Page 1 of A Cock and Bull Story
On paper, I’m everything the University of Oxford is looking for. In person—not so much. I’m a five foot four mess of brightly colored ombré-dyed hair, even brighter make-up, wearing high heels with jean shorts that do more to reveal than conceal. Where everyone else is sporting their trendy tweed blazers and hand-knitted, expensive wool cardigans, I’m flashing a whole lot of top-boob in my low-cut tank tops. Needless to say, Belle Harperon paperis smart and classy as fuck.
ButBelle Harperin person?
Well, I’m some kind of beautiful train wreck—but, it’s working for me, I swear.
It’s summer in Oxford and I’m on break before I start my second year of my master’s program here at the university. I’m studying Classic Lit; in case you’re wondering. Also, I’ve slept with almost every student and professor—male or female—in case you were wondering that, too. And, now, I’mboooooooooored. No new students will really come in for another few weeks, which leaves me with. . .
My own sloppy seconds.
Normally, I would be cool with this because I’m a closet whore. Redaction—I’m just a whore. You can’t be a closet anything if everyone knows about it, right? But, they don’t care and I sure as fuck don’t as long as I’m getting that D. Or P. I’m not picky. I like both. Why settle for one when I could have itall?
If you’re getting the impression that I’m a sex addict, well, you would be right. BUT, there are way worse things to be—like a drunk, a junkie, an American who understands no British slang. I’m the latter. Do you know how many idioms we use daily?A butt ton. There’s a lovely example for you now. What the hell is a ‘butt ton’? Well, it’s a shit ton. . . and down the rabbit hole we go. This is all fine and dandyifyou understand the idioms; if you don’t, things likethishappens:
Professor: I can’t believe you’ve taken on such a big load—you must want to be cream crackered.
Me: I love big loads! Please, cream all over my cracker!
Translation—
Professor: I can’t believe you’ve taken so many classes—you must want to be exhausted.
Me: I love buckets of cum! Please, jizz all over my pussy!
And this, ladies and gentlemen, is my life.
So, you see, being a sex addict is not nearly as damning or complicated. I rest my case. I bet you’re thinking it’s a good thing I’m not here for law school and I would agree. I’m actually here on scholarship—how fancy is that?!It sounds impressive until you get an eyeful of me. Chances are I’m winking at you—because, well, we’ve established I’m addicted to what the dick, vag, balls, tit did to me.
It’s right about now that you realize I need some help and, Jesus save me,I agree. I can’t even do my own sloppy seconds anymore! I don’t want to wait for the new term’s fresh blood. In fact, I kind of want to stop wanting sex so badly. Do you know how difficult it is to focus on Shakespearian literature when you’re trying to eye-fuck your professor to see if he’ll get a hard-onin class?
Clearly, I need some intervention.
Something like Alcoholics Anonymous—but for whores.
Whores Anonymous!
Skanks R Us?
Something!
I pull out my phone and begin searching. Low and behold, thereisa group for people like me: Sexaholics Anonymous, or SA. Further investigation shows me there are no meetings in this area. Ugh, get it together Oxford, you bunch of prudes—I need help! But, when I keep scrolling, there is an upcoming SA meeting in Banbury, a city only thirty minutes north of here. That could work; I could borrow my friend’s lorry—that’s slang for truck andnothis girlfriend. Boy, was George ever pissed when I took Laurie for a ride.In my defense, he said I could take her for a drive. . .
Clicking onto the link, I realize the meeting istonightat eight. It’s currently five, which gives me enough time to eat dinner and get ready. I have to look nice—in case I meet someone. Not for sex, though. Definitely not for sex. I just want to look cute. And slutty. I can’t help that I don’t own anything respectable. Fuck—am I going to have to start wearing cardigans after I finish the twelve steps? Those sweater things look itchy as all hell. I suppose wearing a bra would help. . .
Now, I have to go lingerie shopping.
Interesting fact:bras and panties aren’t meant to be worn just for seduction and roleplay purposes. Apparently, they are everyday dress items. Huh, learn something new every day, right? I quickly go get a bite to eat and, then, head back to my single-room apartment to change. What’s the dress code for a SA meeting? I mean, we’ve already established I’m not working with much, but I might have a dress that doesn’t reach my navel and show off my ass at the same time.Maybe. Good thing Oxford doesn’t have a dress code.
I finally findonerespectable shirt, but it’s long-sleeved andred. Red isn’t really my jam right now, not with my magenta-to-purple-to-blue hair, but I feel like Oxford has an image to live up to—one I don’t embody. And, if I don’t get my shit together fast, they might withdraw my scholarship. I can’t say this for sure, my grades are beyond stellar; it’s just a hunch. Actually, more like a whispered rumor I’m sleeping with all my teachers to get good grades. Iamsleeping with them, but the grades are all me, baby.
Who says you can’t be smart and loose-legged?
Don’t answer that.
So, red top it is. And since I’m going to clash, I decide to paint my nails and lips blood red, too. Oh, and line my eyes in blue. Not exactly like Mimi fromThe Drew Carry Show—but close. Apparently, the make-up experts say blue-eyed women shouldn’t wear bright blue around their eyes. A tasteful and conservative navy, if you must, but stick to earthy browns and purples to make those baby blues pop. I say, ‘fuck it’, and wear an electric teal that looks slightly radioactive in the tube—considering how I just rimmed my lower eyes with it, I sure as fuck hope it’s not.
I finish my ensemble with a pair of tight black jeans, glossy reddish-pink heels, and some chunky costume jewelry. It sounds over the top and totally is—but that’s my style. It’s very ‘in-your-face’ and blatant. I don’t have time to be coy; I just want what I want. But, Belle Harper is turning a new leaf. No more sex, sex, sex, sex for me.
Jizz can no longer be part of my food pyramid.
