing improvement, making progress. That’s the important thing. This isn’t all about false hope or temporary happiness. It’s about education. Teaching a man to fish to feed him for a lifetime. Some Chinese proverb shit like that.
You lose your virginity, and before you know it, a year goes by. Sex is now a regular activity, a part of your weekly routine. You’ve mastered the art of giving head. You can tell when he’s going to come just by instinct. You know each other’s bodies so well you orgasm simultaneously almost every time. Sex is so matter-of-fact it’s like brushing your teeth or taking a shower every day. It stills feels marvelous, but the concept of it has lost its excitement, the way drinking as an adult isn’t as fun and forbidden as drinking as a teenager.
Before you know it, you’re not “dating” anymore. You’re not “going out.” You’re at a point in your relationship when you’re a couple. People think of you and your boyfriend as a single entity, the way people called Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez “Bennifer” when they were together. Stephen, this perfect gentlemen, one night he drives up to the restaurant, and you sit in the car waiting for him to open the door for you, and he’s standing in front of the car like an idiot, asking if something’s wrong. You recount an argument you had with your girlfriend that day, and he’s staring off into space, not even bothering to nod. You go back to his place and fuck, and then you watch TV. You say, “I love you,” and he says it back, but neither of you mean it. More and more he’s getting on your nerves, little annoying things like not returning your calls or not meeting with you in the hall between classes like you usually do. Seeing a movie is more about the movie than it is about spooning in a dark, public place. You don’t love him, but you don’t exactly hate him either. You stay with him, because you feel obligated to after all this time, because you would gain nothing by breaking up with him. He is, after all, a good lay. But you need more than a good lay. You need excitement again.
So you come up with a plan. A way to use your physical attractiveness and sexual prowess for the good of mankind. All you need is a subject. This is where your Chemistry lab partner comes in. His name is Christopher. Picture the stereotypical nerd. Skinny. Short. Shy. Glasses. Cheap clothes. Hair parted to one side. Inhales sporadically when laughing. This is who Christopher is. It’s not prejudice. It’s genetics. It’s a fact. You can’t imagine him ever kissing a girl, let alone sleeping with one. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks, because he’s intimidated by you. But he’s sweet. He’s patient when you make a mistake, or when you don’t understand something. But sweetness doesn’t get you laid. Sweetness doesn’t buy you happiness.
You’re doing a lab, mixing something with something else and watching it change color and timing how long it takes. Without warning, you turn to Christopher, and you ask him if maybe he could do you a big favor. You don’t understand the material. You’re not doing so well on the homework. There’s a test coming up, and if you don’t pass it, you might fail the class. You ask him if maybe he’ll tutor you. He makes a reluctant face and begins to say I don’t know, but you say please. You need help. You’re desperate. You ask if maybe he’ll come over to your house after school. If maybe he could help you do the homework. And of course, he says okay. He can’t not say no. Just look at you. You’re fucking beautiful.
Your client will inevitably try to kiss you. The earlier the better, because it allows you to establish the nature of your cause. He’ll try to kiss you, and you’ll have to push him away. Kissing implies intimacy, romance. You don’t want that. You don’t want him to fall in love with you. You tell him this is strictly sexual. He’ll ask why a girl like you is doing this with a guy like him. And you tell him the truth. You want to educate him. You want to raise his confidence level. The reason he can’t talk to girls is because he lacks the courage and motivation. You want him to feel more comfortable around girls. The first hurdle is always the hardest, so you want to give him a little boost. He’ll think it’s pity, but you assure him it’s not. You pity him as much as a dentist pities his patient, as much as a barber pities his customer. You’re merely providing a service. Helping him overcome his weaknesses and insecurities.
You meet Christopher after school and drive him to your house. Your sister is still at the middle school, and your parents are still at work. You take him up to your room. “So what are you having trouble with?” he asks, and you take off your shirt, your bra. Five seconds and you’re completely topless. The trick is not to give him room to think. Mouth open, he stares at your spectacular bosoms, confused, shocked. He says something stupid, like “Uh…you’re…uh…what…uh…” And you say something stupid, like “Yeah.” You kneel on the floor and take off his pants. He tries to stop you, he tries to resist, but he can’t not let you suck his dick. You blow him until he’s nice and hard, and you tell him to lie on the bed. You remove the rest of your clothes. You retrieve a condom from your underwear drawer and roll it on his boner. You get on top of him. You take control. You rock back and forth on his hard, little dick. Not too aggressive. Not too soft either. You don’t want to overwhelm him, but you don’t want to baby him.
He reaches up to touch one of your tits but hesitates. You take his hand and put it there. He squeezes it cautiously. He thumbs your erect nipple in fascination. The only sounds are bed springs, heavy breathing, skin slapping skin. Sex is always quieter than you imagine. In movies and pornos, the girl groans and screams, and the guy mutters rhetorical questions, like “You like that baby? Huh? You like me fucking you?” They switch positions four or five times, most of which look unpractical and uncomfortable. The guy jizzes all over the girl’s face, and the girl pretends she likes it. It’s always fake and over-the-top. In real life, sex is about focus and concentration.
Three minutes later and he comes. It’s okay that you don’t, because you get off on his satisfaction. You robbed him of his virginity, squashed his ignorance, abolished his poverty. You changed his life, and that’s more satisfying than any orgasm you’ll ever have. You’re high on power, stoned on generosity. There is no such thing as an unselfish good deed. Helping others makes you feel better about yourself. It’s why people volunteer in soup kitchens and give to charities. It’s why Superman fights crime. Why Santa delivers gifts to children. Why Christ sacrificed himself on the cross. It’s partly out of the goodness of their hearts, but it’s also because it makes them feel good to be good. There’s nothing wrong with that. Everybody wins.
Christopher lies on the bed panting. You dispose the condom and lie down next to him. “Becky?” he says in a low voice. “Yeah?” you say. He looks at you drunkenly and says something stupid, like “Thank you.” And you say something stupid, like “You’re welcome.” You smile and place your hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat. You tell him if he wants you to keep doing this, he has to keep it a secret. If Stephen finds out, he’ll kill both of you. He says he understands. You tell him to promise, and he promises. After a long silence, he says, “What now?” And you reach for your pants and say, “Teach me this stoichiometry shit.”
The fifteenth, twentieth session, you know the periodic table like the back of your hand, and he knows your pussy like the periodic table. He can fuck you on top, below, doggie-style. He can finger-fuck you. Eat you out. You don’t have to fake coming anymore. Nerds are fast learners. People think nerds can’t have sex, but learning how to have sex is not much different than playing chess or programming computers. It’s all about strategy, problem-solving, reaching a goal in the most efficient way possible. Making a chick climax and designing an algorithm? Same thing.
At this stage, you ask Christopher who he likes. He’ll deny he likes anyone, of course. But you press him, you tease him about it. Everybody has a crush on somebody, you say. And he says, well, there’s this one girl… Her name is Sammy. She’s in his Latin class. You’ve seen her around. She’s short, smart, pretty. Maybe too pretty for him but not unattainable. You tell him that he should ask her out on a date. What does he have to lose? She says yes—great. She says no—nothing changes. He seems reluctant at first, but then he thinks about it and says you’re right. Sammy may be out of his league, but you’re not even in the same sport. He figures if he can fuck you without a problem, he can at least talk to any other girl. He doesn’t say this out loud, but you can tell he’s thinking it.
The next day, you watch as Christopher walks up to Sammy at her locker. He says something, and she says something. Both smile at one another. Lips move. Heads nod. She writes her number on a scrap of paper and hands it to him. You meet him after school. He’s excited but scared. He doesn’t know what to do next. You tell him to calm down. If he can master the pussy, he can master dating. You walk him through it. You show him the ropes. You teach him how to be the perfect gentlemen. You tell him to make eye contact at all times. Focus on what she has to say. Show an interest. Relate. Respond. Compliment her, but don’t overdo it, or it looks like mockery, the way you ask your boyfriend’s hideous father if he’s been working out, that for a moment, you mistook him for Jean-Claude Van Damme. Most importantly, be yourself. Just not the bad part of yourself.
The twenty-fifth, thirtieth session, this pussy turned pussy magnet, he says sorry, he can’t do this anymore. Things are getting serious with him and his girlfriend, and he can’t fuck you anymore. And you tell him congratulations. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for. The day your baby bird leaves the nest to explore the world. From then on, he calls you less and less. At school, you watch him and his girlfriend walk hand-in-hand. You watch them hug and kiss. It’s okay if he doesn’t talk to you anymore, it’s okay that your own relationship isn’t as meaningful as his, because you get off on his satisfaction. You were the cause of something wonderful. It makes you feel good to be good. He doesn’t talk to you anymore, but whenever you see him, your eyes meet for a split second, and there’s an understood connection. A secret that only the two of you know. A secret that now seems like a dream from so long ago.
The kid you’re banging, the one you’re going to turn into a man, today his name is Patrick. He’s your tenth, your twentieth client. You’ve lost count. Patrick is in your Calculus class. He’s sweet, but sweetness doesn’t get you laid. Sweetness doesn’t buy you happiness. This is where you come in. You’re going to build his confidence. You’re going to teach him how to fish to feed him for a lifetime. Some Chinese proverb shit like that.
Sex is just another example of human beings defying nature. Evolution is all about survival. The organisms where sex was like setting your genitals on fire, they didn’t last fifteen minutes. Nature made sex feel good so we would reproduce. It’s inherent. If sex didn’t feel good, it wouldn’t exist. But our brains have become so developed that we’ve been able to turn a basic survival mechanism into a recreational activity. We can prevent the outcome of sex while still retaining the pleasurable side effects, the same way people sniff glue without having to glue anything. We have masturbation, oral sex, anal sex, tit sex. We have condoms, diaphragms, birth control pills. You slap a special patch on your ass, and you’re good to go. What separates us from the animals is limitless orgasms with limited reproduction. Evolution made us so smart that we don’t have to listen to it anymore. Life is more than survival now; it’s about love and happiness. Yet, in a way, the rules of evolution still apply. Only the fittest find love and achieve happiness, while the weak die alone and unfulfilled. But it doesn’t always have to be that way.
What you are is a real-life superhero. Your powers: a terrific ass, a fantastic rack, an aesthetically-pleasing visage, the ability to seduce any man in the world. By day, you’re Longtime Girlfriend, Innocent Daughter, Well-Behaved Student, Regular Churchgoer. But by night, you’re Miss Big Tits. Captain Cleavage. Super Pussy. Lord of the Nerds. Your duty: to defeat evolution on a new level. To bring happiness to those less fortunate. You won’t be doing this forever, of course. Eventually, you’ll graduate and go to college. Eventually, you and Stephen will break up, and you’ll find someone you really love. But for now, this is who you are. A superhero.
Three minutes and Patrick comes. He promises to preserve your secret identity and then shows you how to maximize the area of a cylinder using integration. You drive him home. On the way back, you stop at a red light. You turn and see a little boy and girl in the back seat of the car beside you. They wave. You smile and wave back. You wonder how many of your clients will grow up and have families. You wonder if any of your clients’ children or great-grandchildren will cure cancer or end world hunger. You wonder how much the future of mankind has changed merely by letting a guy stick his wiener in you.
Even if you don’t alter the course of history, you know you’ve affected at least one man’s life. You imagine yourself ten, fifteen, twenty years from now, pushing a cart down the can food aisle of a grocery store. Your husband and son walk beside you. You see an old friend moving in the opposite direction with his wife and daughter. Will he recognize you? Will he stop and say hello? Will he introduce you to his family? Or will it be some cheesy Hallmark moment? Your eyes meet for a split second, and there’s an understood connection.
He mouths something stupid, like “Thank you.”
And you mouth something stupid, like “You’re welcome.”