During my fourth year of University, I had to do the unthinkable -- I had to go backtrack and do a first year course. And not just any first year course, it was Introduction to Art. Fuck me. I didn't take it even in my first year because I was too much of a cocky bitch to take it, and since it wasn't a prerequisite for anything, I skipped it. Then, the graduation forms come 'round and SURPRISE, as it turns out, I did need it.
(To my guidance counselor, I give a huge retrospective middle finger! )
My initial intuition was fairly good. He was charming, friendly, a natural smart ass, and had a wholesome, Victorian country town accent that worked like panty remover to me.
The only problem was that he was a little on the young side. OK, when I was 23 and he was 17 -- that is A LOT on the young side. I was just wrapping up my “crazy University years” while he was barely 48 hours into the beginning of his. Ugh. But once I decided I wanted that ass, I powered though it. I dedicated much time and effort pretending to be interested in his first year issues and how “fucking cool” it was being away from his parents for the first time.
The worst was going out to celebrate his 18th birthday (the legal drinking age and a huge deal in Australia). Aside from him and myself, there was his twin brother (to whom he also shared a dorm room with) and a bunch of girls from his boarding house – most of which were under age. There were some girls that had JUST turned 17 and were giddy just by being at the bar and claiming to be tipsy from a pot of beer (1/2 pint), like I was living through the made-for-TV-movie nightmare of Hannah Montana coming of age -- without the cock cake.
Fun sex shouldn’t have had to be THAT much effort… so we still sat together during that God forsaken class, but that was it. We never spoke about it again. I decided it would be much better if I pursued an older guy that wouldn’t take four months to decide whether or not he wanted to fuck me until I walked wrong.
And so I did.