[Go together]

Done's another day... And what a drag it was...

Why?... It's... that feeling again. That weird feeling... Head in the clouds, dick in your thoughts. Yeah, that's it. But it's the teachers now. You must've fried your brain with too much porn, because goddamn, you are down bad...

The pen skirts. The stockings. The stereotypical glasses with sharp angles. The stern stares. Those fuzzy little haircuts that make them look like strict, sexy librarians from hell.

You just can't get your mind off of them. Your eyes keep wandering their bodies. Their chests. Their asses. The legs. Faces. Expressions. Smiles. Scowls... A bit of shoulder's out? You ain't missing it. Collarbone from the French teacher's undone top button? Bon appétit! One teacher even showed a little bit of cleavage and it made you feel as if you had a pit in your stomach...

It fucked you up, that one.

You can't even wait for them to turn anymore. You just stare. Openly and without inhibitions. Last math class, you kinda even hoped the teacher would catch you looking. Catch you and... what? Say something?

"What are you staring at, young man?"

You'd just shrug. "Dunno, ma'am. You tell me."

Honestly, what are they gonna do? Ask if there's something on their chest?

You doubt it.

Then again, why are you doing it?...

It's instinct... A twitch in your gut. A pulse in your spine. A little shot of heat and adrenaline. Not quite a hard-on, but definitely a buzz in your blood.

A diluted rush of... something...

...

Fuck... Whatever. That's Monday's problem.

Right now, you've got thirty minutes before your all-dudes girls' night. Enough time to load up on chips, soda, and other unhealthy shit. And beer. You were promised a motherfucking for...

"..."

You swallow. Once for the dry throat. Then again to push the thoughts down.

...

Half an hour later, David pulls up at the main gate. John's already with him, probably cracking dumb jokes and talking nerdy things.

Handshake. Nod. Small talk. You squeeze into the back of the beat-up car and lose two hours to radio fuzz and half-baked conversations. You try to follow. Try to toss in a line or two. Sometimes it lands. Sometimes you're just background noise. That's about it.

...

"A few miles left and we should be there. Hey, Tim, what you thinking about? We've just been going on and on and you've just been looking more and more lost. Hahaha... Aha," David asks, turning slightly as he throws an awkward chuckle your way.