'D.D., this is your wake up call!'

It's really rough getting up so early. I must hit snooze four or five times before I actually switch off the alarm. I mean, I'd really like to get up at five and have a decent workout, or go on a really long jog. But, well, when five o'clock rolls around, my metabolism just isn't up to it. And I'm so snug and cosy in my bed, getting up is just too much. But then, by the third snooze I begin to feel guilty, because I promised myself I'd get up. And then I begin to feel lazy instead of just warm and tired. The fourth alarm sounds like "wake up, you lazy bitch," and I moan, finally switch it off and stretch my arms. And then there's the ritual where I prise my eyelids open and stare at the ceiling, debating whether to put my body through the stresses of another day at college, or to just sleep right through it.

I always decide to get up, although sometimes it takes several minutes before I slide out of bed and place my oversized feet in my Sylvester slippers. They're really adorable slippers, and comfortable- well, once my feet warm them up anyway. They're getting a bit old now too, but I love them too much to stop wearing them. They're as much a part of me as the round birthmark on my left ankle, or the bicycle scar on my right knee. I almost love them as much as my teddy bears. But I talk to my teddies, wheras I don't talk to my slippers. If I did, chances are my roommate, Sandy, would call the shrinks in to take me away.

I stand up and do a long wide stretch and twist my torso a bit, just to loosen up. And right about then I'll make my mouth into a tall stretched oval and let out an almighty yawn. I yawn some more, as I make my bed. I arrange William and Deidre next to each other on my pillow. William's white. Well, when I wash him, which probably isn't often enough. Usually he's a bit grey, and that always reminds me of his age, and how long I've had him. Dierdre is a newer and brighter pink bear, but I guess I've had her for a while now too. I feel like Dierdre and William have something together, so I always sit them side by side, paws touching. They look so happy and cute. And when I first set them up, I often find myself smiling the first smile of the day.

I slip into my dressing gown, because I start to feel a bit of a cold draught under my nightie while I'm making my bed. I sometimes have the common sense to put it on before I make my bed, but often I forget. Feeling the chill through my panties is my reminder that I'm standing around half-naked. "Get some clothes on, girl." That's what my daddy used to say when I was little. I liked wearing next to nothing back then, feeling the cool air on my bare skin. I guess I still do, but I have matured a bit since then.

I gather up a couple of towels and my other shower stuff, and try to be quiet as I unlock the door to our room. I really don't know why I try to be quiet, because my alarm is surely more likely to wake Sandy up. But she doesn't stir. In fact, I have the impression that she could sleep through anything. I gently pull the door open and instantly notice how much colder the air outside is. I quickly step out into the corridor pull the door shut behind me. I make my way along the deserted hall to the showers. It isn't very long after that I am actually standing in the shower, waking up properly.

I don't spend too long in the shower, because I hate showering. Too noisy and aggressive. I'd rather relax in a hot bath for an hour or two, and I usually find time on the weekend to do just that. In fact, I'd almost certainly be a shit to get along with if I missed it. During the week, a quick shower will leave me clean on the on the surface, but it just doesn't give the same spiritual cleansing as a soak in the tub. Anyway, that's just me.

After patting myself dry, I like to cover myself in talc rather than spray on deodorant or perfume. Not that I avoid sprays, I just don't like to use them unless I'm going out somewhere. (College isn't somewhere, of course!) I have some roll-on for my underarms, but apart from that, I prefer the dry smooth sheen of the powder. Wrapping my hair in a towel and my gown, I make my way back to our room, where is Sandy soundly sleeping.

I place my shower stuff on the dresser as I quietly slip open my unmentionables drawer, and pull out my pink and black aerobics set with the short shorts. The kind of shorts that might as well be briefs, actually. I slide into the shorts and wrap my bosoms in the lycra top, and sit down to brush and dry my hair. That done, I gather up my long dark hair and pull it through a headband. Then, pulling on some socks, leg warmers and my gym shoes, I quickly dash back out, and jog up the corridor and descend the flight of stairs to the ground floor.

The wake up cycle begins properly as I emerge into the cool morning. Initially, I am chilled, but after running a kilometre or so in the direction of the park, I have warmed up, and am panting gently as my feet begin to begin to beat a constant rhythm on the pavement. An old man in a tracksuit approaches from the other direction, having just turned from another street. He does it deliberately, I think, but then maybe I'm paranoid. There are definitely some weirdos in the city, but every community has guys who slaver over young women who keep in shape. All guys, really. Anyway, I figure that these hot blooded guys are to keep us sexy things on the ball, and it's just another law of the sexual jungle according to D.D.

I find it kind of flattering to have this old guy feasting on my attractiveness, in a bizarre, slutty sort of way. Today I decide to wink at him on the approach, and I smile too, just to tease him. Dangerous, perhaps. But deliciously exciting. I don't really have a thing for older guys, but I have a habit of making moves on just about anything of the opposite sex. Even this grey haired mid-life crisis case, who raises an eyebrow, but smiles and takes an extra long look at my good parts on the way by. I shiver internally, it all being so wrong and forbidden and all. I like being a closet slut, just so long as nobody knows. Then, the possibility of being found out as a lust-ridden hoare-wanna-be is strangely exciting in itself. I am filled with such contradictions, and they delight me, though they are the rue of others.

Which leads me to think of my ex-boyfriend. He had no idea of my contradictions, maybe because I deliberately hid them from him. But he's a dumb jock, essentially, so he wouldn't have been able to comprehend the truth of my complexity had I allowed him to know it. I didn't think that he was that "dumb jock" type when I was going out with him- I was blindly overwhelmed by his charms, and was, by virtue of this, a slave to his whims and fancies. Never again.

Usually, as general rule, I am the domineering type, but then comes the contradiction. I enjoy being dominated. Weird, I guess. But it definitely arouses me to have to take a back seat in encounters. That is metaphorically speaking of course- I do have a rule about the sex thing which can't be broken, no matter how much I ache or how hot and bothered I get.

Fantasies and acts of self-loving are OK, of course. The more instances the merrier- much merrier, actually. No matter how frequently the acts and fantasies occur, or how wild they become, they are private and harmless. However, to me, the act of mutual intercourse in the real world is by no means a matter to be taken lightly. It may strike you as odd that I am waiting for marriage, and that I seek to remain pure until then. But that's my rule. My rule about the sex thing.

Phillip has no such rule. That's his name, by the way, and it is to my soul as fingernails to a blackboard. Oh no, good old Phillip seems to think he can date a genuine woman like me, and screw with some buxom toy at the same time. I can tell you, it broke me down really bad when I first found out. I couldn't get past the fact that he did the sex thing with her while he was supposed to be loving me. Anyway, I cried until my eyes felt like stones, and my face was as red as my sluttiest lipstick.

The sorrow festered into anger after a few days, of course. So it's lucky that I haven't seen Phillip since I found out- close up anyway- probably because one of my friends told him of my mood, and that I'd likely tear him to pieces should I come within a few paces of his ugly butt. The whole affair still really grates on me, though not as much as the few weeks after I found out.

How I was told about it all is pretty damned bad too, I can tell you. Straight from the buxom toy's mouth. Samantha is her name. A full-busomed young bomshell is how she could be described. Bombshell for more reasons than one, in my view. It really hurts coming from someone like that- a cruel airhead with breasts that might as well be made-to-order "silly-cones".

I reach the park, and begin climbing the hilly terrain, enjoying the fresher air. My headband begins to work overtime mopping up my perspiration as I sprint up and down the paths, and do a few jumping jacks and stretches on the grass. It's by no means a choreographed routine, but it occasionally draws the attention of a passer-by. And it also keeps me fit enough to hold the gaze of other passers-by later in the day, which happens to be my primary aim.

Eventually, when I deem myself to be sufficiently damp and exhausted, I force myself to jog back home. Perspiration adds a lustre to my skin and makes the lining of my shorts and top all the more clingy. Even the faint odor of my labor seems sweet, at least to me. So on the way home, I often find myself imagining the hottest and most forbidden of my fantasies. Imagining situations that would lead me to be just as hot and wet as after my morning run is one of my favorite pastimes.

By the time I arrive home, I have a really ravenous hunger, and not always for food. I try to avoid meeting anyone, for fear I might not be able to control myself. OK, I'm exaggerating, but I have an almighty aching sensation, and I feel it best not to let anyone catch me off guard. I do my warm down exercises on the stairs and in the corridors on the way back to my room. Eventually I pull off my headband, and let my soggy hair dry a little, before finally taking the last few paces to my door. Suitably exhausted, I let myself in.

I take off my sweaty exercise gear, and dump it on the floor. A quick run-over with a fresh towel and some deodorant, as well as some more talc, and I'm ready to be the fresh, perky and inherently adorable D.D. that people will love to hate for the rest of the day. I tidy up my hair, before I drink a bottle of water to replenish my lost fluids.

Now it's time to get dressed properly. Always a problem for me. I always want to wear something bright and special, but I don't always have something bright and special to wear. A rather testing dilemma that is my second stress event of the day- after enduring the shower. I starting shaving my legs not to long ago. Mainly because I wanted to buy myself some fashion hoisery instead of leggings, which I felt were becoming a habit of mine. I particularly like white stockings, because I think they flatter my legs. Besides, they have the curious effect of drawing attention away from my naturally pale skin. It seems to burn rather than tan, as a few sunbaking trips have made me painfully aware. So after I've pulled on a pair of panties from my technicolor brief drawer, I roll some white hose up carefully, proud of my ladder-free record.

I wear a bra too, although some girls on campus don't. It's the nineties, I say, I don't feel right without my bra. Mind you I say it in my head, not out loud. I'm guess I'm afraid of possible comebacks: "That's okay, Deed. Your breasts need all the support they can get." Hm. I'm usually pretty okay on self-esteem. But my breasts are very vulnerable to attack. Phillip, the bad old ex, used to say that anything more than a handful was too much. I used to believe him, but of course now he's got Sam, and he's got more than a handful with her.

Eventually, I choose a simple pink skirt and a printed T-shirt. The skirt is shortish, but I don't think I'd call it a miniskirt. Not that I keep up with the definitions of these things! And printed on the shirt is a fashion label, though I won't advertise here by mentioning them. It's enough that I wear that shirt more than any other, I think! Mainly because its printed in rainbow colors, and I like rainbow colors.

I finish everything off with some lipstick and a smidgen of eye make-up. Then I pull on some black lace-ups (my trademark fashion item) and thread my arms through my jacket. Finally, once I'm all dressed up, with nowhere to go, I pull my denim backpack over my shoulder and head off to grab some breakfast. And after all that excercising, I usually suprise my friends with the amount of muesli and fruit and flapjacks and juice I consume. I just smile at them, and take things as slowly as I can with my stomach growling for more.

My stressful college day begins properly with the relatively short walk to campus, which I typically use to search for my perfect man. Well physically at least- it requires probing and careful flirtation to find that elusive guy who'll treat me like a goddess. A guy who is devoted to me alone, and won't be so blasphemous as to go and worship another more full-busomed deity. Sights set to high? Yeah, I'll say. Sometimes I think I'll never settle down with one guy. Especially when my boiling hormones fry my brain and tell me to find the hottest and cutest guy on campus and do a seductive enchantress routine on him...

But that's my fantasy- and another story.


Exit: The Alpha Collection; Kasoft Typesetting; Archer

This work is a part of the Kasoft Typesetting storybook The Alpha Collection

Kasoft is a registered trademark of Kasoft Software, owned by Kade Hansson.

Copyright 1996 Kade "Archer" Hansson; e-mail: archer@kaserver5.org