Neurodi-Virgins

The Best Getting-Laid Plans...

So, there I was in Mitch DiMartino's apartment, drenched in sweat because, well, he's Mitch fucking DiMartino, the tastiest snack this side of a concessions stand, with two tickets to a Nymphomania double feature and a dream: to have my cherry popped once and for all.

And I think, "this is gonna be easy. He's the biggest manwhore in campus." They call him "The Speakeasy," 'cuz all you need to do is speak to him, and you'll be spread eagle on his futon, easy as pie. Sure, I had to summon the courage to actually speak to the man in the first place, because he has abs like a cheesegrater and an ass sculpted by Michelangelo himself. The sculptor, not the turtle.

He's as smooth as olive oil, and just about as tasty. Sure, he laughs like Tommy Wiseu, and has an unblinking stare that's more Furby than human, but damn if he isn't a sight for sore eyes.

Why do people say that, anyway? If my eyes hurt, the last thing I wanna do is see shit. I just wanna close my peepers and get done with it. Wait, I'm getting lost in the sauce again. Back to the story.

So, there I was, sitting on his kitchenette -- which was filthy as fuck, by the way -- and the movie was set to start in half-an-hour. The theater was fifteen minutes by bus, plus fifteen more to get snacks. We were tight on time. And what was this man-bitch doing? He was taking a fucking shower!

Dude, how rude was he? He knew when the movie started because I reminded him like five times that day. And he sent a funny sticker every time, so I know for sure he knew.

You don't make Lars Von Trier wait. You have to bask in anticipation as the time ticks down to the moment of glory.

Tonight was supposed to be the night. The night I finally get my back blown. You know how pathetic is it that I'm still a virgin in my last year of college? And it hasn't been for a lack of trying. I've thrown myself at guys ever since I left high school, but nobody ever picks me up. What's wrong with me? I'm petite, I'm easily carryable, and well groomed. I'm like a show dog. Do people not want to fuck the show dog? That's news to me!

C'mon, I'm a catch! Catch me, dammit!

Whops. Getting distracted again. Sorry. Where were we?

So, he's taking a shower -- and taking his fucking sweet time at that -- and he just drops a huge bomb on me: he's in a relationship! The town bike has an owner, just my luck.

That's... okay-ish. We could be friends. I'm not good at those, either. It could be a friend-date! Just two bros, hanging around. Five feet apart. Gay, but not together. Sweet. But it's hard to be friends with a hunk of sculptured marble when he comes out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist.

Hot damn. He's like a washboard with legs, and I'm a Hillbilly waiting to play an Elegy on that thang.

But no. We gotta be friends. Fuck me, right?

"Yeah, it's a pretty new thing," he said, flicking his head back to get a strand of jet-black hair off his forehead. God, he looked like a Mediterranean Superman. Shame he followed with his stupid laugh. "But things are kinda bumpy right now."

"Aha, sure. Things happen," I said, wanting to hurry things along. There were 28 minutes left. We were gonna miss the bus.

Instead of taking the hint and, you know, put some fucking clothes on, he kept going and going.

He adjusted his towel, giving me a smirk. "Thing is, I have a pretty high libido, you know? He can't keep up sometimes."

"Yep. Got it," I said, not getting it. Virgin here, remember? "Can we get a move on? We're running late, so..."