I’ve been on a few dates here and there, but usually I have to send out an emergency call to one of my friends. In high school, rumors went around that I was a lesbian, and I went ahead and let them spread. Of course, then girls started hitting on me, but they were easier to fend off.
I thought that in college, I’d have the chance to maybe meet someone. But, here I am, well into my junior year and that fellow hasn’t shown up yet. Sure, there are plenty of guys on campus, but a lot of them are taken. Or gay. Or taken and gay. Or total and complete douchebags. Or budding alcoholics. Or gay, taken, douchebag alcoholics.
Since my friends have always struck out when it came to setting me up with a boy in order to make him my boyfriend, they’ve lowered their expectations to just getting me laid.
I don’t exactly advertise my virginity, but it always seems to come up when people are drinking and swapping stories, and I get red-faced and run away to the bathroom when everyone starts talking about their first times.
“How many times have I told you I’m set? It will happen when it’s supposed to happen.” This is always my response. Even though it’s probably bullshit.
She shakes her head, her curls bouncing. “Don’t give me that fairy godmother, dreams come true shit. We don’t need to find your prince charming. Just a non-skeezy guy to do you a service. Think of him as . . . a plumber.” She scrapes the bottom of the salad container for the last few croutons.
“A plumber? Have you ever seen a sexy plumber? Outside of a porno?” One of the other things my friends have done to try to make me want to have sex is make me watch it. I’d only lasted about five minutes when I had to run away and beg them to shut it off. Seeing other people . . . doing things like that? I don’t understand how anyone can find that sexy. Plus, the girls were like, unbelievably flexible. No way I can contort myself like that.
I’d been branded as a prude from then on.
“Why are you so hung up about it? I know you have a little battery friend.”
“Yeah, so? I’m a virgin, but I’m not supposed to know about my own body?” Hazel has also surprised me a time or two when I thought I was alone. “I have a sex drive, Haze. Being a virgin doesn’t stop me from hav**g s*xual feelings.”
In fact, I probably have more than the average girl, just because they are so . . . pent up.
“We just need to take those sexual feelings and transfer them to something with a penis. A real penis. With a boy attached to it.”
I shake my head and go to take a shower.
Chapter 2
When I get out of the shower, Hazel yells to me that she’s going to work. I change into my favorite sweats and start on some more homework. I’m NEVER done with homework. Or maybe it’s never done with me.
As soon as I finish everything on my To Do list, I finally allow myself a reward: a few chapters of the book I’d gotten last week. It’s a heart-wrenching contemporary, and I know it’s bound to make me cry. Hazel is always telling me that I’m missing out on the college experience, but I’d rather not wake up on the floor of a strange apartment, under a strange nak*d guy, not knowing how I’d gotten there. If that makes me a loser, then I guess I’ll wear that label proudly. I can party when I’ve gotten what I wanted.
I plug my phone in, making sure the alarm is set for seven, and shut the light off. I try to go to sleep, but my mind is busy and chattering in my skull and making it difficult. I don’t like to dwell on negative thoughts, because they’re rarely productive, but tonight they seem especially loud. I blame it on the encounter with Laptop Guy.
Maybe the reason I haven’t found a good guy is that he doesn’t exist. That there’s something in me that’s . . . allergic to them. I’m attracted to them, sure, but the moment things get close, I just . . . can’t go any further. I find flaws and they turn me off.
I’m a control freak. No one needs to tell me that. I’ve known it my whole life. Ever since I freaked out when my mom didn’t put the crayons in the box exactly the way they’d been when we’d opened it. I’ve always needed order, and things to be just so. It’s a wonder I don’t have Obsessive-compulsive disorder. Hazel is always telling me I should get tested when I spend fifteen minutes rearranging the plates the right way after she’s unloaded the dishwasher.
Sex is one of those things that’s a complete loss of control. You give yourself up, in your most vulnerable state, to another person, and they give themselves to you. I don’t think I’m ready for that. For the . . . intimacy. I mentally gag on the word.
I spend the rest of the night tossing and turning and thinking about sex until it’s too much and I have to get myself off a few times just so I can sleep. Can you be a nymphomaniac if you only have sex with yourself? Finally, I fall into a semi-restless sleep, and I’m grumpy when I get up the next morning.
Hazel’s passed out in her room, so I make sure I’m as quiet as I can be while I get ready and drive to campus for yet another day of my undergraduate career. I’m setting my travel mug in the cupholder when I notice the paper crane. Shrugging, I toss it in my bag. It can keep my pens company.
I end up carrying the crane with me for the rest of the week, but I don’t see Laptop Guy again. Hazel also hasn’t been able to find me a guy at work, so on Friday night I’m told, for the thousandth time, that I must get myself ready to go on the prowl. Fun, fun, fun.
Sometimes, I wonder if I should just tell my friends to go f**k themselves. To leave me alone about it. I can picture how that would go, and it wouldn’t stop them from continuing to try. It would probably make them work even harder, actually. So, I curl my hair, put on my “going out” make-up, which is a little sexier than my normal make-up routine, and make sure that my boobs are boosted and show to good advantage. There aren’t a whole lot of social options around, and the local bars are more than happy to cater to the collage populace. Despite the fact that Hazel works in a bar, the only thing she seems to want to do with her time off is . . . go to a bar.
“Are y’all ready yet?” Jordyn, our resident Southern Belle (who completely denies it, despite the overwhelming evidence), stands in the kitchen and taps her heel on the floor. A South Carolina girl at heart, she’s somehow convinced that her upbringing left no impression on her.
She pulls some gum out of her purse and hands me a piece as she fluffs her brown hair that certainly doesn’t need any fluffing. Jordyn has a tendency to go for big loose curls that flounce on her shoulders and down her back, and she’s no stranger to a teasing comb.
“Hazel is taking her time,” I say, adjusting the strap on my heel. Jordyn rolls her eyes.
“Are you guys coming?” Daisy pops her head in the front door, followed by Cass. They’re both statuesque and tall (the bitches), Daisy with dark shoulder-length hair, and Cass with a strawberry blonde bob. They’ve been friends since high school and I’d adopted them our first week, back in our freshman year, when I’d bumped into them after having a wardrobe emergency in the dorm bathroom.
Jordyn is the newest of the group and Hazel had met her in one of her classes last year. Strange how you can have one encounter with someone that forms a friendship that can last years.
Sometimes I wonder if the reason I can’t get a guy is because I only have friends who are girls. I can talk to guys, certainly. I’m not a complete social defect. I just . . . have a tendency to say embarrassing things in front of guys. Or do embarrassing things. Or both. And then I have to run away to my friends and they admonish me and then I beg to go home.
“Tonight is the night!” Hazel says, banging her bedroom door open and striking a pose in the doorway. A shiny black top slinks over her torso, paired with her tightest jeans and her BBs (bitch boots).
“Tonight is what night?” I ask, even though I know the answer. We’ve done this routine enough times.
“Tonight is the night, you, Shannon Travers, are getting laid.” She draws out the word “laid” and swivels her h*ps around, as if she’s hav**g s*x with it. Dread churns in my stomach.
The other girls cheer and clap and I die a little inside.
“Um, may I remind you how many times you’ve tried this before? And how many times has it worked?” I say, tugging on my shirt so it’s even.
“This time, I have a feeling. My Hazel senses are tingling,” she says, wiggling her nose. Oh, she is asking for it. I spank her and she shrieks.
“Yeah, I think I’m feelin’ you,” Jordyn says, and Daisy and Cass nod as if they’re one person.
“It’s happening, Shan,” Cass says, patting me on the shoulder. It’s not reassuring. I don’t have any hope for tonight.
None of them are virgins and Cass and Jordyn both currently have boyfriends. Daisy is fresh off a break-up and Hazel doesn’t date. Any way you slice it, I’m the fifth wheel. Their unfortunate virgin friend.
I hate it.
They’re still going on about getting me a man as we pile into Cass’ car. It’s her turn to be the DD and she isn’t very happy about it, judging by her constant grumbling. I should have just taken her turn, but I’m going home with a guy, if they have their way. I swear, one of these days they are just going to pay someone to take me home. Or maybe pool their money and buy me a mail-order-virginity-taker.
There is a general cheer that goes up when we pull into the parking lot of the least-sketchy bar in Hartford. I tell them I’m cheering on the inside.
I allow myself one last inhale of cool fresh air before my friends drag me into the darkness, heat and noise of the bar. Here goes nothing.
Alas, it’s just like all the other times. We all order Sex on the Beach drinks, find a spot, and my friends start scoping while I wait to enjoy dancing. I might be a control freak, but contrary to what my friends believe, I do love letting go on the dance floor. I did dance team in high school, but it conflicted with my other activities so I had to give it up after graduation. I miss it all the time. There’s something wonderful about knowing your body and how it moves and escaping into a song for a while. The world blurs, and I don’t feel awkward and out of place. But we can’t dance until I’ve rejected at least three prospects. Or that’s how the routine goes.
“What about him?” Daisy says, sipping her drink and leaning down so I can hear her. She jabs her chin at a cluster of guys at the bar. “Gray shirt, baseball cap.”
I try to study the guy with an objective eye. He’s turned sideways and talking to another guy. They’re both nursing Bud Lights. If you looked up “average twenty-something male from Maine” in the dictionary, that guy’s picture would pop up. Just . . . generic. Average. He does have nice arms, I suppose, and a nice smile. But he probably doesn’t read, ever, and he’s probably really into sports. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a guy who makes fun of me for getting excited about a book, and then turns around and gets even more excited about some stupid sports team.
I turn back to Daisy. She should be looking for her own man, but here she is, trying to help me out. I can’t get mad at her for that, can I?