Thanks for all the feedback on my “Drummer Boy” story, folks! I’ll be continuing with the next couple of chapters soon, but in the meantime here’s a one-off. It’s been rolling around in my head for a few weeks, and I couldn’t let it just sit there. Enjoy!
Lady D.
Statistics was, by far, the most pointless class I’d had in college so far. As a fine arts major, there was a requirement for me to take so many math credits to graduate. Never having been Mr. Math Whiz, I’d put off the requirement until the beginning of my junior year.
Deciding that there was little chance of the university waiving the requirement before I graduated, I figured I might as well get it out of the way. Calculus seemed way too hard, and I had too much pride to take the super-basic arithmetic classes that were designed for jocks. I’d heard that Stats was easy, so it seemed a good compromise.
I really should have gone with the basic math. The lecturing professor was youngish guy, sociable with the students, and completely useless. He’d chat up the class at the beginning of the hour, and that would usually eat up anywhere from five to twenty minutes of class time.
He’d talk about anything, depending on what he felt like yakking about that day. TV shows, working out at the gym, current events on campus. Anything, it seemed, except Stats.
The rest of the class seemed to enjoy it, so they kept him at it for as long as they could. When he did start teaching, though, it was like he was making up his lesson plan as he went along. He’d start a book example, get lost and forget how to work the solution, only to slowly, painfully remember it as he scribbled it out on the whiteboard.
It made taking notes nearly impossible, since I was afraid to write anything down in case it was one of his false trails. I couldn’t imagine how this guy had gotten this position as a teacher, or how he’d held onto it. Someone had to have complained about him already, right? To get my actual instruction, I had to rely on the TA in the discussion section. Unfortunately, that was headed by a well-meaning but English-impaired grad student. Half the time, I couldn’t even make out the commonplace English words, and it only got worse when he used mathematical terms.
Since I didn’t care to join in the lecture discussions of, say, how Jersey Shore was actually getting better since last season, I spent my time doodling and girl-watching. Doodling because, hey, Arts major, and it pays to practice. The girl-watching because, duh, girls.
There was a wide range of students in the class. It was an intro class for the biz kids and the law kids and all sorts of kids who needed to pick up some math but didn’t want to go full-on nerd-alert.
As for girls, there were quite of few of your perky peppy sorority types. They tended to cluster together. There were a few of the liberal arts types, who I guess needed the class to help categorize the works of Milton into tables of analytical blah blah. And then there were the fine arts types, like me. We were few in number, and tended to keep to ourselves.
And there were a few outliers, a handy term I’d picked up from the class itself. And I had one favorite in particular.
She usually sat in the back of the class, near the windows, and was always there before I arrived. She was…well, depending on who you asked, they’d either describe her as “chubby” (if they were being nice) or “fat” (if they were an insensitive jackass). She was overweight, probably to the tune of two of the super-skinny sorority gals, but when I looked at her the word “full” always came to mind. It was as if she had filled up her body to just the right, round amount, and stayed right there.
She had this long black hair down to her elbows, with a just a hint of curl to it. To keep her hair out of her face, she wore these big plastic headbands. They tended to be pretty loud: red and yellow polkadots one day, purple and lime zebra stripes the next, and so on.
She tended to wear a school windbreaker (Go Illini!) over a t-shirt that always seemed a bit too tight, as if no mortal clothes could keep up with her large figure. And she didn’t wear jeans or shorts, like so many of my fellow students, but nice pants, usually black, and chunky heels on her feet.
She wasn’t pretty, exactly. She was pale, and still had a bit of acne going on. And she had a round face with full cheeks and a bit of a wide nose. Thin lips that wouldn’t exactly stop traffic, and never any lipstick or anything like that.
Despite this, though, she’d smile and say “Hi!” to anyone who caught her eye. This simple act made her face bright, her brown eyes lively, and, well, kind of lovely.
See, in my experience, every woman has something about them that makes them beautiful. Sometimes it’s their looks. A nice pair legs, a stunning face, a big juicy ass, things like that. Sometimes it’s all attitude. The take-charge types, the wild curiosity of some nerdy girls, the free-spiritedness of hippie girls. Or maybe it’s a talent that they have Kolej Escort that lights up a room. Like a girl who’s really good at singing, or the intensity that comes with some of the art chicks, the way they work themselves into a fervor on one of their wacky projects.
With Jennie Lynn, it was as simple as her smile. It made her seem so open. Friendly and inviting, like she already knew you, and was honestly glad to see you.
I made a habit of either sitting across from her in the back or, if those seats were already taken, as close to her as I could. I’d sneak glances at her between my sketchings. I guess I just liked looking at her.
I think she had to have noticed me looking, though. I just hoped that she didn’t think I was creepy. As far as I could tell, though, she just spent her time in class taking notes, even though she looked as bored as I usually felt.
A couple of months passed, and midterms rolled around. Unfortunately, I did as poorly as I’d expected. The midterm was worth 15% of the final grade, and I’d scored a mighty D+. My homework was in the solid C range, so I was going to have to really nail the final to make up for my lackluster performance.
After class, I was looking over my exam, noting that the instructor had, while merciless in docking points for my mistakes, commented encouragingly on a few of them. “Coefficients are tricky!” “Don’t forget your significant figures!” “Two standard deviations to either side!” All the while I was thinking angrily that maybe someone ought to give him some notes on how to run a class, and then maybe he wouldn’t have to gas up his students with so much red ink.
So my mood was pretty sour indeed, when I heard a voice over my shoulder.
“You, sir, are in some trouble.”
I looked up and came face to face with the largest breasts I had ever laid eyes on. Round and full, perfect for a playful bit of squeezing, or a gentle head resting. No windbreaker today, either. Just a yellow polo, fabric stretched achingly tight across her bosom, the buttons on the collar straining precariously, seeming to be barely holding together.
After a second I forced my eyes upward and saw the smiling face of my favorite class distraction, beaming down at me. Hey, her headband matched her top, black and yellow stripes. The girl had a style all her own alright.
“You’re going to have to pull some serious study time to atone for that mess,” she said. Her tone was playful, even while the words rang true.
“You got that right,” I replied. “Trouble is, this professor is…how to put it delicately…instructionally challenged.”
She giggled, and her breasts jiggled, and my eyes widened. She had to know that I was helping myself to an eyeful of her breastacular bounty.
“I know,” she said. “I think coming to lecture makes me dumber. Where did they get this guy?”
“Dunno,” I said, “But I guess professors have to eat, too.”
I stood, narrowly missing her breasts on my way out of the desk. “Jonesy,” I ventured, extending my hand.
She shook my hand and said, “Jennie Lynn.” Her hand was small, chubby, and warm. Not sweaty, but just warm, as if her thermostat was set just a bit higher than average. She looked around at the classroom, which had almost emptied out.
“So,” Jennie Lynn said, “what are you gonna do?”
“Well, the way I see it, I’ve got three choices,” I said. “I drop the class and take it again next semester, and hope to hell that someone else is teaching it. Or I can knuckle down, give this class my full attention and kick ass on the final, and as a reward, never take a math class again.”
Jennie Lynn giggled again. Bobble bobble went her breasts. “And what’s the third option?” she asked.
“Go batshit crazy, move to Montana, build a house out of corn husks and mud, and spend the rest of my life hoarding squirrels for pets and food,” I said.
“Ick!” Jennie Lynn said, laughing again. “Don’t do that! You’ll miss Jersey Shore.”
It was my turn to laugh at her joke. “But I think I’ll take the knuckle down route. I’m a never-say-die type, even when it’s hard.”
Jennie Lynn smiled and raised an eyebrow. “That’s refreshing to hear, Jonesy. I just happen to have a spot open for a study buddy. You interested?”
Um, bright, bubbly Jennie Lynn with the cute face and the bountiful breasts of the most womanly magnificence? You bet your natural black ass I was!
“Sure,” I said, hoping I was playing it cool. “When do you wanna get together?”
“Judging by the grade on that exam,” she said, “the sooner the better. I study most nights at the Espresso Royale on John Street. Ever been there?”
I nodded. I knew the place. A coffee shop that was too hip for squares, but wasn’t ironic enough for the hipsters. That is to say, a run-of-the-mill coffee joint with decent prices and a laid-back clientele.
“Great!” Jennie Lynn said. “Come by at seven.” She shrugged her backpack over one shoulder, and, for one breathtaking second, the fabric of Kuzey Ankara Escort her shirt pulled taut across her bosom. It was pretty incredible.
“Two things to remember,” Jennie Lynn said. “One: don’t keep me waiting. I hate that.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, study buddy,” I said. “What’s the other thing?”
Jennie Lynn smiled and said, “The other thing…”
She turned around and walked out of the classroom. I watched her ass move side-to-side, as she strode out. She had a nice big butt, firm and well-defined, and the fit of her slacks was doing her a ton of favors.
Watching her mesmerizing exit, I found myself becoming aroused. Oh, there was no way I was going to forget that.
* * *
I met Jennie Lynn at the coffee shop at one minute to seven. She waved me over when she saw me, greeting me with one of her big smiles. I was pleased that it was just the two of us. I was worried that I was joining a small study group, and while I would have been okay with that, having her all to myself was much more preferable.
We spent most of the time there actually studying. No, for real! With Jennie showing me the ropes, I was able to follow along easily, and discovered that statistics wasn’t nearly as arcane as I’d thought. There was no way I’d become a whiz overnight, but I began to have some hope. Jennie Lynn was pleased that I caught on quickly, and didn’t have to be dragged from concept to concept.
I also got some of her backstory. Turns out, Jennie Lynn was a junior like me, but had switched majors at the beginning of the year from Chemical Engineering to Business, and had some catching up to do.
“I’ve always been sort of a math wiz,” she said. “Big old science nerd, too. Chem E wasn’t hard, but it was getting boring. I thought about the future and saw a life endless slave labor in a lab. With a business degree, on the other hand, you can pretty much write your own ticket.”
“So you’re not bothered by how much the professor sucks?” I asked.
“Nope,” Jennie Lynn said. “I’ve been teaching myself. I have a ‘Stats for Dummies’ book, and that works much better.”
“Why even bother taking the class then?” I said.
“Same as you,” she said. “I need the hours. So I have to take this class seriously, unfortunately.” She sighed. “Even if the prof is a thundering imbecile.”
“That’s for real,” I said. “No man should know as many details about another man’s spin class as I do about his.”
“What about you, Jonesy?” Jennie Lynn said. “You’re an arts guy, right? You got some dank studio that smells like sculpey and desperation?”
I laughed. “Nothing so grand,” I said. “My studio is a third-hand drafting table from craigslist that takes up half my bedroom. Impressed yet?”
Jennie Lynn gave me one of those big smiles that lit her whole face up, and that lit me up. I was being polite, y’see, and avoiding outright staring at her enormous breasts. Well, mostly. She was wearing this cashmere number, cherry red. It showcased her boobs something spectacular and, big as they were, they thrust out over the table at me. Whatever bra she was wearing under there must have been an engineering masterpiece to treat those breasts so favorably. It was hard not to notice her chest, but I was being good. I even took note her matching headband, ladybug-themed, cherry red with black spots.
“Depends,” Jennie Lynn said. “How do you plan to make your fame and fortune with that?”
“Well,” I said, a little sheepishly. “I work mostly in pencil. Sometimes ink or charcoal. I plan to draw comic books, if you can believe that.”
Jennie Lynn giggled. “They still make those things?” she said. “I thought it was all just movies these days.”
“Shut up!” I said. “Naw, I plan on doing some indie work for a while, to build up my rep. I figure as a black man in the biz, that’s enough of a rarity for me to get noticed.”
Jennie Lynn smiled slyly. “Well, I certainly noticed you,” she said. “You kind of stand out, considering the student rest of the student body.”
It was true. There weren’t a lot of black folks on campus. Chalk that one up to being stuck out in the middle of the cornfields of Illinois. There were even less people of my color in the fine arts department, and most of them were interested in making “artist statements” about race in America and stuff like that.
“Well,” I said, “I’m just looking to get my foot in the door. Then, with a few graphic novels under my belt, I can make a play for one of the big publishers. I’ve always wanted to get my hands on Spider-Man, or maybe Spawn.”
“No girls?” Jennie Lynn asked, frowning. Thinking I’d offended her, I sputtered for a second, before she said, “Teasing!”
I shot a dagger-filled look at her, and we both laughed, while she continued.
“I know how you boys are,” Jennie Lynn said. “It always comes back to the girls. You’ve probably got notebooks full of us. Doing all kinds of things.”
“Well,” I demurred. “Nothing with me at the moment, but Maltepe Escort I’ve been known to let my mind wander a bit during class…”
“I bet,” Jennie Lynn said with a big smile. Sheesh, she was getting prettier every time she hit me with one of those. “I’ve seen your ‘notes’. The ‘significant figures’ in your notebook aren’t the ones we’re supposed to be studying in class, are they?”
I blushed. Imayhave sketched a few nudes of the girls in class. I didn’t think Jennie Lynn had seen any of my scribbled imaginings of her, but she seemed to know a bit more than she let on.
“Gotta pass the time somehow,” I said. “May as well get some enjoyment out of it.”
“Are you any good?” she asked. “Let me see.”
Before I could react, Jennie Lynn grabbed my notebook, which was, doofus me, the same one I used for class, and was peppered with my sketches. She smiled as she flipped through it, nodding every once in a while. She came across one page and raised both eyebrows.
I felt my cheeks get warm with embarrassment. I began to babble. “Those are really just sketches…scribbles really…sometimes I have to guess at…”
“Oh, these aren’t bad at all,” Jennie Lynn said. “Some of them are quite…evocative. Although,” she paused to look intently at one page, “I don’t know that my boobs arequitethat big.”
I was mortified. “Well…like I said, sometimes I have to guess. You know, I can’t always get a good look…”
“Oh, that’s not true,” Jennie Lynn said, closing the notebook and sliding it back across the table to me. “You’ve gotten quite a lot of peeks in class, haven’t you?”
Well, of course I had, every chance I could.
“You noticed?” I said.
“Of course I noticed,” she said. “You’re not the only one whose mind wanders during class. Sometimes I can’t help thinking…” She trailed off, and stared up and away with a wistful look on her face.
“Earth to Jennie Lynn,” I said.
Her attention snapped back to the present, and I saw that she was blushing almost as brightly as her headband. Really, really pretty, pimples and all.
“Maybe we should get back on track,” she said, and flipped open her homework packet. “Now check out problem number nine.”
“Okay,” I said with resignation, and checked out problem nine.
I read aloud, “‘Analyze the population data below and find an equation for the best-fit curve.’ And then there’s a couple of columns of numbers about three miles long.”
“Ah, hyperbole, where would we be without you,” Jennie Lynn said. “Now how do we start?”
I grimaced. “With the usual stuff, right? Find the mean and the mode and all that?”
“There you go,” she said. “And then?”
“Standard deviations,” I said.
Jennie Lynn nodded. “Good,” she said. “Why?”
I shrugged. “That’s just what you do next, right?”
“Sure,” Jennie Lynn said, “but why?”
I sighed. “I’ll be honest with you,” I said. “I know how to do the figuring, but it’s all just formulas. I’m still a little unclear on why it works.”
Jennie Lynn gave a smile, this one smoky and sly. “Well then,” she said, “let me lay it out for you in a way that you might understand.”
Jennie Lynn took her chubby little hands and brought them up to her breasts, cupping a fuzzy boob in each one. She looked down at them, seemingly admiring the way they overflowed her grasp. Then she looked at me with a smirk.
“How big do you think my boobs are?” Jennie Lynn said.
I may have had to pick my jaw up off the table before answering. I’d never seen a girl caress her breasts in front of me, and so brazenly, so I was having a little trouble forming words.
“Um,” I stammered. “Big…really, really big,” I said.
Jennie Lynn gave her boobs a quick squeeze before answering. “Tell me about it,” she said. “But ‘really big’ is relative. Care to venture a guess on a cup size?”
Still enthralled by her boob-squeezing display, I muttered, “Oh man, I’ve never quite understood this. Like a G? Is there a size bigger than G?”
“There sure is,” Jennie Lynn said. “It goes the whole way down the alphabet. But I don’t usually wear a G-cup. Most of my bras are in the double-E-cup range. It can get complicated, but these girls feel most at home in a 42EE brassiere.”
“So is that your ‘best-fit curve’?” I joked.
Jennie Lynn responded by plumping up her breasts with her hands. That shut me up, and she continued on.
“You’re getting ahead of yourself, but you’re on the right track,” Jennie Lynn said. “Now, I have to order my bras specially, since most stores don’t carry them. Why do you think that is?”
“Um, because most women’s boobs aren’t as big as yours,” I said. “If they ordered bras for every size imaginable, they’d have a lot of them sitting there unsold.”
“Right,” said Jennie Lynn. She gave her breasts another squeeze and very briefly licked her upper lip. I was sporting a stiffie already from her display, but seeing her little tongue dart out to tickle her lip had me full-on hard. This busty angel was playing me like a harp.
“Retailers have to look at the data to see what’s going to make them the most money. Right now, the median cup size in America is right above a C-cup. Each letter up or down is one standard deviation away from the norm. And if we look at a standard bell curve…” Jennie Lynn paused. “You’re okay with bell curves?”