Wet Nerd Wants Roomie's Dad

Brazzers

Scott Nails, Angie Faith Pic(s)

The relentless summer rain hammered against the windowpane, a frantic percussion that mirrored the frantic rhythm of my own heart as I watched him from my perch on the soggy porch swing. My roommate, Angie Faith, was laughing inside, completely oblivious to the storm she had unleashed within me simply by having a father like him. He was Scott Nails, a name that promised a rugged solidity which his broad shoulders and calloused hands more than delivered upon. Every time he visited, the air in our cramped apartment would shift, charged with a dangerous, masculine energy that made my nerdy, bookish world feel impossibly small. I’d fumble with my thick-framed glasses, my usually articulate thoughts dissolving into a stammering mess under the weight of his calm, appraising gaze. He was a man carved from experience, his laugh lines telling stories I desperately wanted to hear, while I was just a girl perpetually caught in a downpour of my own awkwardness. I imagined what it would be like to trace the line of his jaw, to feel the rough texture of his work shirt beneath my nervously damp palms. It was a hopeless, delicious fantasy, a secret rebellion against my own meticulously ordered life of textbooks and theorems. He was the unattainable variable in my personal equation, the one for which I could find no logical solution, only this aching, illogical want. And as the rain soaked through my socks, I knew this foolish, soaking-wet crush was a tempest from which I had no desire to seek shelter.