Sheila and Dalene

Sheila was the hottest girl on campus, there was no doubt about it.

She had that tall, slim model look that made all the girls sick with envy, and a chest that made all the boys pretend they didn't look -- although they did, of course, all the time.

And then there was that warm chocolate color of her skin.

Whoever were allowed to smell that skin would be as close to heaven as anyone could be in this life, Dylan concluded.

In short: Sheila was an unapproachable, and Dylan harbored no illusions regarding the chances of her talking to a guy like him.
It wasn't that he was bad looking or anything, but he was definitely not in the same league as the hot shots that dared make a try.

The only comfort was that they were also doomed to fail -- miserably. It was not much of a secret that Sheila was a practicing lesbian.

It therefore came as quite a shock to Dylan when Sheila came up to him after a lecture and started to talk -- to him!

"Hi there Dylan," she said, as if this was as any other normal conversation and not the end of the world.

"You are quite a nice guy, aren't you?"

Dylan replied something in the line of "duh, duh, duh...". She interpreted that to be a proper response to her request and went on to ask him whether he considered himself to be a gentleman that would treat a girl with decorum and kindness, and not break her heart with chauvinism and infidelity.

Incapable of speech, Dylan found it safest to nod rigorously.

"You know: Girls can be so cruel," she continued. "The idea that women are gentle and caring people is a damn myth," she said.

"I have been hurt too many times. Why don't you come over to my place on Saturday evening, and then we take it from there?"
The she turned around and left the building.

The next two days were lost in a feverish haze. What was this all about? Was she out to trick him? Humiliate him? Or worse: Turn him into a fag hag? (It said a lot about his state of mind that he debated with himself the mere existence of male fag hags...)

When he finally showed up on Saturday, he was tired of worries and sleepless nights, but Sheila didn't seem to notice.

"I am glad you could come," she told him and showed him into the garden behind her impressive villa.

"It all belongs to my father," she said, when she saw his stunned look. "It is one of his many property investments, and he lets me live her as long as I am a student."

"Uh hu," he replied.

"You are not very talkative, are you Dylan? I have found that not many men are good at chatting." She looked at him mischievously.


"Ah, there you go! By the end of this evening I am sure we will get you up to at least three syllables."

She went over to an icebox and pulled out a beer.

"You see, it is a common misconception among men that talking is invented for the exchange of information. It isn't. Speech was developed for the sake of social bonding. We chatter to show each other that we care about it each other. That we belong together."


"One theory has it that women talk more than men because they used to be the social glue of the family, while the men were out hunting. The men had to be quiet not to scare away the pray, while the women had to gossip in order to scare away the predators."


"That is what I said as well, but the fact remains that we women seem to talk more than you men do. But what do I know? When you are alone together, you probably gossip as much as we  do, you know, watching football or going on a fishing trip."

She stopped: "Enough talk! Do you want to be my girlfriend?"


"You seem to be such a nice person, and I am tired of intrigue. So I asked if you would like to be my girlfriend."

"But I am a man!"

"That's not a problem. My grandmother is a witch and all that. You should know, though, that being my girlfriend does require some pillow talk."

"No falling asleep after sex, you hear me!"


"Then we have an agreement?"

Her smile killed all his counter-arguments. They were left bleeding in the pool as she went to find the magic potion.

This cap is dedicated to Dalene.

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