The 30 year old college boy

Yet another senior year had come around. Being a super senior was something he had vast experience in at this point.

For crying out loud, this was his thirteenth year as an undergraduate. Possibly record breaking as it may be, the thirty year old had been in four year college since he was eighteen. Pathetic, poetic, emotionally and sarcastically dramatic was the theme to his unwritten thesis which will now commence.

The man, who too often pretended to be a boy, was walking the familiar halls of his art school, at the University of Iowa. It was the first day of class. He hadn’t bought any of his books yet, didn’t know where his classes where, and was more preoccupied with this year’s freshman crop of females than his grade point average. He looked at his course schedule in his hand.

It read, “Nazi & Stalinist Art: Aesthetics of Power.”

“What an interesting course title...” he said to himself, or was it just a thought in his head?

The location of the class was conveniently near the female restrooms, which was a plus because the cameras he’d placed in the stalls the night before gave him reference to where his class was. The doorway was an entrance not only to his classroom, but to a room of victims which never suspected a thing. He unbuttoned the top button of his white collared short-sleeved shirt, smoothed his dark brown hair across his forehead and smiled grimly just before stepping through the threshold. He walked with extreme confidence and inner excitement.

A dimly lit room consisted of a theatre like seating, which led to the projector screening at the front of the room. He loved this kind of setting. It gave a welcoming presence to a student who rarely enjoyed being called upon in class. He could calmly set and blend into his surroundings while lovely young coeds blossomed around him with sweet smells of lavender and cream. He choose a seat near the corner, but a few seats inward, so that he would not feel claustrophobic and yet still be nestled in an ecstatic love joy.

“Could I have your attention please?” asked a man whose voice sounded as if he was Harvard educated.
The undergraduate sat in his seat awaiting the next command of his new professor.
“This is an art history course titled Nazi & Stalinist Art: Aesthetics of Power” he continued.
The class sat in awe as if nothing else in the world mattered more at this moment, or perhaps at all.
“I will begin by doing attendance and then a thorough explanation of what this course will consist of, what exactly will be expected of each of you, and of course the grading system.” He spoke as if every vowel had to be pronounced correctly or he would be asked to resign.

As the great speaker began to call on names of what apparently was a class consisting mainly of girls, the thirty year old in the white collared shirt sat and waited for his name to be called. He waited for his proud moment of glory to shine upon him in this time of introduction to his attractive classmates. Name after name was called. Girl after girl were now being identified by first and last name, and the association of her face, body, and personal style. He took mental note of each female classmate’s identity, with detail.

The long list of student’s names began to relax him, sedate him, to put him into a trance of some sort. The names, faces, and extravagant bodies of the young women lulled him into an even further trance, heightened by his sexual arousal. The list of names seemed to have no end.

He was dazed with thoughts of what the cameras might actually be capturing at this very moment in the women’s bathroom. He became very erect at this time, so much that a student to his left could not help but notice it bulging to the side of his brand new blue jeans. She looked out of the corner of her eye at it, cautiously as to not let on to her gazing curiosity of his endowment.

“Is there anyone’s name who I did not call?” asked the professor in a practically genius accent.
He never heard his own name called. His sexual fantasies and data compiling had caused him to miss out on his introduction to the class. However, the student to his left definitely “noticed” him. He of course noticed her too, by name, cup size (34 C), bra color, scent of perfume, hair color, eye color, and waist size.

The rest of the class period seemed boring and unworthy. He’d already got enough information for one day. What he needed now was release and perhaps some refreshment afterwards because masturbation could take up a lot of energy sometimes.
Standing up brought further attention to his bulging member as class ended. The girl on the left was now one of several girls who could see the identifying trait which distinctively characterized him even though his name was apparently never called upon.

He gently brushed by the other students as he walked down the aisle to the edge of the classroom. After all, it had been a long class for the first day and until he reached that moment of release he was still a ticking time bomb ready to blow. He walked out of the doorway with the same smile he had when he walked in it, but this time with an added element; pheromones, being released at an overwhelming rate.

He barely made it to the custodial closet down the hallway before he loosened his trousers. He waited until no one was watching and he quickly opened the door of the broom closet, ran in, closed it behind him, and unzipped his pants. He could still see light dripping in from the bottom of the doorway, and faint voices of girls from his class as they walked by unsuspecting of his presence within the quiet closet. He grabbed himself and stroked many times thinking of all the girls in the class. He found it hard to concentrate on one single girl. He remembered flashes of each girl’s body, face, etc. It was almost too much for him, almost.

As soon as he finished, he took a deep breath or two, put his pants back to the way they were before the violent urgent of nature had its calling, and opened the door a few inches to see if the coast was clear. He saw no one, and heard no voices. It seemed like a good time to exit the pleasure closet. He walked out of the broom closet a few feet and stopped abruptly.
Standing just a few feet away from him was the girl who sat to his left in his new class. To say that he was speechless was an understatement. She stared directly into his eyes. Somehow, all of his confidence was not presence as he held the door in one hand, wondering if he should close it behind him or not.

He struggled for an ice breaker comment to end the silent stare. He then looked down and saw a puddle of semen on the toe of his shoe. “What a predicament...” he thought to himself, or did he say it out loud?
“Are you the janitor or something?” she asked without breaking eye contact.
He barely thought at all before he answered. “I’m, I’m looking for something...” he struggled.

Her glaring look was as hypnotic as a crystal ball, yet he managed to compose himself.
“What a boring class we had for the first day” she stated. He wondered if she knew why he was in the closet as he looked down at her curvaceous young body. “I sit next to you, to…” she began to say.

“To my left, you sit to my left!” he interrupted. His voice volume got a little louder than he intended. He needed to play it cool so she didn’t get scared away. He needed to be smoother than this. Before she could respond, he shut the door behind him as cautiously as possible without explaining his actions.

“Where’s your next class at?” he asked without hesitation. He leaned forward to gain the upper hand over the young vixen as she suddenly trembled slightly due to his advance. Now he felt more in control. He had taken her attention away from the closet and focused on making her feel watched by a stranger, something he had gotten good at over the years.
“I’ve got ceramics next.” she said with a smile to signal that the conversation topic was neutral, and therefore nonthreatening, although his intentions were merely to gain her trust.

He had some minor knowledge of ceramics, and used his clever demeanor and words of wisdom to make casual inquires to her about her ceramics background. “Are you using the wheel to make vessels yet?” was one of the many questions he asked her in a classy mature man’s tone of voice.

Her body language told him she was interested in him as she brushed her hair back behind her ears with one hand. He continued on with casual chit chat about classes he was taking, had took in the past, and so on. Careful he was to not give out too much information.

He didn’t want her to wonder what year he was, or what age he was. He had walked her all the way to her next class, pretending he was heading in that direction himself. The truth was he didn’t know where his next class was, and it didn’t matter to him.

His main focus at the moment was on his prey which he stalked unknowingly to her awareness. Beyond that, his only thoughts were to get back to those female restrooms and put fresh blank tapes into the cameras before any more valuable video opportunities were missed out on. After all, as any videographer will tell you, you have to keep the camera rolling at all times to maximize your potential as an artist.

They had arrived at the front door of the ceramics building just before her class was about to start.
“Well I’ll see you at our next class!” he said with just enough pizzazz as to not leave an awkward ending to the first encounter of he and his new classmate, and prey.

“Yeah, see you then!” she matched the tone of his voice to signal that she too was excited.
He walked around the building to the west end behind the ceramic kilns to sit down and rest, and bask in the glory of his mild achievement, and also to light up a marijuana cigarette as a reward and personal vice. He loved getting high after jerking off, and this time was no exception.
“What a great day it’s turning out to be today…” he said to himself as the buzz of the joint began to hit him.
He sat and finished the entire joint before even looking at his schedule to see where his next class was.