George had always been a nerd. He could read without moving his lips in nursery school; he could do a row of four-digit sums in his head in kindergarten; by fourth grade he was tutoring teachers on navigating the net; he skipped a mere two grades in elementary school only because his mum was afraid he'd be too small in upper grade levels and vulnerable to bullying.
By tenth grade, when George was only 14 years old, he was picked on unmercifully by the bigger boys and beautiful bitches in his class. On a whole, his older tormentors were physically more but spiritually less mature than George who they deemed to be crackers. Those kids might have thought George an idiot savant if they knew what one was, but they would be wrong on all counts.
George was not out of his head so much as too far into it. Yes, he bumbled about in dowdy and ill-fitting clothing, he was 'socially challenged', he had his head in clouds of mysterious mist his so-called peers could never imagine. George saw things that were not there ... at least, not there yet.
Of course, his attire and demeanour reinforced his nerd, nut-bar reputation. Worse than his two-inch pant cuffs, worse than his un-matching striped shirts and polka dot bow ties, worse than his regularly mismatched socks were his glasses. Spectacles would be a more apt term because they were a sight for sore losers. The nastiest of schoolmates used sarcasm, which innocent George took at face value, to compliment him on his appearance.
The less articulate louts and losers taunted him about his specs, calling them googly-goggles. In fairness, the thick eyeglass lenses did resemble old Coke bottle bottoms and the huge, round plastic frames made him look more like Brenda Lee than John Lennon. But George needed the thick lenses to see as he was short-sighted in the extreme, but only in his sense of sight.
His other faculties gave George visions bright and well focused. But the mocking never effected him because his mind was elsewhere. George was above it all. That is, until puberty hit and the jokes and jibes from junior Jezebels jolted him out of his world which lay beyond others' feeble understanding.
For the first time, George was vulnerable to the vicious venom of these vixens. Their words had a sadistic siren quality to them now, as George was drawn into the torrent of temptation their teasing unleashed. His body, not his mind, betrayed him, but both paid the price. He heard and understood the giggles now. Playful punches, masked in mock comradeship, hurt.
One day George's desire and hormones brought him to the brink. He had been indiscreetly admiring two of the prettiest, sexiest girls in the school. Jessie and Kaila were cheerleaders four years his senior. They were also arch bitches who were offended by George's unwanted attention. But they played it cool and arranged a twisted tryst for 'googly-goggles' George; they panned a humiliating ambush.
It was Friday just after the last bell when students made their way to their lockers to get outer gear and books for a weekend away from the drudge of school. These days George lingered at his locker and watched the girls dressed in their sexy outfits as they flirted with their beaus and sent out hopeful, sensuous signals.
He let out a sigh as his two favourites came walking down the hall towards him. An unusually large crowd began to form. This was Friday and one would have expected most kids to be rushing to get home, but not so this unlucky Friday the thirteenth of April, as it happened. Jessie and Kaila walked right up to him and George became excited and nervous at the sight of their smiles, their hip swaying sashay, their siren sensuality, their devil-eyes boring into his soul.
He could not resist nor did he want to as Jessie stood before him and Kaila just behind; their buxom bodies and fair faces touched George in all ways and left him their captive. His senses were flooded with the sweet scent of their un-perfumed bodies; the soft sound of their breathing beguiled him; the look in their eyes promised both loving warmth and lusty hot times; the touches on his brow, cheek, stripe-shirted chest and from behind touches at his baggy-pants covered thighs and along his zipper (!) were as the feathery feel of winged angels. Fallen angels, as it happens.
In swift moves which could only have been rehearsed, Jessie, feigning passion, ripped open George's shirt popping all his buttons (literally as well as metaphorically) and through her lusting body upon him. It was a manipulative manoeuvre by a mischievous minx. Jessie was deliberately rearranging George's upper gear to be used to pin his arms behind him. She lifted the open shirt over his head then back down behind him to keep his arms at his side.
.... There is more of this story ...