There's this really hot girl in my French Linguistics class. For her own sake, I will refer to her from now on as "L", the first letter of her name. I can't stop thinking about her while I'm in class and it affects my ability to focus.
L comes in to our 2pm class usually a few minutes late, and sits right in front of me. She usually ports some fashionable, feminine jacket, snake-skin boots, and a very attractive bobbed haircut. L is silent in class until she gets called on (today was the first time she spoke up). She's a Midwest native, judging by her accent. L isn't friends with any of our classmates, seeing as most of us have been studying French for most of our college career and know each other pretty well by this point. Her silence is intoxicating. I fantasize of the thoughts that run through her mind. How smart is she? Is she a book worm? Is she a punk rocker? Does she do drugs? Does she think about me, equally silent and reticent, in the same way that I try to pierce her wordless anonymity? There's nothing more erotic than a mystery.
L brings in a tall cup of coffee, mostly emptied by the time class starts. Her girly messenger bag carries trifles beyond my comprehension. As class starts, she pulls out her notepad and opens to the end of the previous lecture. I notice here that L is in fact left handed. She holds her mechanical pencil like an old, Chinese philosopher manages a calligraphy brush. She turns her notepad ninety degrees to the right, and with her mechanical pencil, begins to copy the professor's words. To my great surprise and wonder, L doesn't turn her head or the paper when she writes. With the top of the notepad facing to her right, she writes down her new notes on each vertical line as though she were facing it the right way. You know how Japanese poets would write separate lines of characters that are stacked one on top of the other? From where I sit, it looks like she's writing a Japanese poem. Upon closer inspection, she is writing all her notes sideways, and when you turn it back upright, the text looks completely normal. I hope I illustrated that properly.
I must look very creepy in class because I stare at her taking these notes for nearly all of class. She doesn't notice me, and I don't think anyone else pays attention. I want to ask her how she writes like that. You can't really ask people things like that, though. I want to tell her I love her hair, so cute and bobbed. It's so defiant and so feminine. I want to tell her I love her scarves and how they look on her. I want nothing more right this second than to tell her how fitting and cool her skirts are. Alas, I think I will never be able to express my admiration for her. L sports lots of low-cut shirts, so she apparently has no problem with showing off her cleavage. Her rack is awesome, by the way. So is her rear end. Her butt pops out of her jeans or her skirt recklessly and with no concern for others. Her posture is excellent, too.
Gosh, I totally lost focus here. L is so damn attractive, and it would be socially unacceptable on many levels for me to express this to her. So I am doing it here. I have reached a point in my life where, unlike in high school, I am comfortable talking to women. I used to feel like women never wanted to talk to me, like they thought I was a silly little kid who drew comics instead of having fun. I learned in the past year that I am good enough for women, thanks to the actions of my friend. I have the self-confidence to approach women and talk to them. I do not, however, have anything to say.
I want to talk to L and tell her things. How do? How do I begin a conversation with her? I've never been good at striking up chats, or breaking the ice. Other than this French class, she and I have nothing in common. Or perhaps we do? As I mentioned, this L is a complete mystery to me. I am not able to enter her brain and find out who she is. Who is she? I'm so turned on because I don't know, but it is also my greatest roadblock for approaching her in the first place. I suppose I will be destined to admiring her from about a foot away. Not that I'm complaining. Did I mention her ass yet?
L comes in to our 2pm class usually a few minutes late, and sits right in front of me. She usually ports some fashionable, feminine jacket, snake-skin boots, and a very attractive bobbed haircut. L is silent in class until she gets called on (today was the first time she spoke up). She's a Midwest native, judging by her accent. L isn't friends with any of our classmates, seeing as most of us have been studying French for most of our college career and know each other pretty well by this point. Her silence is intoxicating. I fantasize of the thoughts that run through her mind. How smart is she? Is she a book worm? Is she a punk rocker? Does she do drugs? Does she think about me, equally silent and reticent, in the same way that I try to pierce her wordless anonymity? There's nothing more erotic than a mystery.
L brings in a tall cup of coffee, mostly emptied by the time class starts. Her girly messenger bag carries trifles beyond my comprehension. As class starts, she pulls out her notepad and opens to the end of the previous lecture. I notice here that L is in fact left handed. She holds her mechanical pencil like an old, Chinese philosopher manages a calligraphy brush. She turns her notepad ninety degrees to the right, and with her mechanical pencil, begins to copy the professor's words. To my great surprise and wonder, L doesn't turn her head or the paper when she writes. With the top of the notepad facing to her right, she writes down her new notes on each vertical line as though she were facing it the right way. You know how Japanese poets would write separate lines of characters that are stacked one on top of the other? From where I sit, it looks like she's writing a Japanese poem. Upon closer inspection, she is writing all her notes sideways, and when you turn it back upright, the text looks completely normal. I hope I illustrated that properly.
I must look very creepy in class because I stare at her taking these notes for nearly all of class. She doesn't notice me, and I don't think anyone else pays attention. I want to ask her how she writes like that. You can't really ask people things like that, though. I want to tell her I love her hair, so cute and bobbed. It's so defiant and so feminine. I want to tell her I love her scarves and how they look on her. I want nothing more right this second than to tell her how fitting and cool her skirts are. Alas, I think I will never be able to express my admiration for her. L sports lots of low-cut shirts, so she apparently has no problem with showing off her cleavage. Her rack is awesome, by the way. So is her rear end. Her butt pops out of her jeans or her skirt recklessly and with no concern for others. Her posture is excellent, too.
Gosh, I totally lost focus here. L is so damn attractive, and it would be socially unacceptable on many levels for me to express this to her. So I am doing it here. I have reached a point in my life where, unlike in high school, I am comfortable talking to women. I used to feel like women never wanted to talk to me, like they thought I was a silly little kid who drew comics instead of having fun. I learned in the past year that I am good enough for women, thanks to the actions of my friend. I have the self-confidence to approach women and talk to them. I do not, however, have anything to say.
I want to talk to L and tell her things. How do? How do I begin a conversation with her? I've never been good at striking up chats, or breaking the ice. Other than this French class, she and I have nothing in common. Or perhaps we do? As I mentioned, this L is a complete mystery to me. I am not able to enter her brain and find out who she is. Who is she? I'm so turned on because I don't know, but it is also my greatest roadblock for approaching her in the first place. I suppose I will be destined to admiring her from about a foot away. Not that I'm complaining. Did I mention her ass yet?
janelane:
This is the best thing I read in probably a few months. I'm glad not only I think and feel these kind of things. You're a great writer, and they mystery of "L" tickles me. I'm intrigued