Dork Porn

Mort's heart was pounding. He'd been thinking about it all day, and he still wasn't sure it was a good idea. He wanted to, so badly, and he was pretty sure she did, too...but he couldn't be certain.

She'd told him she loved him. And he'd fucked up. He'd gotten freaked out, like he tended to around girls, though he'd never been that way around Angie before. Angie had always been his best friend, as close to male as your could get with breasts and a vagina, but she'd suddenly seemed...female. She'd become a girl in that instant. One with girly-type feelings, who might, deep down, be interested in things like cute skirts and makeup.

Which he had to conceed was not a bad thing. Angie had actually, for the first time ever, worn a skirt above knee level. It was flirting around her mid-thighs, attracting the attention of all of their friends, not just Mort. Her hair was still in a ponytail, yes, and she still had her glasses, but she'd been freed from her bracey prison, and had left behind her cozy t-shirts and sweats for a short skirt and what was probably actually even a tank top.

Was she dressing that way for him? Mort didn't dare hope it, though a small part of him thought, "Well, it isn't for John, that's for sure..." He put it down to arrogance, however, and continued his secret ogling of his newly-discovered female's ass.

***

Did she really love him? Mort wondered if the whole phone conversation had been a hopelessly hopeful dream on his part. Angie hadn't acted too strangely, lately. Well, no more than usual. She definitely didn't seem like she'd spent a half hour in tears over the phone with him a couple of nights ago. Sigh. Girls.

"Mort, think fast!"

Mort did not think fast. A frisbee knocked his glasses off, and he glared shortsightedly at Angie, who was about ten feet away and the visual equivalent of tapioca to Mort's astigmatism. But very sexy tapioca. Mort was nursing a two-hour erection because of that tapioca. He had been tempted to run to the bathroom and just get rid of it. After all, it would take the work of a moment, and it wasn't like he couldn't get another one...But this one was special. This one was intended. Mort wondered if he was crazy. He wondered that a lot.

Angie picked the glasses up out of the mulch and wiped it off on the bottom of her shirt, exposing even more of her dork-quality pale skin than she all ready was. She handed Mort his glasses, and he used them to get a clear look down her shirt. She didn't seem to notice.

"Thanks, Ang."

"Sorry, Mort."

They'd spoken at the same time. They laughed and then smiled shyly, also in tandem. The look on her face was so obviously longing, bittersweet affectionate, that not even Mort, living in his cloud of dorky male ignorance, could mistake it. It tugged at Mort's heartstrings, and at the strings of some of his other major organs as well. His face broke into a shakily relieved smile.

The moment was broken by the strange sound of Steve's voice. They both turned immediately. Steve rarely spoke. But when he did, everyone listened.

"Hey, um," he said, his voice sounding like the deepest bass in a choir of bullfrogs, "Mort. You did mention ice cream."

There was a moment of silence. Then, Seymour voiced everyone's opinion. "And you chose that to deign to speak about?"

"I like ice cream."

***

They'd built a bonfire. They'd roasted marshmallows. Angie had set hers on fire. Twice. John had offered to eat them, anyway. Horror stories had been told, all though they had less to do with ghosts and more to do with classmates. No one mentioned Mort's prom incident, to his great relief. The night had passed on. Seymour had gone home. Steve's new girlfriend came to pick him up for a date of sorts. John had hung about for a bit until the marshmallows ran out. Then, suddenly, it was just Mort and Angie. The fire was still going, not blazing but crackling merrily. The fire was blindingly bright in the twilight, all else would soon be blackness.

Angie was sitting just next to him, kindly attempting to coax an unwary cricket away from the fire pit. He smiled vaguely at her good-naturedness towards insects. He wondered if that was why she liked him. Was he, Mort, a poor, misguided cricket in Angie's mind? Somehow it didn't seem appropriate to ask.

"Hey, Ang," he said, vaguely. She turned to look at him inquisitively. He grinned and shrugged. "Good day, huh?"

She nodded eagerly. "You bet yer sweet buttons it was. Got rid of school and braces in one day. I'm a new woman."

"You're a woman at all," Mort said without thinking, but Angie didn't seem phased. That was the nice thing about her, Mort thought, was that he could say something totally stupid and not have her get raging mad at him. And she didn't expect him to read her mind. And she liked Star Trek.

She sat up, and looked at the fire thoughtfully. Then, very slowly, her head leaned to the side and came to rest on Mort's shoulder. Mort glanced warily at the mousy-haired head on his shoulder, then gave half a nervous smile and put his arm carefully around her mostly bare shoulders. Her hand found its way onto Mort's thigh.

His erection, which had mostly dissapated in the excitement with the marshmallows and everything, was suddenly back with interest, standing full-force with an eagerness that Mort associated with puppies left alone all day. Suddenly the master was back, and Mort's manly bits were scratching at the door and whining.

Angie sighed. "Mort, do you think I'm pretty?"

Mort knew that the correct answer was something along the lines of affirmative. But he wanted to say it with finesse. He wanted to make Angie actually feel that he meant it, because he did. He wanted to make her turn a fetching shade of pink like she sometimes did. He wanted her to know exactly how pretty she was to him. He...wanted to make her so happy that she would make the first move, so that Mort wouldn't have to. A number of cheesy romantic lines flowed through his head, involving such nonsensical phrases as "beautiful as a rose" (red, with all petals on?), "enchanting as a new day" (damp with condensation and slightly cold?), and "really, really pretty" (not exactly Don Juan material).

"Yeah," he said, with finality. Whatever. She could take it or she could leave it. "You know I do. Your...your outfit is really nice."

She laughed a little, only half-mirthfully. "It's for you."

Mort's mouth kicked in before his brain. "It would never fit me."

Angie laughed so hard she snorted. Mort had to hold her to keep her from falling off of the bench. It was, he considered, not really that funny, but it was so funny to watch Angie laughing like that that Mort couldn't resist a few chuckles, himself.

After the laughter had settled down, however, Mort's brain finally processed the information it had received half a minute ago.

"For me?"

"Yes. For you. I...I guess I wanted to look more like...well, a girl. For you."

"Oh."

In retrospect, Mort thought that he should have said rather more than that. He wasn't doing very well. Angie had been One of the Guys for most of the night, albeit one with sexy legs and boobs (John's didn't count), but suddenly she was a Girl again. And Mort was notoriously bad with Girls.

He needed to find a common ground before he started asking her inane questions, like he'd done with Suzi. He wracked his brain.

"I think...I think that Han Solo didn't really look all that scruffy."

"Perhaps," Angie said, picking up immediately on Mort's nonsequitor, "But to a Princess he might be slightly less, you know, presentable."

"I guess. But still."

"You're scruffy-lookin'."

"Yeah. Well, you look like a Wookiee."

"Shut up. Your penis looks like a Wookiee."

"Better a Wookiee than Jabba."

There was a pause.

"My penis looks like Boba Fett."

"You don't have one. I hope."

Angie giggled trecherously.

There was a long pause. Angie shifted positions and snuggled into Mort's chest.

There was a longer pause. Angie's fingers were absently stroking the inside of Mort's thigh. Mort's erection was not-so-absently throbbing.

The silence continued, broken only by the crackle of the fire, and the desperate shuffling of Mort's thoughts. What if she said no? But she wouldn't...would she? If she did, he'd never live it down. It would be awful. What if...?

Eventually, part of him kicked the other part in its metaphorical buttocks and told it, gently speaking, to get the hell on with things, or they'd never get anywhere at all.

"Um, Angie?"

"Yeah, Mort?"

He was certain her hand had moved up his thigh. Had it? It must have. It certainly felt like it.

"Um...Can I ask you a question?"

"Duh. You know you can ask me anything, Mort."

"Um...Well, I guess I was just wondering...and you don't have to, I mean, I'm just asking, I know it's a big thing and all, but...well..." Mort swallowed. Angie was looking at him, now. Her hand had ceased its allegedly inadvertant sexual tickling, allowing rather more blood into Mort's belaboured brain. He swallowed, with some difficulty. "Do you, maybe, want to have sex?"

***

Angie's stomach exploded into a ball of fiery, consuming lust. Her crotch began to tingle immediately, and she could swear that she'd positively just wet her panties with arousal. Had she heard him correctly?

"I'm...I'm sorry?" she squeaked, disbelieving.

"Oh, no, it's nothing. Don't apologise. It's fine. I said it was fine, didn't I?"

"No, no. I mean I don't think I heard you correctly."

"Oh. Er...Do you want to...Er. Sex, I mean. Do you want to have it? Er, with me?"

Angie exploded again, mutely. Her breath caught in her throat. If she hadn't been leaning bodily on Mort's chest, she would probably be on fire in the pit at the moment. She exhaled.

She knew that the correct answer would be a general affirmative. But she wanted to say it in some sort of flowery fashion, so that Mort would know that she really meant it. And oh, God, did she mean it! Her mind auditioned a number of strange phrases like, "more than a flower loves the sun" (do flowers have the capacity to love?), and, "like a Ferenghi wants money" (Star Trek and sex do not traditionally go together), and "oh God, Mort, please take me now!" (she wanted to titillate him, not terrify him).

"Yes," she whispered. All right, it wasn't the most articulate, original, or even very good answer, but she'd said it in a husky voice that suggested that she may or may not be posessed by a sex demon.

To be continued...