By no means would I objectively consider myself as anything more than an average guy. I inherited my dad’s sizable nose and my mother’s tiny chest, although the latter has worked out okay. My penis is well within one standard deviation of the mean. As a conversationalist I’m not special, unless I’m talking to another self-avowed Preacher or Sandman fan, or somone who shares my obsessive love of early 80’s cartoon shows. So it comes as much of a surprise to me as it does to you that I’m getting well more than my fair share of women. Considering that the mere mention that someone lives in Foothill can turn a woman off faster than Small Wonder’s kill switch. I’m doing extremely well. So let me share my secret: chicks dig my 800 Verbal score on the SAT.
I took the test on the May date and got it back in early June, well satisfied with my score but not seeing any potential reproductive value in it. I figured this would raise my price at the sperm bank, but at the time I never imagined that it was so sexually valuable that I would end up tattooing the number onto my testicles and consider that money well spent.
One day that summer I was talking in my bedroom with a friend of mine, Kelly Dunkowitz, who had long black hair and an inner fire that burned only for the enlightened self-interest of Ayn Rand. Staring suavely at her breasts and making small talk, I innocently mentioned my little achievement. She looked up at me with a suggestive glint that had very little to do with the philosophical ideals of capitalism. “Tell about how you aced the Analogies section,” she purred slinkily, “I found the synonym pairs very, very, hard.”
“When you say very, very hard, isn’t that a clever metaphor for your obviously erect nipples?” That astute observation hit her like a weight made entirely of Spanish Fly, and she tore off her sweater before I could blink. Not to go into detail, but I screwed her harder than would a well-oiled, hand-crafted, German built Screwing Machine, one that was top of the line at screwing. Once word spread, all I had to do was whisper into a girl’s ear, “I found the sentence completion section easy due to my exceptional vocabulary,” and she would melt into my arms.
When I got into Berkeley, I thought that being surrounded by 800 girls and boys would’ve raised the bar to where the mere whisper of “perfect Verbal” would cause only the slightest hint of arousal. Casually testing its draw, I slipped it into the ear of a young Asian beauty sipping seductively from a can of Red Bull over her EECS homework. Throwing her textbook out the window and her arms around my neck, she breathed into my ear, “I only got a 780. You’ll have to spank some reading comprehension into me.” I would’ve taken her up on her offer, but I had to get into San Francisco. My AP English 5 score plays really well with the bathhouse guys.
