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I didn’t want to go to the party, but was forced there against my will. My dorm mate, Arthur, was interested in a guy I knew who was going, and promised to commit vile, unnatural, evil acts upon my person while I slept if I didn’t introduce them. Having awoken in the middle of the night to find myself witness to such acts, I took his threats rather seriously.
So I took him to the party.
I parked my car, a shitty ’89 Civic, and locked the doors before he could leave. “Look,” said I. “If you and this guy hit it off, you have to promise me something.”
“What, you want to watch?”
“No, not quite. Look, if you hit it off, go to his place.”
“You’re loud, and I need my sleep.”
“P-shaw, man, I’m ninja-quiet, even in the throes of sweaty man-love.”
“You grunt and groan like cavemen in the throes of sweaty man-love, and I have semi-finals coming up,” I said. “Just do me this favor.”
“Okay, okay. God. But honestly, dude, I think you overestimate my powers of seduction.”
“Totally. It’ll take me at least two days to get this guy in bed.”
He laughed, and I grinned, and we exited the car and entered the frat house. My every sense was immediately set upon by loud, brain damaging thrasher music, hazy eye-burning cigarette or marijuana smoke, or nose-clogging body odor. I introduced him to the guy, and took my place on the couch, holding a can of something cold and carbonated. I wanted to leave, but had to wait for Arthur’s I’m-okay-so-fuck-off signal, the signal that told me all was well, and that I’d be kept awake tonight by the grunting and groaning of sweaty man-love.
As the party wore on, first one, then more of the partygoers joined me on the couch or sat on the floor, and I soon found myself sucked into the middle of a conversation in which I wasn’t really interested. My waning focus was pulled back to the conversation, however, when the topic of conversation turned to sex.
I didn’t know what had led to new train of thought, but it was making me uncomfortable.
The very idea of sex made me uncomfortable. I don’t know why. At twenty-one, sex should have become as natural an act as breathing, and one equally as vital to my existence, but my development in that area had been halted at an early age. Again, I don’t know why, but I have some theories..
I remember being comfortable around girls. And unless I’m interested in someone, I still am. But if there is that spark of interest, I become a blubbering idiot. I never know what to say. I can never read their signals, or I’m unsure of the ones I do. Doubt eats at me. Is that interest? Couldn’t be. Is she rejecting me? Is she flirting? Am I?
They might as well be speaking another language.
So in general, I avoided girls I liked. Or might like. Or girls that might like me.
It left me with very few friends of the fairer sex, fewer girlfriends, and fewer still opportunities for sex. (Here, of course, “fewer still” takes on the meaning of “zero”.)
The conversation turned to cherry-popping.
With anything from shy smiles to large, shit-eating grins, the participants went in a circle and volunteered the age they lost their virginity.
My heart sunk. Twenty-one. Still a virgin.
How do I explain that?
“Fourteen,” said a blonde girl, Jessica. “My boyfriend, Billy. He was nineteen.”
“How romantically illegal,” said Miranda.
I hadn’t notice her join the group. Or I had, and it just wasn’t important enough to register.
See, Miranda Cooper was what they call a wallflower. She tends to stay in the background, observing more often than participating. That she was even here, in a social situation with kind of threw me.
“It was not,” the girl said. “I was in love.”
“How awesome for you.”
“Sixteen,” said Scott, a guy from my dorm. “Girlfriend.”
“Fourteen,” said Alexis, a girl from one of my art classes. “A teacher.”
The group collectively went “What?”
“Well, he was hot,” she said by way of an explanation, as she flipped her hair over her shoulder.
“How sweet,” Miranda said.
“Okay, smartass,” said the first girl. “When did you lose your virginity? Probably after chess club.”
“I’m still a virgin,” said Miranda, unabashed.
“What?” said the girl. “How could you be?”
Miranda shrugged and sipped her Coke. “Just happened that way.”
“How old are you?”
“Jesus,” said Scott. “I was still a virgin at twenty-two, I’d-a hired a hooker, or something.”
“Well, I chose not to,” she said.
“How could you not have had sex by now? I mean, are you gay?”
She threw him a look that suggested he surrender his hobbies of guzzling paint and sniffing glue, because they were clearly detrimental to his already questionable intelligence. “If I was, I’d be having gay sex, wouldn’t I? Or is there a difference?”
“Well, I . . . I’m just saying.”
“Oh, come on,” said Alexis. “You’re fucking with us, right? bahis firmaları Seriously, when did you pop your cherry?”
“I haven’t,” Miranda insisted.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Jesus,” Miranda muttered. “Right. What was I thinking? Sign me up for the meaningless fucking of whatever dick is conveniently nearby while Jeopardy plays in the background. Fuck that.”
“First time sucks for most everybody, babe,” Jessica informed her. “It gets better, believe me.”
“We live on the same floor of the same dorm,” Miranda said. “I believe you.”
“Why not just get it out of the way?” Alexis said. “I mean, the longer you go without it, the more you build it up in your own mind, right? Before long, sex’ll be this huge thing that no man will be good enough for, and when it finally does happen, you’ll inevitably be disappointed. I say do it now, get it out of the way, and when you meet someone special, the sex can be special too, rather than the slow, awkward sex that comes with the learning curve.”
Jesus, I thought. They’ve forgotten I’m here. This has totally become an episode of Sex in the City.
I caught Scott’s eye and knew he was having the same thought.
“Or get a fuck buddy,” Jessica said, and immediately, our interest in the conversation returned.
“A what?” Miranda said. By her tone, it was the dumbest thing she’d ever heard spoken by a sentient being.
“No, it’s brilliant,” Alexis said. “You get a fuck buddy, someone in whom you have no romantic interest, and do all your learning on him. You can ask almost any guy; I’d bet my tuition he wouldn’t mind.”
Rather than respond, Miranda turned to me. “What about you, Chris? When did you lose your virginity?” she asked, intoning the blonde perfectly, and making it obvious that she didn’t think I had.
“I . . . well, I. . . .” I stuttered, thrown by my sudden inclusion, as I’d made no efforts to be seen as a part of the crowd.
Scott burst into laughter, howling and guffawing and spilling his beer.
“You aren’t! My god, you are!”
His shrill laughter attracted more than one confused or irritated look, while I slowly burned with embarrassment.
“Jesus, man, am I surrounded by the pure? Are we being invaded?”
“Cute,” Miranda said.
“Oh, it’s okay,” said Alexis in a tone that suggested damn well otherwise. “It’s not like, weird, or anything. Besides, isn’t that what college is for?”
“Probably,” said Miranda. “All that other academic stuff is just for the weird ones.”
All I could do was chug the rest of my drink, and die a little inside.
The air was clearer on the balcony. The doors were open, so it wasn’t much clearer, but enough so that my dizziness subsided a bit.
The nausea was strong as ever.
A soft voice called my name. I turned to find Miranda a few feet behind, looking bashful. She was holding a steaming cup of what smelled like coffee.
“What do you want?” I said rudely, still burning from the round of laughter at my expense, a laughter she’d caused.
“I have a proposition for you,” Miranda said.
It was half an hour later or so, and I’d left the couch to grab another drink. Something decidedly more alcoholic than a soda. I’d been downing my beers pretty regularly, trying to drown that slow burn, and I had a good buzz going, steadily heading towards the “alcohol is good, I love everybody” phase I reach when I’m semi-shit-faced, but I wasn’t quite there yet.
“Drink this first,” she said, holding out the coffee.
Images of her doping my drink fled through my mind and were quickly dismissed. She didn’t seem the type.
“It’s a part of the bargain,” said she. “Drink it, or the proposition remains unmade.”
I took the cup and downed it. Coffee, as I’d suspected. Black coffee. Bitter black coffee.
“Meet me in the master bedroom upstairs,” she said, and promptly walked away.
I drained my cup, filled it, and drained it again, debating whether or not I should go, before setting it carefully on the table and making my way to the stairs, buzzed enough that my inhibitions were slowly melting away, but not enough to keep from wondering what she had in mind.
It just then occurred to me that Miranda had seen me drinking, recognized I was getting drunk, and gave me the coffee to try and sober me up, a little. That I’d kept drinking after that made me feel a little guilty, but the alcohol, and that I was still seething at having been laughed at, burned the guilt away before I was half way up the stairs.
I found the room with little difficulty, accidentally walking in on three couples having sex (and proving that I had, in fact, not overestimated Arthur’s seductive prowess), and approached the last room on the left.
I opened the door enough to stick my head in and said “Miranda? You in here?”
I found her sitting on the bed, her hands in her lap, her eyes studiously gazing the carpet’s pattern. They met my own when I closed the kaçak iddaa door behind me.
She looked more vulnerable than I’d ever seen her.
“What’s up?” I said.
“Come in,” she said. “Close the door behind you.”
I did, and leaned back against the closed door.
“I want . . . I want to have sex with you,” she said, looking away. I saw enough of her cheek to see that it had turned bright red.
My heart jumped in my throat. If not for the steady flow of alcohol I’d imbibed, I likely would have choked on it.
Her eyes fell again to the carpet. “You’re a virgin,” she said. “And so . . . so am I. I saw we remedy that. Now. Together.”
A nervous chuckle escaped my throat. “Are you okay? Have you had too much to drink?”
“I haven’t had anything to drink. Nothing more potent than a Coke, anyway.”
“I’m tired of it,” she said. “Of missing out. Of not knowing what it’s like. Aren’t you?”
“Well, yeah,” I admitted. “But what about what you said to the others?”
“Fuck them,” she said. “I don’t feel the need to justify myself to them.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I sense a ‘but’ dot-dot-dot coming,” I said.
“But,” she said. “I happen to agree with them.”
Sliding against the door, I sat to the ground; the carpet, white shag, was warm and comfortable “How?”
“I’ve often felt proud of thinking as I do,” Miranda said. “I mean, knowing that everybody’s having sex just because everybody else is having sex, and choosing not to participate . . . it’s always been a source of pride for me. But then, Alexis said . . . what she said, about expectations, and finding someone who’ll matter, and I found myself stunned by it. I’d never thought of it that way, you know?”
I nodded. I didn’t know, but I nodded anyway.
“She was right. One day I’ll find someone I’ll really care about, and I’ll want to be able to please that . . . person, and show them that I love them, and sex is a good way of doing that.”
“Okay,” I said. “That part makes sense, I suppose. But why me? Why not some . . . I don’t know; some jock, or something, someone who knows what they’re doing, who knows how to show you what to do, and how to do it?”
“I could, I suppose,” she said, and the way she said it, like she was considering the notion, made my heart skip a beat as I realized I might be talking her out of having sex with me.
“But I won’t,” she said, and my heart calmed.
She seemed uncomfortable. “It was . . . mean, what I did to you,” she said. “And I did it for no reason, other than to deflect attention. So I want to make it up to you.”
“Awfully decent of you,” I muttered, almost certain this was a prank, of some kind.
“It’s not that easy. It can’t be.”
“And if it is?”
My heart was pounding in my throat, making me breathe faster, and giving my voice a tinge of hysteria. ” ‘Dear Penthouse:…'”
A slow smile spread across her face. “Jesus, Chris.”
“Look, if you want to do this…” I was getting hard just at the thought of it.
“It’s just an idea.”
I made my way to my feet—stumbling more than once—and took a seat next to her on the bed, dizzy from the alcohol and the adrenaline and the sheer fright of the situation I’d found myself in. Every voice in my head and my heart screamed to leave, to run, to get away, but then, it was thoughts like these that had kept me a virgin for twenty-one years, so for the first time, I said Fuck it and ignored every last one.
I tried to speak, and my voice cracked. Clearing my throat, I tried again. “I think it’s a good idea.”
She took a deep breath and stood, looking away for a while.
I got a good view of her ass, and the tight dress she wore to cover it, which, though it would never grace the covers of FHM or Vogue, did a good job of hardening me up. But then, I was drunk and horny; a suggestive couch cushion could have done a good job of hardening me up.
When she turned around, whatever vulnerability I’d previously seen had vanished, and she was herself again.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay, good.”
She walked to the door and locked it. After a moment’s thought, she turned off the lights.
“You don’t . . . you don’t want the lights on?” I said, assaulted by images of green screens across the nation as night vision videos of my fumbling attempts at sex were broadcast on the worldwide web.
“It’s better this way,” she said. “This way, we experience it through taste or touch or smell, not by seeing . . . whatever we’d be seeing. So there’s no comparing. On either end. Now take off your clothes.”
Oh Lord, she’s deformed, my brain said, ever the joker, even when I was the only one there to laugh. Under all that black lace and leather, she’s like Quasimodo, or something. Quick, check for the hump!
“Chris, take off your clothes,” she said again, forcefully.
My eyes were still adjusting to the darkness. The only window kaçak bahis faced the backyard, which was lined by trees, so there were no street lamps invading the room with their yellow glare. The only light in the room came dimly from under the door.
I resisted the impulse to look in the closet.
I didn’t see her approach, only heard her footsteps.
My heart wouldn’t calm down.
She sat next to me and put her hand on my leg. My wood jumped in my pants.
“Chris, take off your clothes,” she said again, and helped me pull off my shirt.
She threw it on the floor and climbed into my lap, wrapping her legs around my waist, and her arms around my neck—feeling a bit burdened, I lay backwards, putting my weight on my arms—as she drew me in for a kiss.
She tasted like peppermints.
The kiss seemed to last forever. When we finally pulled apart, my breathing had quickened to the point of near-hyperventilation.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Y-yeah,” I said, sitting up again. “I just . . . it’s been a long time since I’ve kissed a girl.”
“Not good with the ladies?”
“Not especially,” I said quickly. “I have a tendency to panic when I’m nervous and . . . well, girls in general make me nervous.”
“Do I make you nervous?”
I felt the breath of her chuckle on my face. “Good.”
My wood jumped again.
“Lay back,” she said, and untangled her legs from around my waist. Her arms remained tightly around my neck. “Put your hands on my back.”
“Rub it as I kiss you,” she said. “Up and down and all over, like you’re giving me a massage. Grab my ass, if you want to. Pull me close to enhance the feeling of intimacy.”
I didn’t tell her how little I had to do to enhance the feeling of intimacy. I was feeling pretty fucking intimate.
She pushed me backwards and kissed me again when my back hit the bed. My heart jumped again and was pounding in my ears when her tongue bumped against my teeth; I opened my mouth and she stuck it in without preamble.
Her slick tongue slid against mine as she felt inside my mouth, against the roof, then backwards and down, exploring against the back of my teeth, and under my tongue. We wrestled for a moment, pushing against each other, moving for the advantage, and reluctantly giving it up.
My cock jumped, and I reached for my pants.
Breaking away, Miranda slapped my hands away from my pants. “Not yet,” she said, her mouth millimeters from my own. “I want to do this first. I want to get my fill.”
It was a good idea.
“Me too,” I said. “Me too.”
Again she put her mouth on mine; my tongue invaded her, now, and I got my turn to explore foreign territory, and through it all, the licking, wrestling, sucking, my heart was pounding.
Miranda pulled away, then back, then away, and each time, she sucked some part of my mouth with her, using her upper lip and tongue to play with me.
After another eternity, we broke apart, and she began planting tiny, wet kisses down my chin, my neck, my chest.
I gasped when she put her mouth on my nipple.
“You know,” I breathed. “For a virgin, you sure seem to know what you’re doing.”
“I read a lot,” she said.
“So do I, but I don’t—Christ!” I yelped when she licked my nipple. “I don’t take notes!”
“Are you a premature ejaculator?”
I had so little blood left in my head, it took me a moment to realize what she was asking. “What?”
“It’s nothing to get embarrassed about,” she said nonchalantly. “It’s just a question.”
I fucking well beg to differ. “I . . . well, I . . . uh. . . .”
“So you are.”
I nodded my head, then realized she couldn’t see me in the dark.
“Yes,” I said. “I guess.”
Her hands began undoing my pants.
“Hey!” I yelped, covering her hands with my own.
“What? You don’t want me to? A minute ago your were pulling at them like your penis was on fire.”
It quite was, I didn’t say.
“No, I . . . I do, but warn a guy first.”
“Consider yourself warned,” she said, and unzipped my pants, which she then pulled off, followed quickly by my boxers. My hard cock jumped out of my shorts and bounced a little before coming to a rest.
I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, and almost choked on it when her warm hands encircled my cock.
I almost came right there.
She gave me a few gentle strokes and stopped.
“Have you ever had a blowjob before?”
“And I’ve never given one,” she said. “How opportune.”
“I’d say so.”
It jumped again when her lips touched my glans in a gentle kiss.
Slowly, slowly, too slow, she opened her mouth and slid it over my dick, crawling towards the base and back up.
She did this twice, her tongue massaging the bottom and tip of my dick, before pulling her mouth off.
“It tastes weird,” she said. “Not bad, but weird. Tangy. Do you want me to swallow?”
It seemed like such a non sequiter, it took me a moment to fully compute.
To be fair, most of the blood had left my brain. “I . . . what?” was my brilliant response.
“Swallow,” she said. “Do you want me to swallow your come?”
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