thinkin' it'd make her a legend.
By the time it jumped to other cliques,
it mutated.
Booths during lunch breaks turned into confessionals, girls whisperin’ over pies and mozzarella sticks.
“You heard about Roxy Bianco?”
“And that Harding kid?”
And no matter how wild the story got, no one questioned if she was lyin’.
By midnight, four different girls in Bayonne swore he made Roxy Bianco squirt in his mouth on her hood. By the next day, it was leakin’ outta every girl in Jersey with gel tips and bad roots.
“Didn’t unzip, didn’t jerk off, didn’t ask for shit,” they said.
By the weekend, it spread like smoke through dive bars off Bergenline.
Passed like tampons under stalls.
The story hit the streets,
and girls leaned in close,
whisperin' in dressin' rooms,
on thepathtrain,
in passing at Newport Mall,
and written in fake group chats titled‘church group’.
“You heard about Andrew Harding?”
“And that one girl?”
One of 'em nodded, drink half-raised.
“He moaned into her pussy, tellin’ her he don't wanna fuck, just eat.”
“Nah, get the fuck outta here.”
“I’mdead fuckin’ serious.He made her come for like ten minutes straight.”
But the story did what stories do.
It grew legs and left Roxy behind.
By the end of the month, every girl in Jersey knew the name—Andrew Harding,and Roxy faded into the background.
Harding said he'd teach her a lesson—one about other people deciding your worth. Turned out, the lesson outlived the night. Therealstory, the one Roxy didn't tell you or anyone else, proved Andrew never had to lift a finger.
She did the rest all on her own.
By September, Roxy was a nobody,
Andrew Harding was a god.
