     I got her with a surprisingly easy trick. I’ve always wanted to find some of the nerdy artsy boys that no doubt pined after her as ‘friends’ and share with them how easy it was to have her. But that would be mean; my success was mostly luck with manipulation.
     Seeing her every day had become a looked forward to part of my day. In the art building of my college there is a mock indoor café on the first floor of the building. I’d pass through on the way to a class and she would always be there, sitting at the same table, holding her face up with a hand and propped elbow, reading a book. 
     She wore black horn-rimmed glasses, and her face had a sharp European look. She was thin for a college student; maybe a slight bulge above her waistband if she was sitting. I never got that good of a look at her at the table because I was always passing by her as she sat. You can see much of a woman when she’s sitting at a table. She wore black or brown corduroys, exclusively, and brown or black tight knit sweaters. As I became more fascinated with her, I’d try to see the size of her breasts but the sweater made it difficult to tell. They were not A’s, and they were not D’s. I guessed she was probably twenty years old.
      After three weeks of seeing her sitting in the same place I wanted to meet her. I went to the bookstore and bought a plain black book, a blank one, like people use to keep journals in or use to look artsy while writing crappy poems in Starbucks. 
     I copied a number of poems, mostly surreal nonsense, into it, all about love. Poems of my own writing. I used different pens so that it would appear the poems were the product of an extended period of time. Several different girls crossed the pages, but none of them sounded like her. I allowed several sexual poems, but included also whiney emo poems. 
     Once about three quarters of it was filled; and this took several hour long copying sessions, I wrote my name in the front cover where it says “if found please return this book to:” In addition to my name, I wrote my email address, my phone number, and my instant messenger name. 
     I went to the cafe an hour before I usually saw her. She was not there. I got some coffee and sat at her table, spreading out notebooks and textbooks and making a show of studying. I set the little black book of poems on the chair where she would sit. Art students and dance majors filled the tables around me. 
     Fifteen minutes before the time when I usually would pass through the area and see her I gathered my stuff, and hoping that she would be the next person in the area I left my little black book on the chair.
     I got an instant message from her later that night. She described having found my book, and she wanted to give it back to me. I asked her if she wanted to meet somewhere; she said no, she’d come to my room and drop it off. She lived in the same dorm complex I did, but didn’t say where she lived.
     She came to my door wearing black corduroys and a brown sweater. It was tight, and I didn’t stare at her body when I opened the door but I did notice my earlier observations were correct. She was lithe. 
     She held the book out to me.
     “I’m Naomi,” she said.
     “Christopher.”
     I took the book. She smiled awkwardly and turned to go.
     “Wait,” I said, “can I take you out to dinner to thank you?” 
     She nodded. I wrote down her information in badly shaking hands; I’m not good with meeting people. That should be obvious. Someone good at meeting people would have just sat down at the table with her and said hello. Not dropped off a fake poetic diary of love.
     The next night I pulled up in front of the dormitories, in an area known as the loop. She came around the corner of the series of buildings a few minutes later. She got in the car and I snuck a look at her before she pulled the door shut; she wore black dress pants, not corduroys (!), a brown chemise looking blouse, and a sparkly white scarf. It made her neck look pale, in a smooth way. I guessed she was about a B cup.
     I took her to a chain restaurant. Not the most hip place in town, but they served alcohol, and I wanted a beer so I could talk to her without getting dry mouth. The ride to the place was not the most comfortable. We talked about our majors, our hometowns, you have any brothers and sisters, and that stuff that makes awkward skin crawling moments.
     At the restaurant I got a 22oz beer and she ordered a five dollar fruity looking drink with a sword and piece of pineapple. 
     The alcohol loosened us up. We could laugh and talk like friends.
     She asked about the book. I told her it took me a year to write. Not a lie, if you consider how long some of the poems had been on my hardrive. 
She said she really liked it, and she looked serious. She raised her eyebrows. I was mostly done with the beer and on an empty stomach, and although I was not drunk, I suspected I was wrong in thinking there was anything seductive in this motion. This was incorrect.
     We ate. We got back in the car. 
     She placed her hand on my thigh when I backed out of the parking space. My head swam slightly with the food and drink. I felt good. I started rambling about William Carlos Williams. I think she also liked to read poetry. At the time I was sure she did.
     Her hand, her left hand, moved farther in on my thigh. I kept talking. I didn’t want to stop talking because I was afraid if I did it would become awkward, and whatever she meant by the hand on my thigh would stop.
I stopped at a stoplight. Her hand slid over my crotch. By now it was semi-hard and it was becoming more difficult to talk in full sentences. I continued on. 
     I shuddered when I felt her unzipping my zipper. She still sat mostly still in the passenger seat, buckled in. 
     The light turned green. I drove. Her hand slid inside of my fly and brushed my penis. 
     I stopped talking. I couldn’t think of anything more to say. I heard a click and realized she undone her seatbelt.
     I concentrated on a light that had turned red and began to brake. We were stopped in two lane traffic about a half mile from campus.
She darted her head and shoulders under my left arm and slid her face over my lap. I felt something warm and damp on the upper section of my penis. 
     My god, I realized, she’s about to give me head. 
     With her right hand, she ran her fingers up my inner thigh and into my underwear. Cars pulled around us; we were stopped at a red light. An SUV with tinted windows parked in the lane to my right. 
     If there was a passenger, they could see what was happening. 
     She reached her hand into my pants and pulled my penis out. I gripped the steering wheel. Time seemed to stop. I think a second passed. Then I felt nothing but warmth surrounding the upper three quarters of my member. Her head rose, and with it, the slippery feel of her lips and mouth, then she slid back down. I tried not to groan. It was very quiet in the car, and for some reason I felt like making noise would ruin the moment. By ruin the moment I mean inspire her to stop.
     The light turned green. I pressed the gas lightly, not wanting to scare her. She held my penis in her mouth.
     I accelerated to the forty five mile per hour speed limit, and she began to move at a steady but slow rhythm. Cars passed. My arms were high on the steering wheel over her head but astute viewers in even the smallest cars probably could have seen what was going on.
     My penis was burning with the warmth of her mouth moving over it. I could feel her tongue, slightly rough, sliding over the side. Breathing heavily, I slid my left hand under her sweater to feel at her breast. It felt heavy and her rocking up and down slow like a tango it pulled and pushed her breast into my hand. I felt her nipple, hard, through what felt like a nylon bra.
     My breathing was very heavy. I had a burning sensation in my balls. Her hair was falling over my lap. 
     She stopped for a moment to separate me from a piece of cloth; maybe her scarf, maybe a section of my fly.
     When she lowered her mouth over me again, the warm smoothness felt even better than before.
     It had been almost ten minutes since she began, and we were nearing campus. I could not quite orgasm. I felt it build under the soft undulations of her mouth, but I had to concentrate on driving. When I concentrated on driving for even the slightest moment the stepped pressure would go back down.  
     I pulled into the parking lot. I got as close to the building as possible, expecting her to take her mouth off from me and invite me to her room. 
     I turned the car off. She was still moving on my penis.
     I leaned back away from the steering wheel. She moved her right hand up and grabbed the base of my penis, squeezing it and moving her hand in unison with her mouth. Her saliva ran down me. She increased her pace.
     I started to moan softly and stopped myself. The increase in pace coupled with the tight pressure around the base of my penis from her hand and the warmth of her mouth had me very close to orgasm. 
     I felt the pressure build. I looked out my windshield. No one was walking in sight, but were right in front of many windows.
     The sound of a blow job, the slurping slapping sound, filled the car.
     Her head moved up and down in my lap. I began to forget where we were. All I could think about was the warmth and gentle pulling sensation of her mouth. 
     I felt my balls pull up into my body. My orgasm started to build around the base of my penis. My breathing got frantic, but I was still trying to control it in the quiet car.
     I came in her mouth. After the second pulsation of my penis’s orgasming, she stopped moving and gripped the base of my penis hard with her hand, keeping my head in her mouth, catching my semen.
     After a few moments my muscles stopped their rhythmic tightening, and she sat up. She opened her car door, causing the overhead light to kick on. 
     “Hey,” I protested, trying to cover my penis. I suddenly felt very naked. I looked at her as she leaned out of the door and opened her mouth. My cum ran out of her mouth unto the pavement. 
     I pulled the bottom of my t-shirt over my semi-erect penis.
     “Call me tomorrow,” she said, and got out of the car.   


