Softball

By Taria

This story is about heterosexual adults over 18 doing stuff they're allowed to.

If you're under 18, you wouldn't get it anyway. It's about old people doing old people shit.

You know, old. Like your parents. Do you wanna imagine your parents having hot, sweaty, nasty, horny intercourse?

Yes, your REAL parents. Mom and Dad. Sweaty. Horny. Naked. Nice image. Still wanna read this?

Didn't think so.

I pounded my hand into my black baseball mitt. "C'mon, you can do it!" I yelled to our pitcher, who looked like he was standing a million miles away. He probably couldn't even hear me. I shook my head in disgust. I wondered again how I had gotten into this mess.

We were playing co-ed intramural softball. Well, it was supposed to be co-ed, but I was the only girl on our team, Joey's Jambalayas. The only girl on almost any of the teams, in fact. For some reason, most of the girls preferred cheerleading and sorority pajama parties to sweating it out with the guys. Not me. I'd played team softball in high school, and I was thrilled to be playing again. I was nineteen, a sophomore, and I was dating Joey when the season started. Yes, that Joey.

I wasn't sleeping with Joey Jambalaya any more by the time game number twelve came around. But I was having too much fun every Sunday to quit, so I stayed on the team. That was a good thing too. Most of the guys on the team were bad-hit okay-field NCAA Division III-Z wannabes, and they needed all the help they could get. On the other hand, I was a decent singles hitter and played a great Second Base. Or at least I did, until week twelve.

But that week a worm infiltrated my Jambalaya fruit basket. His name was Michael Hunter, and he'd joined the team as a favor to his pre-med roomie, who was quitting to study for his MCATs. At the beginning of the game, the whole Jambalaya team trotted out to take the field. I jogged out to second and stopped, like I always did. Then I noticed that the new guy was standing right next to me, between me and the base.

"Excuse me?" I said. "Can I help you?"

"Nope," he responded.

I noticed that he was giving me the old once-over as we both stood there. That wasn't really a surprise. All the guys did at at one point or another. I was in good shape from the softball and from my running, which I did every night. I even used that to my advantage in the games. On game days I would always wear a pair of pretty tight denim short-shorts that showed off my ass, and a scoop-necked shirt that hugged my curves and displayed some cleavage.

Usually the guys on the other team were so busy ogling me that they'd get distracted. Pitchers forgot to pitch me hard and fast. Fielders weren't careful when I was baserunning. And opposing runners never wanted to hurt me by running me over at second base, so they'd get into easy outs. Who says women are stupid?

But this guy Hunter, he was giving me the Eagle Eye on a totally different level. He wasn't just imagining me naked, like everybody else. No, I could tell that his imagination was much more vivid. I narrowed my eyes and looked right back at him. But he seemed to enjoy that even more, and I could swear that he was even smiling to himself, like a judge at a Wet T-Shirt contest. Or maybe like the guy that gets to splash buckets of water on the girls' tits.

He was giving me the creeps. And he was just standing there at second base. Who the hell did he think he was?

"Hey buddy," I said in my friendliest we're-just-teammates-so-get-your- eyes-off-my-boobs voice. "Shouldn't you be out in Right Field by now?"

"Second Base is my position," he said. He stood there, not moving.

I put my hands on my hips and glared at him. "Not on this team, Buster," I said. "I play Second. New guy plays Right, and bats eighth. You have a problem with that?"

He looked right back at me, his eyes doing a vertical rhumba as they danced over my figure. Then he looked into my eyes and smiled, a lopsided sort of grin.

"OK, have it your way," he said. "But you'll see. And then you'll be sor-ree." With that, he turned around and jog-trotted his way out into deep Right Field. He stopped, gave me a cocky wave, and put on a pair of blue Ray-Ban Terminator sunglasses. Great. I had been warned. But what was he warning me about?

I turned toward home plate, where the other team's leadoff batter was taking a practice swing. I noticed that he was a lefty, and from the looks of things he was a lefty pull-hitter. That meant he'd be hitting the ball in my direction. And in Hunter's direction.

As it turned out, I was right. The leadoff batter was a lefty.

So were the next six batters in a row.

The first inning was a disaster. I made a few good fielding plays on short-hop grounders, and we got the first two guys out pretty quickly. But then they started hitting 'em to the outfield, and our new right fielder turned every play into an adventure. He lost two pop flies in the sun. A hard line drive broke right as he broke left. A soft roller down the first-base line turned into an inside-the-park home run. After they'd scored four runs, Jambalaya Joey looked at him in disgust. And then he looked at me, also in disgust. For which I couldn't blame him, since I had dumped him two weeks ago without even a farewell fuck. I had always promised him one, but then I reneged.

In retrospect, I should've done it. I barely would've felt anything, and it wouldn't have taken too long. I could've even caught up on some of my reading for my English class. Hell, I could've finished two, maybe three pages.

But I hadn't and so it was no wonder that I was soon in Right Field, cursing Mikey-Boy under my breath. And over my breath. And at the top of my lungs, especially when he made a miraculous back-handed stop of a hard screaming liner. What a bastard!

To make matters worse, the whole team was falling all over themselves congratulating him after the catch. Like he'd just won the game singlehandedly. So he made a nice play. Big deal. I sat on the end of the bench to sulk by myself as we came up to bat.

He walked over and sat down next to me. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to show you up. But I can't catch fly balls to save my life. That's why I always play Second Base. Besides," he added, "you can't really blame me. I did warn you, after all."

I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. "Mmm-hmmm," I said. "You did warn me. But since we weren't really making eye contact, I didn't get your full meaning."

He wasn't even embarrassed. He just raised one eyebrow.

"I mean, you WERE looking at my tits the whole time. Look at you! You're doing it again!" And he was, too.

Hunter wrenched his eyes away from my breasts to look me in the face. "All the other guys might do that. And to be honest, I'm not sure I could help myself either. Your breasts are beautiful," he said. "But only because they are a part of you. You are a beautiful woman, and I couldn't stop staring at you if I tried. All of you."

I didn't quite know how to respond, even though I realized that he was still staring at my boobs. And then he turned away and went up to bat. Hey! The little shit was batting in my number seven slot! What a silver-tongued bastard! I knew then that I had better watch my step with this one. he was dangerous. And he knew it.

We lost the game, eleven to two. Hunter didn't make any more errors, and neither did I. He did bat only one-for-five, though. I could swear that at least twice he made out on purpose. And when I came up after him I could feel his eyes on me as he stared at me in my stance from his seat on the bench. The first time it made me nervous. The second and third times I got so mad that I smacked a single and then a double. And when I did, he smiled at me and winked.

At the end of the game, I felt a hand touch my shoulder. It was him again.

"Hey, look. I feel really shitty about the game today, and especially for taking your position. How's about you stick around for some extra practice." He must've seen the look on my face, because he hastily added "for me, I mean. Maybe some BP and some fielding practice. Fly balls, so I could do better in Right Field next game."

I made a slow nod, and so for the next hour we threw the ball back and forth, occasionally hitting a few. We also talked. He told me about his plans for after graduation, how he thought he might either go corporate or else go find a remote cabin, maybe under a waterfall. And he was funny, too. He kept telling me the wierdest things, talking and joking up a storm. "I don't know exactly what I'm gonna do with my life," he said. "Maybe even some kind of writing. With a twist. Stuff you have to think about. I might..."

I waited, but he didn't finish. "Might what?" I asked.

"Exactly," he answered.

I didn't get it. I said so.

He grinned at me. "Think about what you just said," he smirked. "Try saying it again out loud, and pay attention this time."

I was baffled. "What I said? You mean, Might What? I don't..."

Light dawned. A light bulb went on over my head. Might...What. MightWhat. Migh tWhat. My Twat. Very funny. What a comedian.

He grinned even wider. "Sophomoric shit, isn't it? I could take a pen name. Wouldn't even have to change my real name very much. I could just shorten it in strategic ways. Wouldn't that be great?" I reared back and threw the next one over his head. He ran after it, snickering.

After a while he started to look good out there. Too good, if you asked me. I was suspicious, but I was too hot and tired to wonder why he was suddenly a superstar outfielder. It was a relief when he finally said "Hey, it's almost eight o'clock. Let's call it a day and hit the showers, OK?"

But there was a problem when we got inside. In front of the men's locker room stood a yellow plastic sign, one of those "Caution: Do Not Enter" things. Then a big black guy in a blue outfit emerged from the room and picked up the sign with a pinkie. He dragged it across the hallway until it was in front of the doorway to the women's lockers and showers. He looked at Mike.

"S'ok, buddy," he gestured with his elbow at the men's door. "You can go in now. It's all spic and span."

"Um, what about me?" I said.

"Sorry, Little Girl," he said. "I gotta clean out the Ladies' now, or I'll lose my job. You can go in first and get your stuff, though. Wouldn't advise hangin' around - it's gonna be at least an hour."

What could I do? I went in and got my stuff. When I came out, the black guy went in. He slammed the door behind him.

I looked at Mike. Mike looked at me. Then he reached out and swung open the men's locker room door.

"Well, I don't know about you," he said. "But I really need a shower."

"And what the hell am I supposed to do?" I almost screamed.

"You could wait for the guy to finish up in the Girls' Room," he said, speculatively.

"But that's gonna take an HOUR!" I wailed. "I can't wait that long! And it's getting late!"

He blinked once, and looked straight at me. "Or you might..." he trailed off. Then he shook his head.

I looked straight at him, staring directly into his dark eyes.

"Might What?" I purred.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Then he swallowed once, hard, and tried again.

"Well," he said. "There's no one around, and I wouldn't want you to wait here outside, all alone. Especially not so late. So you could..."

He swallowed again.

"...You could just come on in to the Boys'. We could take turns or something. Really. This would definitely be the best way."

He'd regained his composure and was completely earnest. Sincere. And clearly full of it. Which might explain why his eyes opened wide when I calmly said "okay" and walked into the men's locker room.

That must've been the most dedicated janitor in the history of floor buffers. When Mike flicked on the light switch we saw that the room was so clean it almost sparkled. He turned to me as the door clicked shut behind us.

"Why don't you go first?" he said. "I'll wait out here till you're finished. And I won't look. Honest."

"That would be such a shame," I said. He looked baffled, and then leered. "You waiting out here all alone, I mean," I went on. "And I usually take kinda long showers." His eyes gleamed like he couldn't wait to hear what was coming. I tried to look thoughtful. I'm pretty sure I didn't really succeed, since I was fighting back a grin. He wasn't bothering to hide the look on his face. He looked like a kid who'd just found his dad's Playboy stash. Or his Hustlers. Whatever.

I tried to look stern. "There are rules, though." He nodded. "Right. Rules." I ticked them off on my fingers. "I stand on one side of the room. You're on the other. No touching. Looking is OK, but not too much. And if you ever tell anyone else on the team about this, you're dead. All right?"

He nodded. "Right. Rules." I sighed, and then shook my hair out of my ballgame ponytail. I crossed my arms in front of me and pulled my shirt off over my head. Standing in my bra, I bent down to untie my sneakers and pull off my shorts. I stood up in my underwear. "What is this, a free show?" I snapped.

He grinned again and yanked off his own t-shirt. Then he pulled down his pants, a little carefully. Acting like I did this all the time, I reached back and undid my bra (not a sports bra, either - how the hell would a minimizing spandex band distract opposing teams?) and stepped out of my panties.

Totally naked, I toyed with my hair as I watched him finish stripping. He wasn't bad looking at all. He had curly dark hair and dark eyes, a pleasant face except for a permanent smart-alecky grin. His chest was flat and a little hairy, his tummy just slightly rounded at his belly button. I bet that would probably get worse over the next couple years.

But most interesting was the thing that went BOING as he gingerly lowered his boxer shorts. It wasn't huge. Not even especially oversized. But it looked friendly and cheerful as it bobbed there, pointing right at my naked body. Sort of like Mike himself, at the moment. I smiled and turned toward the showers. I felt his eyes riveted to my ass as I walked, and I swayed a little extra for him.

The shower room was one of those gigantic rooms with showerheads spaced every few feet apart on the tiled walls. It was like the rooms you saw in military movies or soft-core porn flicks about girls' boarding schools. You know, the ones you could get out of the video store in high school because they weren't rated X, only "R-but-you-gotta-be-17." The room was clean and shining, so I didn't even put on my shower shoes. I just chose a place close to the door and turned on the faucets.

The water did feel good washing over me. I faced the wall to wet down my front, and closed my eyes. As I heard Mike pad in behind me, I turned around. I let the water run down my back and then straightened up, tilting my head back. I stood there across from him, my body wet and glistening. With my head bent back a little and my arms up over my head, my breasts were thrust out and pulled up. Smiling, I moved my arms so the round ice-cream scoops (with cherries on top!) bounced and jiggled wetly. At the top of my legs, the curly triangle of my bush was matted and dripping from the shower spray. And that wasn't the only reason it was wet, either.

As I turned back around I heard a faucet squeak once, and then nothing. Then a voice spoke from just behind my shoulder, into my ear.

"I know it's crazy," he said, "but none of the other showers seem to be working right now. I guess we'll just have to share."

I leaned my head back until it was resting against his chest. "I guess so," I breathed. "I could use a little help washing the hard-to-reach places anyway."

Still leaning against him, I held out the bar of soap in my hand. He took it, and reached around my waist with it. With one hand he guided the soap in circles around my shoulders, under my arms, down my sides. Then, with firm, hard strokes, he soaped up my breasts. Lathering up both hands, he cupped my slick and slippery tits. His hands squeezed and grabbed, tweaking my small pink nipples until they were hard little points digging into his palms. He played with them until I moaned.

I spread my legs apart and leaned back on him for support as those magic hands descended to my bush. His soapy fingers plunged through the thicket of short-and-curlies until they parted my lips. I gasped as his fingers entered me, and I moaned as he teased my clit. His hard-on prodded my rump, and it slid into the crack between my asscheeks as I pushed back against him.

I turned around and hooked my arms around his neck, and held on tight as he lathered up my back and my ass. He crouched a little to move his hands lower, and I spread my legs apart again as he snuck a soapy finger inside my dark nether hole.

"You do a thorough job," I said. Actually I kind of croaked. I was beginning to lose the power of speech by this point.

"Every nook and cranny," he said, as his hands massaged round and round my ass.

"Are you absolutely sure?" I whispered in his ear. "I think I'd like the full inspection. You know, check all the connections, make sure everything's running smoothly."

"Customer's always right," he said. "Where would you like me to start, ma'am?"

I wriggled my slick body against him, letting his hard cock poke at me a bit. "I think you oughta lie down underneath. So you can check under the hood."

I had to give him this: he was game. Even though this was a public shower (cleaner than usual, maybe, but STILL...), Mike lay down on his back on the floor under the spray. I straddled his face and lowered my pussy down until it nestled on his mouth. As his mouth started working on me I moved back and forth, making "mmm-mmm-mmm" pleasure noises.

"I'm glad you decided to practice," I gurgled through the shower spray. "Your tongue has All-Star potential. Have you ever done this before?"

"Mrrfl mrrfl glub glub," he answered. But before I could get a translation, I felt the tremors of my orgasm building. I came hard and fast, grinding my pussy harder into his face as I grunted and gasped my way over the top. I must've drowned the poor boy, I realized, so I sat back a little and got ready to administer CPR.

He made a raspberry as water washed over his now-exposed face. "Fthw-fthw-ptui" he sputtered. I lifted myself up a little.

"If you do become a writer," I said, "you should write a story about this. There's nothing sexier than a shower, except for eating a girl out in one."

"Well," he said, "they always say to write from experience. But I haven't had that experience enough to really write about it with authority."

"You mean shower sex, or eating girls out?" I asked.

"Either," he answered. "Are you sure that'd make a really interesting story?"

"Maybe we could make it a little more interesting," I said with a soggy grin. I got up and turned around, then squatted back down over his face again. As his All-American tongue returned to its task, I ran my hands down his sides. I settled my pussy down further with a contented sigh. I leaned forward and grasped his engorged cock in my hands. I stroked it once, and was rewarded with a muffled moan from beneath me. "Mrrrrrf..." he said, and I leaned down further and took him in my mouth.

I made an "O" with my lips and wrapped them around the mushroom cap at the top of his cock. My tongue licked at it, running around the rim and tickling at his little tiny hole. Then I sucked the length of him into my open mouth, his warm hardness covered with a cool wet layer of shower water. As my head bobbed up and down, I clutched the base of his shaft tightly in my hand (this was a trick I'd perfected over years of blow job practice at the high school level. It used to drive Joey Jambalaya totally wild).

I felt the vibrations at my pussy increase as his muffled groans escalated. I wasn't about to come again so soon anyway, so I skootched forward a little on his chest to give him breathing room. As soon as his face was free I heard him go "OHHHHurgle!" Apparently when I got out of the way Mike got smacked dead-on by a stream of pouring water from the shower. He didn't seem to mind much.

I intensified the pressure of my squeezing and sucking, milking his slick wet cock for all it was worth. Within seconds I felt it pulse and jerk in my mouth, and then he exploded between my lips. I pulled back and pumped his shaft, letting the running water wash us clean as he came. No muss no fuss! Best thing about shower sex.

I looked back at him over my shoulder. His eyes had rolled back in his head and he really did seem to be drowning this time. So I clambered off him and we both rinsed and soaped a bit more before we shut off the water. We stood there smiling sorta goofy at each other for a minute, drenched to the bone. Then we walked out to the locker room where we'd left our towels.

We padded out, tracking wet footprints onto the clean floor. As we toweled off, I said "is it true? That you don't have much experience, I mean."

"Scout's honor," he said. "I really have been a Boy Scout all my life. I always looked a lot, but I never really did anything until I finally had sex with a girl back home."

I propped one leg up on a yellow bench and dabbed at my upper thigh. "When?" I asked.

"When?"

"When was your first time?"

He looked downright sheepish. "Um - New Year's."

I was incredulous. "THIS New Year's? A few months ago? And how many times since then?"

He blushed and concentrated on scrubbing a particularly damp toenail.

I dropped my towel and laughed out loud. "You've only had sex ONCE? Jesus, you're practically still a virgin!"

He looked hurt, and cranky. "We can't all be fast starters, y'know" he muttered, a little defensively.

I walked over to where he stood behind another one of the low yellow benches. I stepped over it to stand beside him, and softly touched his cheek. "That's not what I meant, Mike. The way you put the moves on me, the way you touched me...I was sure you'd done this a million times. It never occurred to me that you were still new at this. At sex."

We were quiet for a moment. I broke the silence. "Did you enjoy it? Having sex, I mean."

The blush faded and he grinned. "It was OK. I mean, it was great - it was sex. I can't imagine what 'bad' sex could be like. I waited my whole life to get laid, and it was sure a lot better than NOT getting laid. If you catch my drift."

I smiled and turned around to grab my towel. It was on the floor, on the other side of the yellow bench in front of us. I bent to get it, but it was still just out of reach. I got down lower and bent over even further, stretching out my arm. "I think I know what you're saying," I said, still trying to snag my towel. "But it seems to me that you didn't really get the full enjoyment out of the experience. And that's a shame, because you're such a natu-raaaaaah!"

I trailed off into a startled shriek. While I sprawled there all bent over the bench, he had moved up behind me and run his palms down my asscheeks. I felt him spread them apart slightly and then trailed two "Boy Scout salute" fingers down my crack, over my asshole, and down to my pussy. As I crouched there motionless with my legs parted, he inserted them inside me and circled them round and round. Then he withdrew them and spread some of my hot wet juices on the outer folds of my pussy lips.

"Boy Scout motto," he said. "Always be prepared for anything that comes up. And something just did. Come up, that is."

I "uhhhhh"-ed deep in my throat and rocked my hips a little. "What does the Scout Manual say to do in a situation like this?" I groaned.

I felt the tip of his erect cock probing behind me, seeking my opening. "To advance in the Scouts you usually have to improvise," he said. I felt him poke at me again and reached a hand underneath me to guide him. "That's the way you make Eagle Scout," I agreed. I swiveled my hips upwards a little and aimed him at my entrance, and he slid in with pleasurable friction as he drove his hard cock home.

"Oooooooh," I gasped, and he started to slowly thrust in and out of me from behind. "Yes, like that. Are you SURE you've only done this once?"

He laughed, and I felt him grasp my hips with his hands as he fucked me. "It's a good thing you brought me off once already," he said, "because otherwise I'd be finished by now." "Mmmm, good thing," I repeated. "Very good. Very very. Oh yes, fuck me!"

We moved in tandem, rocking back and forth as he plumbed my depths with his erect tool. I don't know if he was any good as a Boy Scout, and I don't know if there was a special merit badge for fucking. Or maybe they'd call it "Tactile Heterosexual Stimulation." Or a merit badge in "Birds-and-Bees Studies." But he was pretty skilled in any case, and I felt myself climbing toward orgasm again within a few moments.

"Oh that's good," I said. "Don't stop." And he didn't. Instead his hands roved around my ass, making me groan even louder. And when one finger accidentally (?) brushed my anus I moaned. And damned if the Boy Scout didn't improvise! He moistened his thumb down at the juncture of his prick and my cunt, and then casually inserted it in my ass.

I rammed myself back, impaling myself on his cock and his thumb, and screamed. As the orgasm hit me and exploded all around me I dimly heard him call out, and then I felt him erupt into my pussy. My cunt muscles clenched and spasmed in the aftermath, coaxing yet another few spurts of his ooze out of his still-jerking cock. Then our muscles unclenched and he pulled out (or, more accurately, sort of slid out wetly), and our mixed juices dripped onto the once-sparkly clean floor below.

The we both straightened up and, for the second time that evening, toweled off. We dressed quickly and got ready to go.

"So," I asked him. "Did you get anything constructive out of our extra practice session?"

He grinned at me for the umpteenth time. "Yep," he said. For one thing, I think I'm learning to appreciate the enthusiasm and energy of college coeds."

I stuck my tongue out at him. "Nothing else?" I said, archly.

"Well," he said, looking at me sidelong. "I've also developed a taste for women who appreciate a little competition. And I found out that a little advance planning never hurts."

I narrowed my eyes. "Planning?" I said, in a dangerous voice.

There was a gleam in his eyes for just a moment. Then it faded, and he continued. "I've also discovered that I'm irresistable when I'm charming and sincere. And especially when a woman feels sorry for me." I glared at him and he chuckled. Soon I was laughing too.

"You really are a glib devil," I said fondly, and I kissed him on the cheek. "That's what I thought when I first saw you, and now I know I was right."

We left the gym building and started to go off in separate directions. "Remember the rules!" I shouted. "Tell anybody on the team about this and you're a dead man, Mike Hunter!"

"Right!" he yelled back. "Rules!" Then he laughed again. "Don't worry! Your secret is safe with me!" And then he was gone.

There was no sign of him at the game the following week. Or the week after that.

When I checked with the Registrar, I found out there was no student named Michael Hunter attending the college. I never saw hide nor hair of the boy again.

For weeks I wondered about him. Who was he? Was he from another college? Why had he finagled his way into the softball game in the first place? And I kept thinking about what he'd said about advance planning. What if...?

No, he couldn't have. He wouldn't. The only way it was possible was if he joined the game, faked his lousy play, convinced me to stay late, timed the janitor's schedules, maybe paid him off...

All that for me? No, he wouldn't have. Would he?

Then again, he WAS a pretty sneaky fuck.

For all I knew, maybe he even wrote a story about it. But who'd ever want to read anything he wrote, anyway?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1) What you hold in your grubby hands (or are reading on your grubby screens--go get the Windex! But wait till AFTER you turn off the computer, Dummy!) is my attempt at a M1KE HUNT story. I figure I've written a bunch of stories about My Cunt, so why not M1KE HUNT? Actually, my first story was really about My Cock. For that matter, M1KE HUNT makes no sense at all. His name really oughtta be M1KE HOCQUE or something. Maybe he was worried that Canadian readers would pronounce it "Mike Hoak," which would sound a lot more than "My Coke" than "My Cock," killing the alliteration. Of course, in Canada they might already be calling him "Meek Hoont" and looking baffled every time he makes a name joke. "Meek Hoont? Qu'est que c'est Meek Hoont? Thees ees funnais een Amairica? Eh?"

2) Reproduction of this story is perfectly fine, as long as it's done for free. In Canada, free reproductions of this story should be discounted at seventy-seven cents on the dollar. Free Japanese reproductions of this story carry an additional handling charge of $85 to cover shipping, handling, translation, and World War II reparations for Pearl Harbor. Used schoolgirl panties not included. Send all payments and Formal Declarations of War to M1KE HUNT's website, <http//members.aol.com/mrm1ke>.

3) This is a 100% true story by Taria. Well, some of it's true, anyway. OK, none of it's true. But that never stopped HIM! Please note that the second-to-last character in my name is an I <"eye">, not a 1 <"one">, despite the purposeful HUNT-esque spelling at the top of the story. That was just a CLUE, you moke. In reality, my name is pronounced TAH-reeyah, as in "AH-reeyah." But if I spelled it like it sounds, it would be with an E <"ee"> instead of an I <"eye"> or a 1 <one">, and that would be too confusing. It would also be just plain WRONG. So send all responses to <TariaT@aol.com>, and spell it correctly, dammit.

4) Do you know what a pain in the ass these freaking notes are?