By Nerve Readers
The Greatest Sentence I've Ever Heard
I had just moved to Munich from a conservative "date before doing it" Canadian city, where I usually ended up with average-looking girls, and in relationships that seemed to be sexually average at best. Like everyone else that comes to Europe from North America, I had these great delusions that this was a place where people fucked in lieu of shaking hands. I quickly learned the locals don't give a shit about your accent — and that not speaking German is a huge obstacle, when you’re trying to seduce confident German women. After coming to these conclusions I started going to meet-ups for English speaking expats where I would get completely drunk to help take the edge off the awkwardness of a bar full of strangers trying to befriend one another.
And that’s where I met Lea. She was bordering on the edge of short, with long blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, an amazing body, sexy Aussie accent, and an attitude of completely not giving a fuck. In other words, she was the definition of "out of my league."
A mutual friend introduced us and we became a tripod: her, myself, and the mutual friend. The three of us took trips all throughout Bavaria and Austria, and always found ourselves as the last people at the bar. I quickly discarded thoughts of ever even trying to get into Lea's pants — she could have whoever she wanted and it probably wasn't me, so I just played the role of a friend as best I could.
One night, as our team of three was out drinking itself stupid again, she mentioned she had missed her last train out of town. She lived in a little village north of Munich, and you needed to take regional trains to get there. Being a good friend, I offered the extra futon in my place not too far away. We got back home and I started finding linens and such for her futon.
As I was tossing down pillows I said, "All right, here you go. Your bed’s ready."
From behind me, I heard the most remarkable words ever said to me: "You're fucking kidding, right mate?" I turned around to see her leaning on the door framed with no clothes to hide her perfectly sculpted body.
I've never had sex like that. It was like a marathon of pleasure. In the morning she thanked me for more consecutive orgasms than any other man had given her and left. After she had moved back to Australia a few weeks later, our mutual friend mentioned that she hadn't missed that train but was hoping I would take her home — she had wanted me for a while and thought she might push her luck. She had always thought I was "out of her league." — Dane Samson
When I was sixteen-years old, my family took a trip to Los Angeles. It was me, my six-year-old sister, my parents, and my dog. I wasn’t a Hollywood-appropriate sixteen-year old — I was still going through a very awkward stage. Everyone in L.A. seemed so glamorous and put-together, and I still thought my over-sized Simpsons T-shirts and checkered Vans were the height of sophistication. I was also going through that very specific teen phase where I didn't want to talk to anyone, answer anyone, look anyone in the eye, or do anything other than sit in the room and watch TV. I was a real blast. The only member of my family with whom I was on speaking terms was my dog, Wally. Because we had him with us, we were put on a special dogs-allowed floor at the hotel.
It just so happened that every other room on that floor was occupied by that season's American Idol contestants — the final group, just selected to be on the show.
I wasn't a huge fan of American Idol, but I didn't live under a rock, so I was familiar enough with the show. I was playing with Wally in the hallway one afternoon while the rest of my family was at Grauman's Chinese Theatre, and this guy with long dark hair walked out into the hallway and started talking to me. He was, to my sixteen-year-old eyes, perfection. He was dark, aloof, and funny. And I was smitten.
Back home, guys wouldn't even look at me, but this guy spoke to me like I was an adult — and he really like playing with Wally. The other female contestants were obviously taken with him — they flirted with him constantly and tried to pry him away, but he liked hanging out with me. Bad-skinned, gawky me. I couldn't believe it. Over the next few days, we met up regularly in the hallway; he would play with Wally and tell me how much he hated the show and missed his friends, and I'd tell him about my love of Stan Lee and Alan Moore. He, for his part, pretended to be interested. On the night before my family was due to go back home, he invited me to his hotel room, and I lost my virginity to him.
He took my email and promised he'd write, which in hindsight I know was a complete lie and not even a very good one. I told him good luck with the show. He didn't make it very far, but last I saw he married to a blonde country starlet. I'm not bitter about him never keeping in touch — I'm glad I had the experience with someone who, at least at the time, seemed larger than life. — Andrea Casey
I arrived for the study-abroad program with one goal in mind: make friends. There's a one-week window during which you're allowed to go up to a stranger and say hi, but after that, friend-groups congeal, and you're golden or you're lonely.
So, on the first day, during the orientation activities, I was busy looking for the interesting kids: the smokers and the hipsters. All of us American students forced to speak in Spanish were struggling — twelve years of classroom Spanish never prepare you to comfortably speak so much as a sentence.
And then there was Daniel. He looked like Jake Gyllenhaal in Brokeback Moutain, in that he wore jeans and a cowboy shirt and he was beautiful. Somehow, on the first day, he knew all the instructors' names — and while the rest of us huddled in clumps, Daniel kissed their cheeks like a local, bummed cigarettes, and chatted with them like they were all old friends.
I pointed him out to my new friends, more as a way to come out and break the ice than anything else, since he was surely straight. And anyway, I had a boyfriend back home who I was going to be faithful to, a slouch I couldn't quite get rid of, and paralyzing self-consciousness about my skinny chest. I slept boys with spectacles and bad skin, not cologne models.
The open-week of getting to know people passed, and I settled happily among my friends without ever so much as saying hello to Daniel. One night, about a month in, my friend Kate and I were walking along when she stopped, "Isn't that Daniel?" We looked to the open-air patio of a nearby bar. It was Daniel, sitting at a low table, with a man, sharing a bottle of champagne.
"Wait, we can't. He's on a gay date." Saying that, I couldn't help but smile. Gay! She grabbed my hand and pulled me over. It's good to have friends who are braver than you are. It's even better to have friends who know when you actually mean no, and when you're just asking to be convinced.
Daniel greeted us warmly, and surprisingly, invited us to sit down. The date, it seemed, was going badly. We got another bottle, and did introductions. I managed to work the phrase "an ex-boyfriend of mine" into the conversation. Daniel glanced up and quietly said, "I knew it." When we all parted ways, he kissed my cheeks — which would have customary, if we were locals who'd just met, not two twenty-year old boys abroad for the summer.
That kiss was like the first scene in a tragedy, after which, everyone's fate is sealed. We texted and agreed to meet for drinks. When the cafe closed, we started walking circles around the park. On circle five, I surprised myself by blurting, "Are we going to make out, or just make another lap?" An hour later, we were slipping off our shoes in the hallway outside his apartment so our footsteps wouldn't wake his roommates.
At the end of these things, you're supposed to say, "It turned out he thought I was out of his league, too." But I don't think that's true — we had fun together, and he thought I was funny, but I don't think he was ever infatuated like I was. But it didn't matter — he had legs like a statue and gave head like a champ. The summer passed in a blur. — Alex Kelly
Dancing on a Stage of Flames
At the end of the summer I left school, I went with a bunch of friends to an arty music festival. The crowd there was older than the big commercial festivals I'd been to before, and we all had great fun pretending to be cool and interesting enough to be there.
On the final rain soaked night, we got separated and I found myself dancing with strangers on a stage that spurted out fire. From my perch on the stage, I could see out over the crowd. I spotted Jack a mile off. He was ridiculously hot: tanned, with amazing shaggy blond hair and a very obviously ripped body under his shirt. He was wearing a white trilby and I couldn't stop my eyes from following him through the crowd. I was immediately attracted to him. I kept dancing; it didn't occur to me that he would be interested in me. I would never have called myself beautiful or even pretty — as far as I was concerned I was decidedly average.
Then the strangest thing happened: the beautiful man in the trilby climbed onto the stage, and casually made his way over to where I was dancing. He told me he'd lost his friends. I said I'd lost mine too. We danced until the music stopped playing. As everything began to die down around dawn, we slowly made our way back to his tent, making up stories to people along the way about how we were engaged and how he was a millionaire. He was twenty-four and I was eighteen, and I'd never had someone so gorgeous pay attention to me.
We eventually found his friends and Jack bluntly told one of them that he'd have to sleep somewhere else. I was delighted that this guy who was so far out of my league would not only want to sleep with me, but would want his friends to know about it too. Soon we were making out behind a tree.
When we finally got back to his tent, we had what was probably the best sex I've had. And when we woke up, we followed it up with lazy morning sex. I tried to act cool when I was leaving, but once out of sight, I ran giddily back to my own tent. It was the first time I remember feeling cool and old enough to really belong somewhere. — Anna Halder
Converting a Cynic
In this story, I'm the prat. My hair slicks back well, and I have a track runner’s ass. I also have a five head, and my abs are hidden behind incurable baby fat. In the States, the only thing I have going for me is my thick South London accent. My secret weapon in the war of the sexes is that I sound like a Dickens character.
She is a model. And, of course, she's beautiful, with glorious tits, a brilliant smile, a Dutch accent, and a love of liquor. "Out of my league" isn't right. "David and Goliath" is closer, but Goliath also has an Uzi, and David is a British nerd.
The stage is Harlem, NYC, home of models, athletes, actors, entrepreneurs — people, in other words, who are unlike me. I'm in town visiting my friend, flatmate, and wingman, Wendy. A five-foot Jewish goth lesbian.
Wendy leads us to an Irish pub near her flat. We hit the ground running — Wendy gets a martini, the model, a strong cocktail, and me, two pints of Guinness and a tequila. My beautiful friend is intrigued by the tequila, so I order two more. Fueled by agave, she and I start discussing why she hates relationships (such an easy thing for beautiful people to say!), and end up playing pool, spending $120 on liquor, dancing, and hearing a surprisingly soulful rendition of Cee-Lo Green's "Fuck You.” We also debate Matt Smith as the Doctor, talk about novels, agree that Twilight fucking sucks, and witness a rap battle between Wendy and a Harlem rapper (which Wendy won).
Wendy notices the time, and leaves to heal her liver. The model and I venture into Central Park, find a bench, and argue about my atheism. Suddenly, I'm grabbing her in a kiss, her hands scratching down my back. We decide to find a more private spot, and after debating the merits of copulating on top of an NYPD car, decide on a nice tree. We proceed to fuck like dogs for two hours. She goes to the underground, and I walk my white ass through Harlem at 3 a.m. I've got Hall and Oates' "You Make My Dreams" in my head, as I merrily greet passersby.
Next morning, I fill Wendy in. She was born and raised in the city, but she concedes that I have just "out New Yorked" her.
And I am so fucking proud. It's not that I had sex with a model. It's not that I took her the next night to Times Square for New Year's. It's not even that I out New Yorked a New Yorker. It's that after those two nights, she, the relationship sketpic, wanted a relationship — a long-distance one! A romantic, I accepted. We made it six months, before the strain caught up, and she began a relationship back home. That's what I'm proud of. I converted a cynic. — Brandon Stevens