The Dirtbag Vernacular [Original Novel]

ENTRY 26

I sit in the courtyard of the Art Institute on a Saturday afternoon. Bored and depressed. I had come supposedly to paint. The real reason was to check out girls. Maybe hook up with one. Help me recover from my situation. That situation being me losing the only girl I have ever loved. Losing the best friend I’ve ever had. Seriously messing up the band. I really need to get laid at this point. Forget the recent past. Pile drive some sweetie’s little pussy. Purge myself. Escape the pain.

I notice that there is a Saturday class in the courtyard. Not a normal class, but an extension class. These are for people who want to study at the school, but don’t want to get a degree. Also, they’re much cheaper than normal classes.

I notice a quite attractive blonde girl standing near the fish pond in a robe. Instantly I realize that soon this girl will be getting naked in the open air of the courtyard. I eagerly await the moment when the robe will drop and all will be privileged to drink in the sights of her flesh as much as they want. I don’t want to look like I’m some kind of a pervert, the maintenance guy setting there leering at the hot naked model. I quickly run over to the teacher and ask if I can sit in on the class, sketching the model. He agrees and I race off to a nearby locker of mine and return moments later with a sketchpad and a pencil.

I sit taking in her blond hair. Her small perky breasts. Her blonde pubic hair. A big, yet thoroughly round ass. I struggle with all of my pent up frustrations. Although I am fully drinking at the troughs of lust, there is no release. The pressure has only been intensified by the wonderful sight in front of me. She strolls around the courtyard posing at intervals. Now stopping with one foot up on the side of the fishpond. Then stepping up onto its two foot high exterior. Cruising around it a bit stopping to pose for various students. For one reason or another I am the only person in the corner of the courtyard where I am drawing. I sit on one of the many wide and long benches that are placed around the area. My bench parallels one side of the octagonal fishpond.

She rounds the pond to where I am, stops directly in front of me, and puts her hands on her hips. With an intense look she stares directly into my eyes. Her look seems to say, “You like this stuff? You want some of this stuff mister? Because if you want it, it’s all yours. All you have to do is ask.”

I sketch away, drinking her in, reading into this look. It sure seems like an, “I want to be fucked by you,” look. But I’m not quite sure. It also might be saying, “Stop staring at my pussy you fucking pervert!” I can’t tell which. I keep my pencil moving pondering what this look means. I notice my right hand, my drawing hand is shaking.

Minutes later I’m enclosed in a stall in a bathroom that gets only a few users on the weekend. I replay every move of that flesh, wanking to the fresh memory playing in my head.


Photo by Hoffacurse