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Soft Core Longing & Teenage Skin
There's an elective course within my Masters program that also allows junior enrollment, resulting in a statistical make up of literally 85% freshman girls bent on learning the social/urban intricacies of the Mediterranean basin. Sitting in the last hour of this class today, going over notes before our final exam...
There are these two girls who I’ve been sitting next to/sniffing-about throughout the semester. They usually arrive ~10 minutes before class and chirp away while I sneak glances at whatever portions of skin they’ve chosen to show off that day. One of them had clearly been petitioning for my attention with returned glances and constant hair grooming. A classic 9/10 body... nothing too pronounced; with every female curve and form guiding the male eye with equal effectiveness.
The problem was that she’s too classic a beauty. Her friend, porcelain skinned and doubly curvaceous, had a habit of wearing thin sweaters, turtlenecks and light toned cardigans throughout the semester. Her flawless complexion defines a somewhat peculiar face: led by a slightly longer nose, extra baby fat on the cheeks and chin, & brunette eyebrows screaming a (now suburbanized) Italian heritage. Regarding her wardrobe, she had today chosen to break with tradition.
She wore a beautiful baby blue sort of “La Belle Meditarraine” blouse cut the full height of her cleavage. Massive. Effing. You-know-whats. She was still presented gracefully, yet only a brush away from slipping a nipple, that beautiful and motherly symbol of fertility and selfless grace. She CONSTANTLY bent over in her chair while chatting, pretending to search for items in her backpack that low and behold were never produced. You know the fanciful “not quite cellulite” dimples that grace fattier parts of yummy cupcakes like this? You could see them in smooth, slight ripples on the inner-bottom curves of her exposed breasts, as if they were perfect scoops of vanilla ice-cream magnified by National Geographic for HD television.
Guys, these things were so round and creamy that I was briefly struck with an urge to leave the room and beat-off into a urinal, whether or not at risk of being locked out of the impending exam. Once the test started, I was in a panic as to the best method of approaching her, in hopes of gaining a chance to see these miraculous breasts again. Before twenty minutes passed, she (and her friend, shortly after) handed in their exams and left the class forever, seemingly leaving me without a hope of gazing upon the heavenly bodies that aligned the Education tower that day.
Yet there is perhaps hope.. I’ve been in e-mail communication with a mystery girl from the same class the past few days. The professor accidentally gave her my ticket to a supplementary performance of “The Barber of Seville”, and she agreed to find me in class today to return it. Perhaps she found it too daunting to ask the only guy in my described “area” of the classroom if I was indeed James. Perhaps she’s altogether a different girl, and decided against passing the ticket on to its rightful owner.
The only clue to be drawn from the e-mail case is that her last name is Batoricci, slightly increasing the odds of an Italian fantasy being rendered reality (should we eventually meet). Yet one truth can be known of the subject. The rack gazed upon today would invoke reaction in any straight man as if he were nothing more than a clothed & flustered beast.
What can be done about this matter from here on in may simply be a measure of fate. A last ditch attempt at becoming one of those cut health freaks may significantly influence such a "fate". Yet until then, I think only of those massive pillars of Hercul[aya], beckoning my future gracefully through the straits of the mediterranean, and into the joy and passion that only a Romance Woman can provide.
There are these two girls who I’ve been sitting next to/sniffing-about throughout the semester. They usually arrive ~10 minutes before class and chirp away while I sneak glances at whatever portions of skin they’ve chosen to show off that day. One of them had clearly been petitioning for my attention with returned glances and constant hair grooming. A classic 9/10 body... nothing too pronounced; with every female curve and form guiding the male eye with equal effectiveness.
The problem was that she’s too classic a beauty. Her friend, porcelain skinned and doubly curvaceous, had a habit of wearing thin sweaters, turtlenecks and light toned cardigans throughout the semester. Her flawless complexion defines a somewhat peculiar face: led by a slightly longer nose, extra baby fat on the cheeks and chin, & brunette eyebrows screaming a (now suburbanized) Italian heritage. Regarding her wardrobe, she had today chosen to break with tradition.
She wore a beautiful baby blue sort of “La Belle Meditarraine” blouse cut the full height of her cleavage. Massive. Effing. You-know-whats. She was still presented gracefully, yet only a brush away from slipping a nipple, that beautiful and motherly symbol of fertility and selfless grace. She CONSTANTLY bent over in her chair while chatting, pretending to search for items in her backpack that low and behold were never produced. You know the fanciful “not quite cellulite” dimples that grace fattier parts of yummy cupcakes like this? You could see them in smooth, slight ripples on the inner-bottom curves of her exposed breasts, as if they were perfect scoops of vanilla ice-cream magnified by National Geographic for HD television.
Guys, these things were so round and creamy that I was briefly struck with an urge to leave the room and beat-off into a urinal, whether or not at risk of being locked out of the impending exam. Once the test started, I was in a panic as to the best method of approaching her, in hopes of gaining a chance to see these miraculous breasts again. Before twenty minutes passed, she (and her friend, shortly after) handed in their exams and left the class forever, seemingly leaving me without a hope of gazing upon the heavenly bodies that aligned the Education tower that day.
Yet there is perhaps hope.. I’ve been in e-mail communication with a mystery girl from the same class the past few days. The professor accidentally gave her my ticket to a supplementary performance of “The Barber of Seville”, and she agreed to find me in class today to return it. Perhaps she found it too daunting to ask the only guy in my described “area” of the classroom if I was indeed James. Perhaps she’s altogether a different girl, and decided against passing the ticket on to its rightful owner.
The only clue to be drawn from the e-mail case is that her last name is Batoricci, slightly increasing the odds of an Italian fantasy being rendered reality (should we eventually meet). Yet one truth can be known of the subject. The rack gazed upon today would invoke reaction in any straight man as if he were nothing more than a clothed & flustered beast.
What can be done about this matter from here on in may simply be a measure of fate. A last ditch attempt at becoming one of those cut health freaks may significantly influence such a "fate". Yet until then, I think only of those massive pillars of Hercul[aya], beckoning my future gracefully through the straits of the mediterranean, and into the joy and passion that only a Romance Woman can provide.
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