Home > University Crush
University Crush
Entry 1 - A nasty case of phone sexploitation
UNIVERSITY CRUSH
by Charlotte Kymberley
Imagine an alternative Bridget Jones. Now welcome to University Crush.
Leli Hetheridge is a college-based would-be uber-goddess flirting with life, lesbianism, shitty phone sex, worse drugs, 'sleep with your best friend' dilemnas and more.
Life doesn't have to be this hard, but isn't it more fun when it is? Read the new installment every wednesday...
New to UNIVERSITY CRUSH? Read it from the beginning...
As the commercial break sounds, I decide to check my emails before jumping into Cat's redundant bathwater. I hope she hasn't peed in it. My computer has long been a source of comfort and amusement; a sort of imaginary social life, except it is a social life, in a way, just not in a physical presence. I treat many of my online friends as late night counsellors; they don't seem to mind as long as I show them a picture of my boobs.
Bing
I have twelve messages! Miss popular it seems, until the initial excitement wears off and I see that the majority of my inbox is short of man-of-my-dreams emails from Malin and plenty full of junk.
So what have we got? One from my new best friend Delilah, one from my mother and about ten on how I can get a bigger penis.
Oh, to have a penis! I don't mean I want to grow myself a physical penis - rather, a penis that comes with a man. I am a horny, sexually frustrated girl in love with a semi-pro footballer in Hertfordshire who's so out of my league it's ridiculous. So then why does he ring me? Because I managed to capture outrageously-unlike-me photos on my camera phone under the bright lights of my Ikea £3.99 lampshade and then promptly downloaded them through a cable thingy into my laptop. So there I am in all my glory, positioned to camouflage my hideous wobbly bits, and with the help of a push-up bra and some heavy makeup I'm striking the smouldering sex kitten pose.
It seems to be working... I've had over 500,000 hits on my Party internet account since I updated my previous geeky photo to a glamour model pose, finger-in-mouth synonymous with a pr0n star. Oh, to be a model? I wish... ultimate acceptance.
Malin is the love of my life. Crush Of my life. more like, but he calls me. Yes, he calls me just as I get into the lukewarm bubbles, he picks his timing perfectly, like now, when I'm naked in the bath surrounded by candles feeling every inch the pre-raphaelite woman, complete with tumbling tresses and shapely bottom.
Actually, it's more like this. He rang me once when I was drunk, and this time it's different, because I'm not drunk and I don't know what to say and argh I'm flapping water over the edge of the bath soaking the floor... Perhaps Malin has a psychic connection with my personal hygiene habits? I say this because as I lower my naked self into the bath, my phone lets out a little trill of song. And yes, it's Malin.
I lean over the bath, grabbing my phone. 'Hello?' I answer, pretending I don't know who's calling. Malin either ignores my snubbing or fails to notice.
"Why is it so echoey?" he queries. "Are you in the bath?"
"No, just leaving, actually." I try to convince him I'm not one of those phone sex girls from the late night adverts, but from the way he's speaking, he seems to be enjoying the splashy splash sounds. Maybe I should give it a go? I can just picture him in his football shorts, all muddy and endearingly sexy. Malin has the cheekiest grin, the most amazingly honed and toned physique, bright blue eyes and chocolate brown hair. He's into his fashion, which is kind of intimidating. I've never been one of those super confident sexual girls from the telly and it makes me feel rather uncomfortable actually but hell, what have I got to lose? Aside from my morals of course, and maybe a pinch of dignity.
"I'm rather wet," I tell him, perhaps in an overtly courteous way, "Do you like baths?" Fuck. I'm not good at this.
"Only when you're in them," he suggests.
"Malin!" I squeal this in feigned indignation, "What's a girl to say to an offer like that?" I'm not handling this well. It's not working.
"Tell me what you're doing to yourself," he growls.
"I'm touching my breasts," I purr. Well, that's not entirely untrue - I am having a wash.
"Touch yourself..." he commands.
"Mmmm I'm touching myself..." I reply. Again, fairly true, if a razor to my leg counts. I get the feeling he may not be entirely convinced at my sex talk, but he soldiers on.
"My cock is reeeally hard, Leli. You got me all horny this evening with those panty shots." He lets the word 'really' slide off his tongue, placing emphasis on his erectile state. Strangely, I'm not turned on. I don't get turned on by myself... I'm more like a man in the whole brain wiring thing, I think, because I am visually not emotionally stimulated. I think...
I'm getting cold now, so I lean over the side of the bath to feel with my free hand for my towel when I drop the phone onto the floor.
"Shit holes!" I cuss aloud and grapple for the phone which has taken on a mind of its own, throwing itself across the bathroom floor as if it were an ice rink. Water splashes everywhere but I manage to take a hold of the phone receiver and slam it to my ear to catch his voice.
"Malin, you there? Listen, sorry about that, now where were w-" I get cut off yet again as I'm forced to replay 'let's juggle the phone midway through phone sex' and said phone slips out of my soapy hands and back onto the tiled floor where it lands neatly in two plastic pieces.
"Well that's just grand, isn't it?" I say aloud, throwing my hands up in frustration. "Bloody phones!"
I've failed in my attempts at Nokia-flavoured sexual gratification with Malin so I may as well get up and get dressed. I sigh wearily, heave myself out of the tub and grab my white slightly chocolate-stained robe, wrapping it around me for warmth as I unlock the door and head for my bedroom.
"Thank fuck you're out the bog Leli, I've got a turtle's head!" Screeches my housemate Sammy, half-knocking me into the wall.
"Urgh." I think to myself. "Minger."
"Pitiful, useless and crap with masturbation over the phone." I write into my journal as I sit on my bed. I wonder if I should put that on my CV. Trisha is still on the telly, whilst Cat sits there, completely unmoved and oblivious to the fact that I can barely get into my bed. I wonder if Trisha has phone sex problems? Probably not, I think as she gives her knowing end-of-show smug wink and a smile. Sanctimonious bitch. I get dressed and put my hair straighteners on their highest setting then load up my Hotmail account. Think I'll check my messages from my sister Lou. Lou is four years older than me, but closer to me than even Cat is. She is dark, like me, she has a better figure than me which pisses me off as I can never borrow her clothes, but most of all I can tell her anything and I know she knows how I feel - in fact, she's probably feeling the same way as I am! I can't tell Cat about failed solo sexual encounters, we don't talk about that! Well, sometimes we do, when we're drunk, but mainly Cat's a bit too twee for that, so we stick to tamer relationship issues along the lines of 'do you think he likes me...'
I open the mail from Lou:
Bah
I've just come on the blob
I hate you for making me late cow bag.
Boohoo periods are the wrath of god from something that Eve did many moons
Ago...
I swear my new bed hugs you in the night. Bit like the talking Eeyore you bought me for crimbo, remember? Ill never forget Cat drunk and passed out rolling onto Eyore and Eyore saying 'Ahhhh I wasn't expecting that!' He slurred, 'Neither was I, now fuck off and let me go to sleep!'
Happy days.call me soon,
Lou x :0
Ping
Deleted.
"Are you sure you want to shut down your computer?" I'm asked by a small popup box.
"Yes I'm bloody sure," I rant. "Who's in charge here, you or me? Well it's not you, is it? You're a computer!" Cat looks at me, in a perplexed kind of way.
"Why are you talking to yourself?" she asks.
"I'm not talking to myself Cat, I'm getting frustrated with the computer."
"Ah," she says, and her attention moves swiftly back to the TV.
I miss my sister. Ah well. I'll see her at the weekend, when she comes up with the rest of my stuff from home that we couldn't fit into the car on the first trip up here. I close down the laptop and plonk it on the chest of drawers, then pick up my industrial-sized makeup bag, and begin to paint my face pretty. Maybe I should try some Trishaesque affirmations. Couldn't hurt, could it?
"From this moment onwards," I tell myself into my Laura Ashley discounted gilded mirror, (I couldn't quite justify paying full price for anything from Laura Ashley, but seeing as I've recently received the first and the biggest instalment of my student loan, I thought ah, what the hell) "I've decided to grab my neurosis, paranoia and general self-absorption (but I'm not self absorbed in the nasty me, me, me kind of way, more in the 'I want to remain as incognito as one possibly can kind of way) and say cheerio, turn on my Kitten heels (I fall over in stilettos) and saunter off to the pub, by myself, even walking in by myself, paranoia-free, ready to begin my new confident life."
"I, Leli Hetheridge, am a fully-fledged woman of the world. I am just a twenty-something post-generation-female (the same as many others) struggling to shed the sense of uselessness I developed in my adolescent years in order to somehow become a fully-fledged adult, with proper grown-up thoughts. My hair is blonde. My eyes are average blue, and soon I will sport glasses. Yes, I have a typical middle-class education, and yes, I have typical middle-class doubts as to whether it has served to provide me with any life skills or credible qualifications. I am convinced that I am the absolute median woman (or is it still 'girl'?) - Sensitive, intelligent, comical, emotional, musical, creative, artistic... although with no particular attribute appearing in any particularly notable or useful excess. I worked in pubs. I complained about working in pubs. I liked my old job. I disliked my pay. I worry that I should be doing better."
© Copyright Charlotte Kymberley Walsh
With the greatest love in the world, it'll be an honour to all concerned if you want to link to University Crush. if you steal this without the express written permission of Charlotte Kymberly, you are legally screwed.
About the author
Charlotte Kymberley Charlotte Walsh has been to Uni and quit, has partied like it's going out of fashion, has had her hair every colour under the sun, and believes in bohemian life, love and happiness! As a freelance journalist she's been a celebrity columnist and an Instant Messenger sex therapist, as well as a sex columnist for MAXIM man's magazine. Like a duracell bunny or an Ann Summers rabbit, she just don't stop.Read her 'Babe's Bible' columnRead her serialisation of 'University Crush'Read the mooky advice column
Related Links
MORE: Alternative opinion... »
Mission statement
Mookychick believes that climbing trees and riding giant turtles is more fun and girly than worrying about make-up. But if you want to worry about make-up instead of turtles? Fine by us. Be you feminist, kitten, punk, emo, indie, goth, witch, vegan, horror junky, intellectual, christian goth, corset queen, geek, unicorn, sea monkey... be you into alternative style, alternative health, spirituality, comics, manga, j-pop, harajuku or jock culture... we will always love you.
