Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 45972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 230(@200wpm)___ 184(@250wpm)___ 153(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 230(@200wpm)___ 184(@250wpm)___ 153(@300wpm)
Except here’s the real truth of it. All of those rumors?
Yeah, they’re all bullshit. None of that happened. No, I didn’t bag the football team captain my freshman year—the one that went on to become a Senator’s aide. There isn’t this harem of older, rich men with yachts and sports cars and glass penthouse apartments who have my number and lavish me with new lingerie and cash.
It’s. All. Bullshit.
To be fair, I’m at least partially to blame for these rumors, and this dubious crown of basically being a walking, talking Cosmo magazine to the rest of the girls at Winchester in terms of sexual know-how. Okay, more than partially. How I got this title and how I’ve worn it proudly is a bit of a comedy of errors, I guess you could say. It started with Bobby Adams, the aforementioned Senator’s aide and former Raiders team captain here at Winchester. It was my freshman year, his senior, and at some lame but “popular” party, he and I found ourselves locked in a bathroom. He was drunk, I was mostly just nervous, and everyone else at the party was assuming that uber-popular Bobby Adams was relieving me of my virginity over the bathroom sink.
What actually happened was the exact opposite. Bobby, drunk and about to head off for college at Cornell, ended up breaking down and tearfully telling me he couldn’t do what he knew I’d come into the bathroom for him to do. As it turns out, Bobby’s family was very, very strict and religiously hardline. It also turns out; Bobby was as gay as a Village People & Freddie Mercury sandwich.
He begged me not to tell anyone, since no one knew, and he had a reputation, after all, of being this lady-slaying, bedpost-notch-collecting alpha jock. And that’s when it clicked for me. That’s when I saw my road up to the very top of the social tower at my new boarding school for the next four years.
So, I made Bobby a deal that night. I wouldn’t tell a soul, as long as he told everyone else that he’d bagged me. He was about as surprised as you’d imagine, but I think he got where I was headed with it. After all, he was the King of Winchester, and there I was a gawky newcomer with a famous and rich dad, and no friends at the school. We waited twenty more minutes, walked out to cheers, and the rest is history.
I “dated” Bobby for the next few months, showing up at parties with him, and very publicly “sneaking away” to bedrooms with him, where he would actually meet up with Sean Parsons, the debate team captain while I watched Netflix on my phone in the next room. It was a weird situation, but we both got what we wanted. Bobby got to be with the person and gender he actually wanted to be with but couldn’t publicly, and I dialed my social standings from a neutral four out of ten to more like an eleven out of ten.
From there, it all sort of snowballed. When Bobby graduated and I “dumped” him, I moved on to another guy. This time Luke Paredi, Bobby’s replacement as team captain. Luke I actually did intend to hook up with, until he came in his jeans after about four seconds of clothes-on kissing. Twice. So, we struck a new deal. I wouldn’t tell a soul about Luke’s easy trigger, and he’d make sure every single cheerleader football groupie in school knew he’d rocked my world and given me the screwing of the century. It made him a rockstar, and it firmly cemented me as the queen bee of underclassmen. Not to mention, it got me a spot on the varsity cheer squad too.
After that, I just started skipping the middle man, so to speak. Instead of trying to find another situation where I’d have to “make a deal” with some boy from school, I just started to make shit up. “Ron” was the man—the “real man”—I told the cheer squad I was dating halfway through sophomore year. Ron was a thirty-year-old hedge fund manager and owned a yacht that he loved taking me out on. He was married, so it was all very hush-hush, and he loved buying me jewelry and lingerie. The whole thing was very scandalous to the girls at Winchester, and by junior year, it made me goddess of the popular crowd.
Ron, by the way, never existed. Neither did Brad, the oil tycoon I “dated” after Ron. And it goes without saying, neither did Nigel or Alan, the two Englishman and heirs to various crowns and titles who I “dated” at the same time after Brad.
And that about brings us up to speed to senior year, with me being the unchallenged queen of the popular crowd and of the school at large. I’ve been careful and strategic in my lying. I don’t have a reputation as a slut or anything, just as this cosmopolitan sex goddess who dates rich, scandalously older men. The type of girl the boys at Winchester want to be with and the girls want to be.