QT314159 has booped you!
QT314159: Hi handsome
Chad: Hey cutie pie!
QT314159: LOL, you wouldn’t believe how many guys don’t get my username
Chad: They’re just circling around it, huh?
QT314159: LOLOL
QT314159: They think it’s my license plate or something
Chad: Nah, too many characters
Chad: A Washington car would be ABC1234
Chad: But a light truck would be A12345B
QT314159: OMG I think I’m in love
Chad: Let’s not get irrational here
QT314159: LOLOLOL
Chad: So cutie pie, what are you doing Friday night?
QT314159: Being serenaded by you ♫
“Holy shit, Chad!” Rachel blurted as she looked up from my phone, eyes wide in disbelief. “She didn’t dump you!”
“You don’t have to act so surprised,” I commented drily. “Remember, Amelie didn’t dump me either. Or Joyce. Not every one of my 4N1K8R chats crashes and burns.”
“Of all the nerdy, unsexy things you could have talked about,” Rachel went on, undeterred, “you went with license plates, and she fucking loved it!”
“I just had to keep being myself and let the right people find me.”
“Nicely done, my guy. Sounds like she’s raring to go.”
I flashed a self-satisfied smile. “We’ll see.”
“Hang on, isn’t she the one you think used AI to write her profile?”
“Yeah, it becomes really obvious once you’ve seen a few of them. Sharp wit and soft curves. Big fan of meeting up with no expectations and seeing where the night takes us. If you can match my energy and keep up your end of the conversation, we might just get along.”
“So why’d you decide to give her a chance?”
“I had a feeling she did it because she wasn’t feeling confident. She didn’t think her own words would be good enough.”
“Like we’ve been telling the students: AI isn’t necessarily bad, but it can be seductive. If you haven’t already formulated some thoughts in your own words, you’re gonna have a hard time improving on what the AI produced for you.”
“And as you can see from our chat,” I pointed out, “she does perfectly fine on her own.”
“All right, Mr. H,” Rachel got back to business, “are we seriously doing this geometry and geography lesson?” We taught ninth grade on an interdisciplinary team, along with Mrs. T doing science and Mr. V doing English. Some of our collabs were pretty cool. Others, not so much.
“I think it has potential, Ms. K, for emergency sub plans if nothing else. We talk about world powers having areas of influence or spheres of influence. George Dubya called Iran, Iraq, and North Korea an axis of evil.”
“Yeah, and his father talked about a thousand points of light,” Rachel contributed with a notable lack of enthusiasm. “Well, you keep working on that and see what else you can come up with. I gotta check in with Skippy about scheduling my annual review.” Annette Scipio was the vice principal in charge of teacher evaluation. “Then I gotta meet with Mrs. T about agriculture in the Nile River valley.”
“Have I ever told you that the surveyors in ancient Egypt were called ‘rope stretchers’? They used the Pythagorean Theorem to shape loops of rope into right triangles—”
“Yes,” Rachel interrupted with a laugh as she stood. “You have told me. Now I’m gonna Exodus my ass outta here before you bore me to death.”
—
Cutie Pie, whose real name was Chelsea, met me on Friday night at a karaoke bar in Belltown, just far enough away from Pike Place Market and the original Starbucks location to avoid the tourist crowd. We chitchatted for a while over drinks, and we seemed to be clicking pretty well.
“Okay, I dare you to do a song,” Chelsea challenged me as we wandered away from the bar towards the stairs leading up to the second floor. “We’ll each do one. The song or the band has to connect to the word fornicator.”
“You’re desperate to hear some Foreigner?”
“Oh no, what have I done?” she laughed as she led the way. My eyes lingered on her big fat ass all the way upstairs. (If the karaoke had been in the basement, I would have eyeballed her big fat tits all the way downstairs. I’ll gladly take what I can get.)
When my name was called, Chelsea clapped her hands and whooped. “Get up there, Chad!” she yelled as she shoved me towards the stage.
“I’m going, I’m going!” I chuckled. “Jeez, gimme a chance to stand up!”
I powered my way through Hot Blooded, changing some of the lyrics to my liking.
Hot blooded, check it and see
I got a fever of thirty-nine C
Come on baby, do you do more than dance
I’m hot blooded, inside my pants
Chelsea had been considering Stevie Nicks—fornicator—or Kate Bush—fornicator—but went with the old standby What’s Up? by 4 Non Blondes. She knew how to work a crowd, and everyone in the joint was belting out Hey-yay-yay-yay on the final chorus.
After we left the bar, we walked aimlessly for a while, gradually heading deeper into Belltown until we found ourselves outside an establishment calling itself The Starlight Social Club. Assuming from its name and appearance that it was a retro cocktail lounge, we approached the meathead at the door.
“Members?” he rasped. We shook our heads and he grimaced, or possibly smiled. “It’s members-only on weekends,” he explained while casually giving Chelsea the once-over. “If you come back on Sunday night,” he suggested as he handed her a glossy business card, “there’s a new member orientation every week.”
“I should probably get home anyway,” Chelsea decided as we walked away. “I’ve got some stuff I need to do in the morning.” We had a quick makeout session before she got in a Lyft, and we promised not to ghost each other.
—
QT314159: Hey dorkbutt
Chad: Hey, happy Monday!
QT314159: I did some research on that Starlight Club
Chad: What’s their deal?
QT314159: It’s not a cocktail bar
QT314159: It’s a sex club
Chad: REALLY
QT314159: I went last night with two of my gal pals
Chad: Yeah?
QT314159: We didn’t participate or anything
QT314159: But I signed up for a membership
Chad: Oh my goodness
QT314159: LOL
QT314159: Goodness has nothing to do with it
Chad: That’s for sure
QT314159: I’d like to go back this weekend
QT314159: But with a man I can trust to watch out for me
Chad: So…
Chad: I’ll see you Friday night?
QT314159: I thought you’d never ask!
—
We had a quick date on Wednesday evening, mostly to go over our expectations for Friday. A little bit of talking, a little bit of smooching, a little bit of talking. We both agreed to wait until Friday before taking things further. I’m not a huge fan of delayed gratification for no reason, but I have to admit that the heightened anticipation whetted my appetite.
Friday night found us outside The Starlight Social Club once more. Chelsea wore a red sparkly wrap dress that accentuated her curves—I mean, every woman looks good in a wrap dress, but these curves were popping—and a black t-shirt underneath.
“What’s with the t-shirt?” I needled her. “Afraid of showing off the goods?”
“You’ll see,” she replied with an enigmatic smile.
I had to pay a cover charge to get in, but Chelsea’s membership was my ticket to the promised land. A single guy would never get into that place on his own. Once we were inside, we drifted over to the bar and each got a vodka and soda to steady our nerves. I’d taken a Viagra beforehand to optimize my performance, and Chelsea had eaten a THC gummy a few hours earlier to smooth out any rough edges.
The perimeter of the upstairs area was sectioned off into quasi-private rooms with curtains in the doorways, while the center was one large open space with a disco ball suspended from the ceiling. This main area was populated by an occasional chaise longue, each upholstered in a non-absorbent fabric, and a number of small tables holding bowls of foil-wrapped condoms like the mini peppermint patties on the corner of Annette Scipio’s desk. It was still early in the night; a few people were milling around sipping drinks but nobody was doing anything particularly interesting.
Chelsea smirked, “Let’s get this party started,” and began untying her spangled dress. Draping it over the back of a chaise longue, she turned and posed so I could read the message written in pale green on the front of her t-shirt.
↑
NEED DICK HERE
AND ALSO HERE
↓
A number of questions about the t-shirt immediately sprang to mind.
Is this her first time wearing it out in public?
Was it mass-produced or a custom order?
Is there a version with a third arrow on the back?
Of course, I zeroed in on the key detail.
“Whoa, does that glow in the dark?”
Chelsea giggled and reclined on the couch, slowly rubbing her crotch through her black lace panties. She kept her strappy high heels on for show. I stood at her left side and she began rubbing my crotch as well. After a couple of minutes, she used both hands to unbuckle my belt and slide my pants and underwear down, and her eyes lit up as my semi-hard dick sprang into view. Craning her neck to the side, she took my cock in her mouth and slowly ran her lips up and down the shaft, making doe eyes at me while also taking care that her t-shirt was visible to any onlookers.
There were definitely some patrons looking on with interest as Chelsea sucked my dick and resumed pawing herself. One youngish-looking guy—he could’ve been 25 or 30 or 35, I have no idea—with an ironic mullet and mustache combo seemed particularly entranced by Chelsea’s handiwork. He stared at the space between her legs, then quickly looked away, probably afraid of seeming rude. I figured, why not make his night?
I nodded to get his attention, then pointed at a bowl of condoms on a nearby table. His eyebrows flew up in surprise but the hungry look in his eyes told the real story. He palmed a packet, then pulled down his pants and placed the prophylactic on his pulsating pecker. He grasped the waistband of Chelsea’s underpants with a questioning look at me, then I gave him the go-ahead and he slid them down, sniffed them, and tossed them to me for safekeeping. Chelsea, to her credit, kept her eyes locked on me. Her new special friend positioned himself between her legs, then plunged his cock inside her dripping cunt before Chelsea had even seen his face. I realized that we hadn’t established whether she was turned off by mullet/mustache guys, but the way she started moaning around my dick told me she wasn’t too concerned about who was fucking her.
Now that the message on her t-shirt had served its purpose, I leaned over and took the bottom hem in my hands and slowly pulled it up over her squishy stomach and bodacious boobs. Wearing it now as a shrug covering her sternum and shoulders, she lay exposed for everyone who cared to see. And a lot of people cared to see.
Our dude soon began groaning, and I bent forwards and muttered in his ear, sharing what Chelsea and I had discussed beforehand.
“Seriously?” he asked, not quite sure that he’d heard me correctly.
“Seriously,” I assured him.
He pulled out, rolled the condom off, and crouched over Chelsea while madly stroking his dick. With one final groan, he began firing a load of hot, slippery cum onto her tits and tummy as she moaned and jackhammered her head on my rock-hard cock.
Mustache Guy pulled up his pants and backed away in a daze. I surveyed the crowd and called out, “Who’s up next?”
A muscular Latino guy stepped forward with a condom in hand, then a line of men quickly formed behind him as he unzipped, whipped, ripped, gripped, and slipped. He pummeled Chelsea’s pussy with his fat prick while she continued sucking me off. She had momentarily stopped playing with herself, but resumed now that she was accustomed to this new dick. After a few minutes, El Guapo grunted and withdrew, peeling off the condom and shooting his spunk onto Chelsea’s jelly belly while she fingered herself to a shuddering orgasm.
Thankfully, all of the guys in line understood the etiquette, like when a bunch of sweaty ninth-graders are lined up at the drinking fountain after PE class: don’t cut yourself short, but let’s keep the line moving, fellas. Each new dude fucked Chelsea for no more than five minutes before tearing off his condom and making a mucky mess of her marshmallow midriff and massive melons.
Chelsea had been rubbing herself continuously, and her right arm was also coated in cum. I imagine her arm must have been getting tired, but she showed no signs of slowing down. By the time she had her fourth orgasm, I think it was, seven guys had shot their spunk onto her. Wait, was that last guy number seven or number eight? I may have lost count. It was a bunch of fuckin’ dudes, let’s put it that way.
When the ninth (tenth?) guy was getting ready to blow, I was right there with him. I had twisted Chelsea’s snatch-scented skivvies around my hands, forming a taut cord, and I held it tight against the back of her neck as she slurped and slobbered on my dick. Burying her nose in my pubes, I held her close as I pumped a motherlode of a cumload into her mouth. She held it without swallowing, then as I pulled out, she slitted her eyes wickedly and drooled my slimy spuzz out of the corner of her mouth, down her chin, and onto her bunched-up t-shirt and her left boob.
I was drained, but I gamely stayed by her side and rubbed my floppy, sloppy cock all over her face while one last guy plowed her pussy before defiling her doughy dumplings with his dirty dicksauce.
With nobody remaining in line, I crouched down and gave Chelsea a kiss on the forehead. “I think that’s all for now, Cutie Pie,” I muttered in her ear. “You either fucked or scared away every guy on the second floor.”
Disappointed, she pouted a little but nodded in agreement. In a scratchy voice, she conceded, “My kitty could probably use a catnap right about now.” Her body was completely covered in cum, from her chest to her crotch, and her glazed skin glittered under the light of the disco ball turning slowly above it all.
We kissed gently, then more deeply. I pulled away and licked a glimmering trail of my cum off her neck, then fed it to her as we kissed again.
Still slightly cock drunk, Chelsea whispered, “Did you get the license plate of the truck that hit me?” She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue for effect.
“Yeah,” I thought fast. “It was D-zero-zero-zero-zero-zero-D. As in, D00000D, that chick was fucking amazing.”
—
I caught up with Rachel on Monday; she had morning bus duty, so we were able to stand outside and talk without anyone overhearing us.
I gave her the broad strokes of what had transpired on Friday night, and she got a little weak in the knees.
“Need to sit down?” I indicated a bench nearby.
“I think I might,” she breathed. “It’s not often my clit tingles at 7:45 on a Monday morning.”
We sat in silence for a minute, each lost in our own thoughts.
“Well, Chad,” Rachel declared, “you have had one hell of a first month on 4N1K8R.”
“I won’t argue with that,” I chuckled, shaking my head in wonder. “How many chicks have I banged, like four?” My eyes turned upwards as I ran through the little black book in my mind: Amelie, Rachel, Joyce, Chelsea…
“Are you including me in your body count?” Rachel snickered, and I nodded in the affirmative. “Are you including Svetlana Slutskaya?”
“No, I thought I’d stick to real people.”
“Do any of them stand out? Are you thinking of going exclusive with anyone?”
“No, I like them all in different ways. Besides, we’ve all been very clear about our expectations and boundaries.”
“Sure, but feelings change. Fuck buddies can fall in love without even realizing it.”
I nodded slowly as I considered this.
“Do you think you’ll keep trying to meet new ladies on the app, or maintain your current stable of fillies?”
“That remains to be seen,” I said thoughtfully. “You never know when things are going to hold steady for a while, and you never know when something’s about to end. I might slow things down, though. Not reach out and boop every single babe who catches my eye.”
“Maybe stop saddling so many ladies with your cognitive load.”
“Dude.”
The first warning bell rang, and Rachel clapped her hand on my knee. “Well, Mr. H, I probably won’t see you for the rest of the day; I’m meeting with Mr. V during our free period and then I have a friggin’ lunchtime meeting with Skippy.”
“At least you can snag a peppermint patty for dessert,” I observed. “Do you think you’ll wanna meet for happy hour after school? It sounds like you might need a drink.”
“Sure,” Rachel laughed, rising from the bench and tossing one final endearment over her shoulder. “Catch you later, fornicator!”
Not half a minute later, my phone buzzed with a notification from Joyce, the Canadian librarian. We hadn’t messaged for a week or so.
Joy Buzzer: Hi Chad
Chad: Hey J Bird
Joy Buzzer: I wanted to catch you before school
Chad: I have a few minutes
Joy Buzzer: So, I met another guy
Joy Buzzer: We really hit it off and I want to focus on him
Chad: That’s great!
Joy Buzzer: You aren’t upset?
Chad: I like you a lot and I want you to be happy
Chad: I’ll be here if you ever want to reach out
Joy Buzzer: I appreciate that
Joy Buzzer: It’s been an honour, Chad
Chad: Take care, Joyce ♡
I stood up and slid my phone into my pocket as the second warning bell rang. My first-period class was going to be estimating the weight of an 18-foot marlin and the number of bites it would take for a pack of mako sharks to pick its bones clean. That’s what happens when you’re teaching The Old Man and the Sea in an interdisciplinary educational model.
Life goes on, it ebbs and flows. If you stand on the beach and watch the waves roll in, the show is never really over; at some point, you decide you’ve seen enough and you move along. I know my journey will continue onward, with its ups and downs, highs and lows, crests and troughs. But for now, I’m calling this…
THE END
