Page 19 of Cocky Nerd
John
SIX YEARSAGO
I don’t knowwhat to do with the handtowel.
I’m a twenty-one year-old genius who’s at the top of my class at MIT and I don’t know what to do with the Montgomery hand towel that I’ve just cleaned up copious amounts of my semen with. They were kind enough to invite me to Thanksgiving and now my splooge is all over their white Turkish cottontowel.
At least I didn’t release it into their seventeen year-olddaughter.
That’s not evenfunny.
I can’t believe I couldn’t even make it through dinner without doing this, but I also can’t believe that Olivia isn’t wearing a bra. On a family holiday. Her very thin cream-colored sweater is so form-fitting that I could see the outline of her nipples in my peripheral vision. I suppose it’s a good thing we were sitting next to each other, so I’m not forced to look at them head-on for over an hour. Except that she smells divine. I haven’t been this close to her for a sustained period of time in ages. It’s like I’ve been inhaling her burgeoning sexuality while trying to concentrate on digesting the first home-cooked meal I’ve had all year. Too much to process all atonce.
Over the course of a year she has blossomed into a beautiful sexy young, (legally over the age of consent in Ohio) woman, and thankfully all of her ballet training has not turned her into an emaciated wispy waif. She has curves. Bewitching curves. Stunning long toned legs. That criminally short skirt leaves very little to the imagination, despite the tights. She could do anything with those legs. I could do anything with those legs. I mean—I shouldn’t, but Icould.
What should I do with the handtowel?
Her hands. Shit, it’s starting up again. Stop thinking about her. Those long elegant fingers that would wrap themselves so firmly around my throbbing rockhard—
“Hey! You still inthere?”
Monty would kill me if he knew. He’d saw off my dick with the turkey carvingknife.
“Yeah sorry, just a little stomach upset. Took care of it. Be rightout.”
“Gross, man. Open the window. There’s no fan in thatbathroom.”
“Willdo.”
Thewindow.
I drop the soiled hand towel out the window. I’ll pick it up when I leave, dispose of it on the way home. To my parents’ empty house. I suppose I can’t blame them for working at the office on Thanksgiving. It is a weekday, afterall.
* * *
“What doyou mean you aren’t going tocollege?”
Olivia smiles as she turns her face towards me. Her hazel eyes always look lit from within, right now they are amber and filled with mischief. “I’ve been accepted to the graduate school program inPittsburgh.”
“What kind of graduate school? How do you get into graduate school if you don’t go tocollege?”
“I’m talking about ballet. Duh.” She looks over at her brother. “You didn’t tell him aboutthis?”
“Believe it or not, Sis, you rarely come up in ourconversations.”
“Whatever. I’ll be training with the Ballet Theatre in the pre-professional division. It’s an amazing intensiveprogram.”
“In Pittsburgh?Pennsylvania?”
“At least it’s closer than Seattle or Houston,” sighs Mrs.Montgomery.
“And cheaper,” mumbles Mr.Montgomery.
I can see that her parents are resigned to this, but not happy aboutit.
“Well, I would have been happy to go to any of them, but I chose Pittsburgh to be closer to you guys, so you’rewelcome.”
My ears feel hot. Why is this news so upsetting to me? She’s happy. She has always wanted to be a ballerina. She’s Tiny Dancer. I should congratulate her. “Did you even apply tocolleges?”
