How the hell did this happen?
I don’t know if I’m depressed because I feel I should have achieved more with my life by now, or because I’m a nineteen-year-old virgin who desperately wants sex.
I’m pretty sure it’s that second thing.
I’ve never had a boyfriend. Never had a truly toe-curling kiss. Never had a boy touch my boobs or my butt, or pretty much any part of my naked body, and Lord, I’m desperate for it.
Most nights I touch myself, pretending the hands aren’t mine as I search for the crashing pleasure I keep reading about in Harlequin romance novels and Cosmo. But every night I give up, because even though I can feel something building—something shining and explosive and just out of reach—I can never grasp it. It’s like I’m hovering on the edge of a sneeze, and I’m inhaling and inhaling and inhaling, but the orgasmic exhale never comes. Literally.
Of course, it doesn’t help that I’ve recently discovered Internet porn and have become obsessed with it.
At first I was embarrassed as I watched extreme close-ups of male and female genitalia thrusting against each other, but the embarrassment was quickly replaced by fascination. Horny, aroused fascination.
Mostly with penises.
Oh, the pretty penises. Not flaccid ones of course, because they’re just floppy, wrinkly, and gross. But the erect ones? Wow. Beautiful. Magnificent. Incredibly sexy.
I’m enthralled by them.
I bet they feel amazing. Is that why men are so obsessed with their own?
The closest I’ve ever come to one was the night I drunkenly ground myself against Holt, and although that felt nice, I want to feel one in my hand.
Maybe Holt will let me touch his. I bet he has a very nice penis. I bet it’s glorious, like his stupid perfect face, and gorgeous eyes, and muscled body. I bet if he entered his penis in a competition, it would win “Best in Show” and he could walk around with a giant blue ribbon stuck to his crotch.
If I asked nicely, I wonder if he’d use his pretty penis to remove my pesky virginity.
I’m willing to bet I’m the only virgin in my class. I was holding out hope that Michelle Tye was still in the “V” sorority, but she came to class the other day bragging about how she finally met up with a guy she’d been cyber-sexing, and they humped each other senseless last weekend. She whispered to me that she came four times. Four!
Good God, I’d be happy just to come once, and she gets four? That’s plain greedy.
I haven’t spoken to her for a few days. My jealous vagina forbids it.
I swear that I’m so desperate sometimes I just think I’m going to grab the next guy who comes up to me, tear his clothes off, and molest him on the spot. That I’m going to—
“Hey, Taylor. Writing a novel?”
I slam my diary and legs shut with equal panic. When I look up, Holt’s looking down at me with one of his signature irritating smirks.
“What do you want?” I say as I shove my diary deep into my bag. With much effort, I stop myself from petting his crotch.
I fan myself because, oh sweet Jesus, my face is burning hot.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, woman? Are you sick?”
He places the back of his fingers on my forehead. All I can think is that I want those fingers touching me in intimate places.
Yes, I’m sick. Extremely perverted and sexually sick.
“I’m fine,” I say and stand to get away from him. I wind up overbalancing and tilt toward the ground. Then his arms are around me, and my horny, deprived body is against his, and I’m trying desperately not to hump his thigh.
“Shit, you can’t even stand up today,” he grumbles. “What the hell?”
I have a moment to savor how his arms feel under my hands before he’s pushing me away and doing that thing where he exhales while running his fingers through his hair.
I have to get away from him, because if I don’t, I swear to the tiny, sweet-smelling baby Jesus, I’m going knock him to the ground and straddle him.
I turn and walk away.
“Where the hell are you going?” he calls after me.
“Elsewhere.”
“Taylor, the Benzo Ra performance starts soon. In the theater. Which is in the opposite direction to the one in which you’re currently traveling.”
I stop in my tracks. In my sex-obsessed haze I’d almost forgotten about the world-famous performance troupe visiting our school for an exclusive performance.
I spin on my heel and stalk past him. “I knew that.”
He falls into step beside me. I speed up to lose him, but there’s no outrunning his stupidly long legs.
“You auditioning for Juliet next week?” he asks.
I scoff and shake my head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s no way I would get the lead. I’m probably going to end up playing ‘third partygoer from the left’ and spend the whole production doing crosswords in the dressing room.”
He stops and stares at me. “Why the hell wouldn’t you audition?”
“Because I might suck.’”
“Why would you suck?”
“Because,” I say, “I look around our class, and everyone, and I mean everyone, has more of a clue about what the hell they’re doing. Nearly all of you have had some kind of professional experience and training, while I’ve had none. I feel like you guys are all driving sports cars while I’m still trundling away on my pink kiddie bike with the training wheels.”