10 comments/ 12173 views/ 9 favorites The King of All Nerds By: AMoveableBeast The story I'm about to tell you is true, terribly true, hauntingly true. Only the names have been changed. Not to protect identities. Fuck identities. No, they've been changed because I can't bear to say them. It makes it too real. Too close. This is a horror story. It's about madness, about unbridled nudity, and about hot, sweaty nerd love. It's about the King of All Nerds. It's about the biggest asshole I've ever known. You have been warned. The first time I met the King of All Nerds, he didn't strike me as the king of all nerds, not even as a duke, or a baron, or anything. He was just a lanky, blonde guy with stringy hair wearing a baggy Legend of Zelda shirt. He was my college roommate my sophomore year. He had a handshake like a wet paper plate and he inhaled through his nose loudly and more often than seemed necessary. I disliked him immediately. I was a gregarious guy, popular; I could get along with anyone. I didn't see why the King of All Nerds would be any different. I didn't see a lot of things at first. I would see them later, in additions to many other things, things that could never be unseen. We shared a typical two-bedroom dorm, which meant that it was unairconditioned and about the size of a handicapped bathroom. Which would have been fine, typically. Most college students are out-and-about. People in their early twenties are naturally adventurous, wild oats to sow and all that. Not the King of All Nerds, however. KOAN sat all day in our room with the door locked and the windows closed, playing video games that simulate life, something that scared me a little bit. I mean this dude had Simlife, Simant, The Sims, Simcity, Simorgasm, etc... I had no privacy, no alone time. Apart from the day, during which we were both at class, and lunch, when he would eat with his socially awkward friends, he would just sit there, in the sweltering heat, playing at his life imitations. I was starting to get creeped out. Nerds were the worst. I could take jocks, suits, stoners, but nerds... I decided to talk to him, appeal to his logical side. So, he sat in there, his eyes burning into his computer monitor with the intensity of a thousand suns, and I could almost see the oil starting to block his pores. I was over on my side of the room, sweating my nubbins off, pretending to read some assignment or another, but in actuality I was just staring at this freak of nature, his shirt a virtual Rorschach test of sweat and food stains. How could he stand it? Worse yet, he had, like, two-hundred stuffed animals. On his bed, on the floor--it was like a Beanie Baby factory had exploded--so many in fact that you could barely see the garbage piling up on his side of the room, and it felt like each fuzzy creature was blowing steam from an inappropriately smiling mouth. When I started to feel light headed, I asked, "Hey, chief, perhaps we should crack a window and throw some garbage away, eh? I think if the hepatitis gets any stronger they're gonna start charging us for an extra person." So he looks over at me, his neck slowly uncoiling, his eyes red rimmed from all the grease and sweat. He says, "Yeah, well, I'm playing Hot Date, and I'm downtown so I can't save it right now, but if you want, the dumpster is right down the hall." I got up and emptied all the trash, and when I came back, the bastard had cooked not one, but two philly steaks in my microwave, which at this point was like a hot greasy death sentence. It was like drowning in a sea of White Castle hamburgers, but I didn't say anything. I grabbed my stuff and went to work on it in the common room. I came back two hours later, and the door was locked. I could feel the hot nasty oozing out from the room. Advice from my childhood flooded back to me, "If the door handle is hot don't open it." Still, it was my room. I knocked. I could hear him shuffle toward the door, taking entirely too long to complete this simple task. The door flew open, and it was like a hell mouth reaching to envelope me. He was standing bare-chested in the doorway, perspiration streaming down his frail frame, his fingers stained with some form of red disgustingness, and the smell...God the smell! It seemed Chef Boyardee had decided to have a bowel movement in our room, oregano and tomato sauce permeated the air with a thickness that was almost tangible. I just walked in without saying anything. I didn't trust myself to speak. I feared I might vomit. There were half eaten pizza rolls all over, I would later find out that he, while not liking the shells, loved the filling, so he would cut them open and suck out the inside, leaving the spicy little husks everywhere. He was a pepperoni vampire. Vlad the Inhaler. I sat on my bed, my eyes more than a little frightful. He just looked at me, this blank expression on his face, "I turned your fan off I hope you don't mind, it was blowing my papers around." I must have repeated "No, man, it's cool" five times. Shortly afterward, he laid in his bed and blissfully slept. Meanwhile, I felt like I was being raped by a plate of lasagna. Needless to say, I don't think I slept at all that night. This continued for the next two weeks; each day I came home and aired out the place, sprayed some Febreze and attempted to make the room hospitable. And each evening he would come home and smell it the fuck up. By this point, however, I had become wise to the deal, and I was slowly winning the battle. I had four fans and five Glade plug-ins for a room that two Oprahs couldn't have turned sideways in. Indeed, I had an extra power strip just so I could use more plug-ins. Then, the fucker got a girlfriend, and the tides turned. This was a new enemy, and their combined might was too powerful for even the strongest of my sprays. She was unattractive, with a frumpy build and long stringy hair. To my knowledge she only had a few shirts, all of which strained to contain her bulbous, heavy bosoms, like two cantaloupes being held up by a spider web . She was every bit the nerd he was, with thick, wide-rimmed glasses and a laugh like a donkey braying. They had sex at least once a day, usually while I was in class, sometimes, though, their rutting would exceed my absence and I would come home only to find a locked door, it's thin wooden construction unable to block out the ingratiating giggles and disturbing moans. They would role-play. I could hear them. I don't just mean sexually. I mean that they played some sort of kinky form of Dungeons and Dragons. It was erotic LARPing, the noise of dice rolling replaced by balls slapping. From the sound of it, he scored several critical hits. I would come back sometime later, only to find them panting on his bed, their hair plastered about, the air alive with the stench of sex. They managed to repulse me even more on the occasions when they would leave a large hammer-head massager on the table, a sort of vibrating Playschool golf club. I don't know where she got the thing, but they must have been out of belt-sanders that day. I hated them. This was not how love, or sex was supposed to be, how it was supposed to look. It was ugly. Love wasn't supposed to be ugly. It persisted for weeks, the aroma of hot nerd love growing with every passing day, even the stuffed animals began to smell of vagina and Hot Pockets. Every Beanie Baby, which were to my knowledge left on the bed, soaked up just a little bit more of the horrific byproduct of their trysting. Finally, I'd had enough, but I was unsure how to approach things, I told him that the situation made me uncomfortable, that it was "gross," and he promised to change his habits. This of course didn't happen, instead they just attempted to become sneaky. Now when I came home, they would be separated, one of them splayed across a chair, the other lying on the bed, both of them still out of breath, knowing grins painted across their lips. By this time, their lovemaking had begun to infect my brain. I thought about them doing it every time I saw them, grotesque images dancing within my head with every word they spoke. I began taking a ridiculous amount of time to come home from class, hoping that they could at least compose themselves, but no, they adjusted accordingly, and just took longer. It was like they wanted me to know. I decided to fight fire with fire. Slightly more attractive fire, but fire nonetheless. There was a girl in my Contemporary Lit class. I'll call her The Poet. She was cute if not beautiful, thin and tall, edgy and postmodern, the kind of chick that did spoken-word while she rode your dick. We'd been out a few times, drinks and dinner and fucking around at her place. She liked to say "fuck" a lot, loved the word. A sentence without "fuck" in it was a day without sunshine. Trouble was, she seemed to like to say it more than do it. Her mouth was filthy, her bedroom behavior didn't seem to match. She was a robot when she was giving head, pistons and gears and about the same amount of enthusiasm. And when we fucked, she just lay under me, eyes on the ceiling, describing the sex in extravagant metaphor. "Your cock is the proletariat, breaking the oppression of my panties." "My cunt is the world eater." "We are just dust on a spinning rock, colliding into each other at the speed of lust." But never a moan or a scream. Just gobbledygook. It was like fucking James Joyce. Half the time, I just wanted to look her full in the face and whisper, "I am the walrus. Coo-coo-ca-choo." I loved writing. I was a writer. But poetry was just nonsense. So I broke it off with her. She took it the same way she took everything--strangely. After nodding through my pre-packaged "I'm-going-through-a-lot, it's-not-you-it's-me" speech, she cupped my face in both of her hands, black fingernail polish on the tips, and said, "Every man is a river. Find your ocean." She repeated it for effect. "Find your ocean." When I called her up again, long on pretty words about self-discovery and regret, she said simply, "Awesome sauce." We fucked that afternoon. Well, I fucked. She acted bored and quoted Mary Wollstonecraft's A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. I didn't care. She could have read the telephone book. It wasn't about her. It was about revenge. I had skipped class just to make sure my roommate would catch me and The Poet bumping uglies on my bed. It worked. They walked in, giggling, KOAN carrying a bottle of chocolate sauce and a can of whipped cream. When I heard the door I really started to get down and dirty. My thighs pounded into The Poet's ass as I took her from behind with everything I had. I think she even made a sex noise. My back ached and I lost my breath, but I didn't stop. I wouldn't, couldn't stop. I chugged my way toward a groaning orgasm, which I displayed for my nemesis by pulling my cock out and spraying cum all over The Poet's pale ass. I slumped forward against her. My forehead was sticky against her back. I smiled into the slickness of her skin and waited for the king and queen of all nerds to slink out in embarrassment. They didn't. They clapped. I hated them. Didn't they have the social wherewithal to be embarrassed? Had they no pride? The Poet nodded her appreciation for their support as if she had just done a slam recital, which, I guess, in a way, she had. I covered myself with the blankets from the bed and blushed. What a bunch of freaks. When The Poet asked me in a whisper if I was going to introduce her to my friends, I only glared at her. We dressed under concealment and then surrendered the space to my roommate. He grinned wryly at me and gave me a thumbs-up when I reached the door. Right before I closed it, I saw him take a swig of chocolate syrup and follow it with a blast of whip cream into his open mouth. **** KOAN dominated my thoughts. He was a fixation--the memory of a car wreck that followed me around. It was like I had PTSD. Every time I saw people hold hands, I thought of him and his lover defiling my room. Each love story was about them. I couldn't watch a fucking movie preview. They were Romeo and Juliet, Harry and Sally, Harold and Maude. Love had been ruined for me. Sex too. I clung to The Poet. She still annoyed me, and I didn't get half of what she talked about, and the half I did understand was preamble to a French film about mimes in The Great Depression. She was giving me a blowjob in my car one night--I avoided my room now--and I couldn't keep from rambling. "And those stuffed animals! How many stuffed animals does a grown man need? Can you imagine them fucking? Can you? I bet it's all snorting and nerd talk. He probably fingers her like a Vulcan." I said the last part while holding my hand up in a "V". She interrupted phase two of her cocksucking procedure to say, "They seem nice. I think they're kind of cute together." I bolted up so suddenly that I hit my head on the ceiling of the vehicle and scraped my dick on her teeth. "Cute! Cute? Those two wouldn't be cute if you Velcroed puppies to them. Shit, they'd probably still fuck like that. Then they'd eat the puppies on a Goddamn hoagie bun after burning them in my microwave. Everyone hates them." "No, you hate them." "Everyone." "Even if that is true, why do you care so much what others think?" "God, what if they think he and I are friends? I need to make sure I call him out in front of some people, so they know that's not the case." She rolled her eyes and licked the head of my cock. "You can be such an asshole." "Me? I'm the asshole? They've turned my dormroom into Vaginacon, and I'm the asshole?" The Poet returned to my cock and I ranted on. "I mean, seriously, some people just shouldn't be allowed to fuck. Get them the hell out of the gene pool. They're probably fucking right now. All happy and disgusting, completely unaware of just how miserable they make everyone." I was still talking about the King of All Nerds when I came. The Poet usually swallowed, but she didn't this time. After she had gathered it all into her mouth, she opened the ashtray on my console and spit my seed into it, onto a pile of cigarette butts and wadded up gum wrappers. We sat in silence. I couldn't remember her ever being quiet for so long. I started to ask her, "Hey, what do you think of Raymond Carve--" "This isn't working," she interrupted. "What?" "To be honest, you're kind of boring. All you talk about is your roommate. It's kind of weird." "You read Latin poetry and you think I'm boring?" She slapped me. "In cauda venenum." I touched my cheek where it was already turning red. "What the fuck does that fucking mean?" "It means we're done." She opened the car door. "And clean out your ashtray. It's disgusting." The Poet walked away into the night. "Hey, where are you going? Babe? I like you. I really like you." **** It was three days before I realized I had told her the truth. I missed her. I missed her stupid voice droning on about stupid stuff. I missed her perfume that smelled like Egyptian funerary spices. I even missed her sex poetry. I missed having someone to talk to about the KOAN. Without her, I was left to the mercy of my own imagination. It was brutal. My revulsion turned toward obsession, my fascination toward compulsion. Instead of sitting with my friends at lunch, as was my habit, I found myself off by myself angling to find a better vantage point to watch the king and queen eating their food in the corner with their equally nerdy companions. KOAN ate the same thing every day: cheese sandwich with the crust cut off, with a side of tomato soup. Every day. In contrast to the typical college girl, The Queen would eat anything, it seemed, and vast amounts of it. And when she was done, KOAN would dip his crust in the remnants of his soup and feed it to her in a teasing way, while she snapped at it from underneath like a great white shark coming at some chum. Their friends, who looked like escapees from the mathlete Olympics, cheered and laughed at the ritual, day-in and day-out. It never got old to them. Their laughter was so unpleasant. How could people laugh like that? When it was over, they would all pull out Magic: The Gathering cards and play until the fat one with the freckles had to leave for Philosophy. I didn't understand the game, but it seemed to revolve around scaring away any possible romantic interest that might wander up. It was about wizards and monsters, and powering them all with different kinds of land. Stupid fucking shit. I could overhear just enough of the conversation to know that KOAN was favoring a white and green deck these days. Whatever the fuck that meant. Even though The Poet no longer answered my calls, I still left recordings on her machine. "Hope you're well. I was thinking, Billy Collins is doing a reading at Phillips Auditorium. We could check it out. If you wanted....A viking hat...with horns. Do those have a name? They were wearing those, both of them. All day. People were laughing and pointing. How do they not realize? I mean, how can they be so unaware? It's pathetic...Who does that? Right? Anyway...call me back about the reading." The Poet never called me back. I went alone. I stayed only for the first bit. The introduction, which was, itself, a poem. The introduction. Was. A. Poem. It was like listening to one of the adults from "Charlie Brown" read Jim Morrison lyrics. I ask them to take a poem and hold it up to the light like a color slide or press an ear against its hive. I say drop a mouse into a poem and watch him probe his way out, or walk inside the poem's room and feel the walls for a light switch. I want them to waterski across the surface of a poem waving at the author's name on the shore. But all they want to do is tie the poem to a chair with rope and torture a confession out of it. They begin beating it with a hose to find out what it really means. Man, fuck poetry. I came back home, tumbling images still passing each other in my brain like laundry in a dryer, sparking friction and making my hairs standing on end. It was so intense that I didn't even think about KOAN on the walk home. At least not until I got to the dorm. Then it was hard not to. I could hear them before I even turned down my portion of the hall. Damn, if that girl didn't have a set of lungs. The ennunciation of the words was lost in the lovemaking, but the noises were appreciative and just this side of animalistic. When I reached the door, I pressed my ear against the wood and gave a listen. The queen was incensed tonight. I'd never heard her so passionate. I was almost jealous. Almost. I twisted the doorknob out of habit and was shocked when it turned. Unlocked. I should have turned around and walked away. Even nerds had a right to privacy. My curiosity wouldn't allow it, however. I had to know. This was my chance. Would it be as awful as I thought? The door opened silently. There on the chair in front of KOAN's computer was The Queen, naked from the waist down, still wearing a t-shirt with a bunch of differently shaped dice on the front that read in big, bold print "Choose Your Weapon". Between her legs, she worked the big, hammer-head vibrator with both hands, holding it palms inward and moving it in a circular motion like she was stirring a cauldron. Her thighs were thick, and entirely more pleasant than I imagined. She looked almost pretty caught up in her lust. The hair of her pussy, just visible around the sex toy, was curly and long in a style that was no longer favored among young women. Her eyes were wanton and fixed on the bed. The King of All Nerds There, amid a cascade of stuffed animals, which bounced and wiggled with the motion of the bed, the KOAN fucked The Poet. My Poet. I'd never seen or heard her like this, certainly not with me. She was just short of screaming. There was no Wordsworth of Byron on her lips, only grunts and groans and open-mouthed shouts. The KOAN's rubbery frame snapped into her like a rubber band. Her ass had two red marks from the impact of his hips. Her small, proud breasts dangled, and she squeezed one of her large pink nipples while steadying herself with the other arm, which disappeared below the elbow into a zoo of stuffed animals. When he would pull all the way back, I could see her pussy stretched around the girth of his cock. He seemed to draw back impossibly far. His dick must have been huge. I'd never seen anyone lay it down like the KOAN. Not in porn, not anywhere. He was a dervish of dick. The Poet couldn't handle it. Her arm gave out and she collapsed forward on the bed, her face hidden behind a large Alf puppet wearing a Hawaiian shirt. KOAN didn't relent, but instead levered himself up on his long arms and hit that pussy from another angle, a deeper one. I could see the full length of his cock now. He must have had close to a foot of dick, and a pair of heavy balls that swung satchel-like beneath. They looked even bigger on his slender frame. It was a wonder he hadn't punctured one of her lungs. She started to come. It took ten minutes for her to finish. Somehow, he kept his pace the whole time. His head was thrown back. His shaggy hair blown in all directions, waving in the wind of the half-dozen fans I had placed about the room. Thin shoulders flexed and hard, veins popping in his arms, he gave The Poet the business end of the most intense orgasm I had ever seen. Ever heard of. I saw him for the first time: The King of All Nerds. The Poet quivered and shouted out a single staccato expression of amazement, like a skipping record. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" During the come-a-thon, The Queen had slipped off of her chair and crawled over to the edge of the bed, vibe still buzzing between her legs like a Hemi in high gear. She opened her mouth and flicked her tongue out at her boyfriend. When The Poet was a puddle, he pulled his manhood out--God, it was a monster--and let loose with a deluge across The Queen's face. Some of it even went in her waiting mouth, more dripped down her thick glasses. She swallowed what she could catch and then gathered the rest off of her face with her index finger and ate that too. Eventually, she took her eyewear in hand and licked the glass. KOAN continued to stroke while she put on her show, forcing out drops here and there. She took those as well. Greedily. They all started giggling at about the same time. Even The Poet, half buried and exhausted, added her rhythmic laugh. I laughed too. Mine sounded entirely different. Mine was touched with shock and madness and something else. Envy. They turned and looked at me as one, The Poet sleepily gazing over her shoulder, still bent over as she was, pussy swollen and stretched. No one knew what to say, so I closed the door and continued laughing on the other side. I walked down the hall and out the door, laughing all the while. I laughed in my car, laughed in it until I used up all of the oxygen and started to choke. Eventually, I grew lightheaded and fell asleep. **** The Poet called me the next day. "I'm sorry you saw that." "Him? Him!?" "He's nice." "HIM?!" "I didn't mean to. I was coming over to go to the reading with you, but I got there late and you were already gone. They were there, and we got to talking. He's really funny. He quoted Howl, but he did it in this Donald Duck voice. It was hilarious. " "HIIIIIIIIIM?!" *click* **** I only went back to my dorm room when I had to, and only when I was sure my roommate wouldn't be home. I'd wash up, grab some clothes and be out the door. I still saw him at lunch. The Poet joined the KOAN's table. She looked prettier than I remembered. I almost spit up my soda. I studied and did my homework in the library. I borrowed Leaves of Grass and read it in my spare time. It was better than I expected. My friends made fun of me for reading it. They tried to get me to go out drinking instead. I refused. I bought a Hallmark card that had a picture on the front of a Bulldog, wearing a tuxedo and looking uncomfortable, surrounded by similarly dressed people at a fancy dinner. On the inside it said simply, "Be yourself, wrinkles and all." Under it, I scribbled a passage from Whitman's book. Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you. You must travel it yourself. It is not far. It is within reach. Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not know. Perhaps it is everywhere--on water and land. I sent it, unsigned, to The Poet's school mailbox. She called me a few days later. I didn't answer. I went out with a girl from my Analytics class. She was a gorgeous blonde with big tits who was popular among my circle of friends. Her father was a lawyer. Her mother was a lawyer She was going to be a lawyer too. She kissed me midway through the movie she'd picked--The Fast and the Furious. It was the single most perfect kiss I'd ever had. She could have taught classes on how to kiss. It was clinical. We went back to her place after it was over and ended up in bed. She made all of the right noises. Her moans were right on cue, soft and appealing, and she smelled like lavender and clean cotton. I apologized to her profusely when I stopped in the middle. It wasn't her; it was me. I meant it this time. For once. She called me a fag, said I was crazy. I was one of those things. I walked to the hobby store after I left her. The guy working there was under height and overweight. I talked to him for over an hour. Nice guy. Theatre major. Back of the house. What that guy didn't know about lights. I told him I'd come see the new play his group was putting on, an all-girl production of True West. I gave him my email address so he could keep me abreast of the goings-on. I showed up to the KOAN's lunch table a week after the debacle in my room. I carried a shoebox and a small leather pouch filled with glass beads. I walked over right as he was dangling the crust for The Queen. He was so startled that he dropped it on her chin and she had to peel it off with her fingers and quickly stuff it into her mouth. There was still a smear of tomato soup on her face when she turned to regard me suspiciously. They all seemed nervous. I couldn't blame them. I cleared my throat and sat down in an empty chair. I opened the box and took my cards out. "Now, I'm not sure, but I think I'm a red wizard. They're aggressive, right? I know I like this minotaur card, and the fire stuff. And the guy at the store tried to explain it to me, but I'm still not sure how many of these mountains I really need." The KOAN smiled at me, a small thing, as much confusion as friendliness, but he took the cards from my hands nonetheless. He made a tsk sound and said, "Well, not this many. That's for sure." I felt a hand snake into mine and looked over to see The Poet looking at me. Her smile was a little bigger than KOAN's. "You're still an asshole," she said. "I know, but I'm working on it." She rolled her eyes. "I cleaned my ashtray. You know, in case you want to use it again." She punched me. The other nerds snorted and laughed. It was not an unpleasant sound. * This is my second entry into the 2015 April Fool's Day contest. Please vote for it if you enjoyed it. A special thanks to patientlee who edited this on the fly because I'm irresponsible and a terrible friend.