Senior Year Memories Ch. 01

A real fun adventure story, with a great chance of improving.

Hilarious and excellent characters. You should consider writing regular books! Captivating

Fun story, hard to believe he wouldn’t be known for his dick as he would be seen in the gym and showers, I had a friend when I was 14, I had a 10 inch cock, wasn’t a nerd, but wasn’t very popular, but used to bed Other guys that his dick was bigger than theirs and made quite a small fortune at school doing so. Funny enough, he looked a bit like Rod Stewart, but I never saw him with many girls. He would always pull his cock out when he had a hard on, mostly because it would pop out the top of his jeans.

Really hot. Nothing like a nerd turning the tables on a sexy bitch with his sexual powers. Well done, my friend !

After discovering your stories and jumping around a bit I've started at the beginning chronologically. Two other girls named Kaitlyn were mentioned, presumably in senior year as well. Do they ever pop up? yes, that's my question lol.

Heh what a great start to what I hope remains a rollicking good yarn. Well done, well crafted, well told in great style.

GeoD, was it? Huh, I didn't expect to read a whole story in the comment section of a story. Yet somehow I read the whole thing. I don't know what to a say exactly, but I enjoyed it. Somewhat enlightening - M

Marvelous, great hot fun

Really enjoyed it! If the other chapters measure up to this, I'll read them all. It's not the theme/cliche, it's the telling...anyone giving this less than five stars is not really focused on what you were trying to accomplish. Great job!

Most of us "nerds" have big cocks. Luckily, a college senior who lived around the corner from me whose lawn I mowed de-flowered me on a hot summer day.

This has got to be the ultimate revenge of the nerds. The nerd with a 10inch dick who finally gets to fuck Barbie. It was a nice light funny and erotic read, I really appreciated the light hearted banter.

I liked your story it was fun to read. It is of course it's a fantasy. Bu fantasy I mean the premise of the story is a fantasy. In real life a slut bimbo would not be attracted to a nerd just because he has a super sized cock.

I graduated from high school in '71. We were one of the first high school classes to get all the benefits of 'The Pill'. If was different before then. The pill came out before that, but it took a few years for Planned Parenthood, and free access to minors to happen.

A girl could go get free birth control, and not have to get her 'rent's permission. The freshmen gitls were all pilled up, and by my junior year, they were looking for dick all the time. And the sophomores, and the juniors, and the seniors. It started about '69.

The number of teen pregnancies, and teenage marriages dropped dramatically. A generation before, say those that WOULD have graduated by 65-66, were married w- kid(s), all over the place. I lived in a small Oregon logging & mill town of 7,000, with another 3-4,000 in the 'burbs and farms, but we only had one high school, of about 2500.

But my gawd there was a shit load of teenage parents as I was growing up; older siblings, cousins, everywhere you looked. There were a lot of young uncles and aunts. It didn't take much of a gap between siblings to have nieces and nephews your own age. I was the youngest of 4, and had nieces and nephews 3, 4, 5 years older than me; that was weird, but fun. It was like siblings, but you liked each other since you didn't live together.

The ones from California were the most fun, 'cause I'd go visit, and learn about the 'big city'.

Everybody knew everybody else, and except for the testosteroned guys who clashed and regularly were at 'The Tree', across the street behind the high school shops, beating each other up, everybody got along pretty well.

The pill changed things so effing much; there was no AIDS, so everybody was fucking everybody. Getting laid was NOT a challenge, for anybody. By the time the draftees started coming back from 'Nam, there were 2-3 keggers a week in the Summer, camping parties up in the woods, where if there was enough booze and drugs, everybody ended up naked, and partying for days, until the money ran out, or we had to go to work.

There were times, I'd go to a outdoor party for a couple days, go to work for a couple, then go back to the party. We really didn't have much in the way of hateful cliques like so many people talk about. By my senior year, there was a division between those who drank, and those who did drugs and drank, but there was only one real clash.

My best friend & I had just gotten wrecked on a big fat joint, and headed to the druggies hangout, the Dairy Freeze drive through, with a big parking lot, where the house had been torn down. This was the domain of anyone high, and hangin' out. It was party organization central, and the drug marketplace.

For some reason, 5-6 senior guys who did not do drugs, and were distainful of those who did, (75% of the rest), decided to make an appearance in the middle of stoner central, and be obnoxious.

My buddy & I were walkin', just high and enjoying the sun, when one of the guys said something about us being high. I'd known some of these guys since jr high, and most since 2nd grade, and had been good friends with them, on school sports teams, and hanging out. I had just lost the ability to deal with asshat coaches, and refused to play for them. Really pissed off the nee high school baseball coach, 'cause I was the heir apparent catcher, who had played the position, and loved it, since grade school when I had a chance meeting with a ex-minor league player who spent a couple days tutoring me, when I was 9-10.

I told the asshole coach to fuck off, after getting a taste of him during football season, my freshman year, and in PE classes, refused to play for him, but started for the Elks & Legion summer teams through high school. The kid who caught, instead, was a nice guy, but fat, slow, and couldn't hit. The coach hated me, and would fuck with me, whenever he could. I'm sure it got transferred to the players. He was just that kind of ass hole.

(I got sweet pay back about 6-7 years later. He had moved to a Southern Oregon school as fb & bb coach, and was having success in fb. I was at Oregon, in Sports Medicine, just about to finish my 5th year, & graduate, (I didn't go to college right out of high school).

I got to Autzen Stadium for practice, and was about to do my normal routine, of entering from the opposite end from the stadium training room, walk the length of the field down the S hash mark, then loop back, walk the north hash mrk, then right down the center to the TR. I was looking for torn up Astro Turf, or anything a player might get hurt on, trip on, etc. It was MY effing team, and MY effing field, and I was one of the many who felt the same way, and took responsibility for the field of play, and looked after the players' wounds and injuries. We all took it seriously.

It was one of the best parts of the job, and profession; the quiet, empty stadium, SO different than game days, when it was crazy, (and this was when the Ducks sucked; it's insanity, now.)

Much to my surprise, when I came out of the West tunnel, there was a team on MY effing field. There wa NEVER a team on my field before our practices, and according to the schedule, there should NOT have been. The high school play-offs were at Autzen the coming weekend, while the team was on the road; the high school teams has practice time, but they were nearly an hour past time limit, by agreement, AND state play off rules for length of practice. in other words, they were risking MY players' safety/careers by keeping me from looking for injury makers/career enders, AND they were effing cheating their opponents by getting extra practice time.

By the time I got to mid-field, I had angled to the N sideline where I saw gear laying on the turf. I didn't know who was practicing, 'cause the sched only said 'HS Playoff Practice'.

I got to a pile, as I was walking, and saw a clip board with "Bell, T." written on a piece of white trainers' tape. That always pissed me off, anyway, and I had a chapped ass by the time I got to midfield, anyway. The tape pissed me off because, especiallly at the hs level, the coaches had too much influence, and squeezed the piddly Sports Medicine budgets, and adequate supplies was routine; then they'd steal tape to use it like .25 cent masking fucking tape, instead it protecting a players ankle. Self-centered cunts...

When saw, "Bell T", my head shot up to the sound of that prick's voice, about the same instant, and I thought, oh, the worm has turned. I strolled out to stand besides my former, never was, baseball coach, and stood beside the prick, adopting the same folded arm stance he had.

By then, I knew the 'prick coach' mind, inside & out. They were the biggest injury risk and impediment to an athlete's recovery, and the staff & faculty drilled into us, know the causes of injuries, and the barriers to recovery, and the number 1 was ego-centric prick coaches who cared more about their W-L record, and their jobs, than the kids. They are of a 'type'.

One aspect of them was they always wanted everyone to think THEY had the answer to everything, and they knew everything, and all asst coaches, etc should always stand behind them, never at THEIR forward level.

By me standing beside him, as I did with any Oregon coach I was every on the sidelines, or bench with, (because they understood OUR value, and looked to us for reality checks on fatigue or a nagging injury's impact), well, to this arrogant prick, I might as well as been pissin' on his leg.

He was yellin' at some kid he's likely never taken the time to teach his position's details, or explain WHY the kid needed to do what Bell, T wanted, 'cause he likely didn't know the reason, himself, and/or was too fucking lazy to do the work. Like I said, prick coaches are a 'type'.

i should interject at this point, I was small in high school. I was 5' 6" and 125-135 when I graduated. I was no long ball hitter, but I was no push over at home plate. I learned at 10, how to 'place, brace k lean in', to protect the plate, and never forgot. You did your spikes in, set yourself, and that bubbas got to be real big to move you; being short had an advantage.

I had grown 4" & put on 60# since Bell, T had last seen me. He had no CLUE who was in the Oregon Sports Medicine Staff shirt, pissin' on his leg. He swung his head around like he was going to say/do something to this invader of his space as I continued to look straight ahead.

He hesitated just a second, when he saw the green, knowing full well he was supposed to be long gone from Autzen by 2:35pm, and I calmly said, "You are on my field, you are using my time. Do you have a fucking purpose in life, or reason for living?"

THIS was one of his pet sayings, when someone made a mistake, and to say this old, washed up, bitter 'cause he never made it to the Mets prick was having his own words thrown in his face. By someone NOW he had look up to see their eyes. He'd started that decline old worn out knees do to a guy in their late 40's; they lose a couple inches in height, just from their knees, then take another 1-2 off from their spines, due to getting fat & out of shape.

He couldn't hve recognized my voice, but he knew where he used to wear out that phrase, and he heard the steel in my voice. The only response from him was, 'Um.'

So, I went for the KO. "Yeah, figures you were compensating, back then.

You have 5 minutes to be gone from MY field, so I can do my job, because I take my job, and profession seriously. In five minutes, if there is any remnant of Medford on this field, I will call the OSAA and report you for cheating in the state playoffs."

I had never looked at him, keeping my eyes, straight ahead. I had never raised my voice, but since 'Bell, T' had stopped mid-rant to turn on me, the entire team was looking and listening to me. I was keeping my eyes on the R guard, whose ass was getting chewed.

I caught his eyes, and stepped toward him. The entire team parted like a wave, thinking I was heading for the training room. Instead, I kept looking at this kid, and half-way to him, asked, "Has anyone ever explained to you how important your job is, in protecting that little running back who's outside one his own, with the ball?"

He shook his head, No.

Anyone ever teach you the footwork, for getting out of the line, or how to get release from a holding defensive lineman? Or, did they just tell to do it."

I had spent hours listening to, and watching Oregon coaches TEACH linemen. Part of the job is to watch all practices and all games, looking for clues to the cause, mechanism of, or a way to prevent injuries. You absorb a lot of knowledge in the process. I could probably execute the footwork as well as any pulling guard or tackle, but not as fast or smooth, plus I understood how important their protection was, because I 'repaired' the poorly protected running backs.

I walked up to him, and proceeded to show him, the steps he needed to ustilize to get out of the line of scrimmage, naturally twist his body, in the process, and strip down or up on the defensive players hand, so they'd release his jersey. It took all of 90 seconds.

As I finished showing him, I said, "Your protection of that running back is no different, or less important than me walking this field from 2:30-2:40 EVERY day I cover practice. I do that to protect MY players, then start taping at 2:45, to protect them, further.

Your coach is keeping me from my job, and making me late to the start of taping. What if someone gets hurt today from a corner of the turf being ripped up from a cleat, or tore up from a helmet screw from one of your helmets?"

I heard a kid yell, 'we'll help you look...if coach'll let us.'

"No thanks, you need to be out of here, before someone reports you for going too long, and you have to forfeit, Friday night." You would have thought I had lit their ass in fire, the way they moved.

I turned around, looked at Bell, T, shook my head indisgust, looked up at the big-azz guard, and asked, "You get it, now?"

He was waggin' his head up, and down, sayin' "thanks, thank a lot."

I walked off to the S hashmark, and started my routine, thinking about how a traveling imsurance salesman, an ex-minir league carcher had seen a ten year old kid, throwing a ball at a wall, to catch the rebounds, with a big ass carcher's mitt, invested a bit of himself, and shaped a life.

I got thanked, he never did. I hope I impacted that kid's life as much as mine was then, and later.

I was not imtimidated by these drunk seniors, and when one made some comment about gettin' high, I just said, 'Yeah, it makes the ice cream really fuckin' good. Damn sight better than pukin' beer."

I had just turned towards the street as one of the sucker punched me up side the head. The Dairy Freeze was on a busy truck route corner of Main. The curb had been cut back for the trucks, maiking a foot tall curb, not ten feet from where I was hit. Just as I looked toward the street, I looked right in the eyes of an older friend's blue shrapnel spattered face, sitting low in a VW bus of one of the many horny, big titted hippy chicks in town. His post fuck buzz was ruined.

As I was spinning back around from the sucker punch, and heading for the drive-up window, (the drive ups got more foot traffic than car traffic), for some ice, and anither ice cream cone, I heard another 'Nam vet say to the cluster of drunk seniors, "You guys better get the fuck out of here, you did that right in front of Calkins, and he is Cork's lil bro. Calkins will kick all of your ases, just for the sport."

Mike Calkins won his first fight at age 5, when he beat the crap out of a 9 year old bully. He was a 6'4" ex-Marine, with a commendation for personal kills while stationed near the DMZ. He WAS my big bro. I was one of only teo people who could calm him down from a ass kickin', end up in jail rage. The other was still in 'Nam. I could get right in my face, well his chest, since I was damn near a foot shorter, put my hand on his chest, and bring him back to the real world, instead of where ever he went.

The experience sure helped me deal with roid raged athlete's later. He did not like chicken shit, did not put up with sucker punchin', and no one fucked with me, unless I deserved it. His response was usually, did he deserve it? If I did, I was on my own. I found out that day what happened, when i didn't.

I had a cut that needed a stitch, so I headed back to the car of the vet who had warned the drunk seniors. By the time, I got to the back, Mike was talkng to the drunk seniors. They were being somewhat mouthy. When they were warned, one of them, a country kid who THOUGHT he was bad ass had said, 'I ain't scared of Calkins.'

Having soent a couple of years around a LOT of 'Nam vets by then, my thought was, 'You're dumber than you look. He scares the fuck out of me, sometimes, and I can manage him.'

I had started living on my own, about 2 months after my 16th. By my senior year, I'd had probably 20 different vets crash at my place for a week to a month, or more, while they were 'adjusting' to the world.. There always seemed to be 3-4 around. They essentially raised me, and taught me what life was about, and fucked up war is.

Cork was only one of the big brothers I had. (He get fucked up, and sing, poorly, 'Polka dots are in, even on the skin.' He shield his platoon from a frag grenade, and had BB sized blue speckles on 80% of his body to show for it. He reply to any questions was, 'I was the biggest, I could stop more, plus I was closer.'

He called me over to the fragmented circle in front and beside him, with the guy who hit me, in front, center. mike said, 'Come, here. Take a shot at him, he owes you. Do it like a man, though, looking in his eyes, not like a chicken shit."

I knew just how much it hurt MY hand to hit someone, and I already needed a stitch or two, and didn't want a sore hand, on top of it." Plus, it was Spring, and I was working out for my last year of Legion ball, that Summer. I didn't need to fuck up and break my throwing hand.

"He's not worth the effort. He knows he's checken shit."

About then, the same country boy who popped off about not being afraid of Mike, called me a pussy, or such, and stepped from Mike's R side. His blind side; part of that 80% was his R eye, which was now glass.

He saw ovement, and reacted. Didn't think; went to his 'place', and reacted. In less than 10 seconds, all 6 of those cocky, drunk senior BOYS were on the ground, and none acted like they were ina hurry to get up. I was within MY arms reach of Cork, and I didn't need to, or get a chance to move.

I looked at the dumb country boy, and asked, "Learn anything, Dave?"

That was the one and only act of aggression, bullying, my entire senior year. There was no bitchiness from the grils, popular, cheerleaders, or otherwise. Just a few dumb senior boys, once.

It was truly aa good time to be young.

GeoD

This is a great first story! I'm hooked! I'm about to lose a few weeks of my summer finishing up the rest of your stories and I'm so excited you write in a way where each story ends without a cliffhanger so to speak. Thanks for sharing with us. So hot!!

he should have said "a handjob per signature"