Adorkable

Thursday night I had a speaking engagement at the august local institution I always think of as the University of the Mall Parking Lot. It was the second speech there in as many weeks. Last week my talk was in front of an all-female class. Thursday, though, I had guys in the audience. Some actual cute ones, too.

There are always a couple of kids at these things who take a hard focus on me when I give my speech about making a living in the creative arts. I think they see me as an experienced success in my field, god bless ‘em, and during the Q&A period these particular students will inevitably ask a lot of complicated questions--they're trying to impress me, generally. There was one in the audience that night, sitting in the front row, scribbling notes. He’d pause when I’d pause, and when I’d begin speaking again his hand would furiously dash across the page while he squinted at me through his wide, heavy-framed geek glasses.

The kid was no more than nineteen or twenty and totally adorkable—he had a close-cropped blond head, a pointy chin, bright blue eyes, and was struggling to grow a beard but only coming up with a patchy crop of peach fuzz. His ratty plaid shirt was open three buttons to expose a pale white chest and the tiniest patch of hair. I’d smile at him from time to time and make eye contact, but I couldn’t shake the conviction that he was transcribing every damned word I said. When it was time to open the floor to questions, his hand shot up immediately. He asked something so convoluted and intellectual that I wasn’t sure he understood it himself—something about how our brand of creative artists were the last bastion of . . . whatever. It was the kind of thing that kids think about when they’re young and noble and full of abstract ideals. I answered him as best as I could, but the entire time I was looking at his fuzzy face and thinking, Damn, kid. You are so fuckable.

I wasn’t at all surprised when he approached the table afterward. He lingered after the more casual questioners left, then approached and gave me his name. “I think it’s really, really great of someone of your stature and professionalism to take an entire evening out to come talk to aspiring artists like us when you have nothing to gain by it whatsoever, I mean, it’s like, really great of you.” I couldn’t pay much attention to his hyperbole. I have no stature. Professionalism, maybe. Basically, I make a living doing what I love, and that’s about as far as it goes. But mostly I didn't respond to his overblown fawning because his backpack was pinning down one shoulder of his plaid shirt. With those buttons he'd left opened, when he leaned forward, I could see the edge of a flat, pink nipple.

“Yes,” I said, nodding, deadpan. “It is really, really great of me.”

He didn’t realize I was joking until I cracked a grin. He pinkened. “Oh! You’re joking.”

“I’m a verbal person,” I assured him. “I like getting out and meeting people. And I like talking about myself. Opportunities like this are the perfect combo.”

“And I guess you get to find some new groupies when you do, huh?”

“Sometimes.” I don’t think he knew what he was opening himself up to. I cocked my head and asked, “Why, are you volunteering?”

The kid turned a shade of beet red, all over. I swear I could watch the flush start in his pale, white cheeks and spread to his ears and forehead, and then rush all out once down his neck and exposed chest. He looked stricken and afraid to move, rooted to the spot. It almost made me hard in my jeans. Christ, if that embarrassment was almost so tangible, I could’ve scooped it up and slapped it on my dick as lube to bang him—which I very badly wanted to do. When he could finally move, he opened his mouth and stammered, “Hah-hah, you’re joking again.”

I smiled and gave him a card, but not before I scribbled my cell number on the back. “Call or email me sometime if you have more questions. Or if you want to talk,” I said innocently enough, but with meaning. He turned the card over in his hands and stared at it for a few seconds, then nodded, mumbled out thanks, and scurried off.

Cute little fucker. I doubt he’ll call, but enough adorkable and eager-to-impress college kids have followed through in the past and ended up with their legs over my shoulders. It could happen.