The Virginity Theory

Chapter One: The Dirty Sock

Lovely cover on the side was made by inspiringwords12 

The Virginity Theory

Ah, and there it is. Hello, old friend.

With an exasperated sigh I dropped my Indiana-Jones look-alike bag onto the chipped tiled floor beneath my aching feet and glared at the intrusion on the door handle. A sock. And not just any sock picked up off from the floor either, but one that was pulled from your foot in a haste and flung over the doorhandle as you focused your otherwise undivided attention on your pants. And it was that very sock, still radiating the unmistakable scent of foot odour, which had me completely screwed over.

Metaphorically, of course. I wasn’t the one being screwed.

I almost burst in there anyway, throwing my hands up in exasperation and telling my roommate that I had had enough and that if she wanted this then she could do it at their place. Their being an innumerable string of men. But alas, it was the Walk of Shame that was her burden, of which she had been known to avoid at any cost; not excluding the desperate sex-driven need to kick me out of my room for the night.

“Ignorant and brainless brat,” I muttered and kicked the door for good measure. Wouldn’t do any good; their attention was obviously elsewhere.

With another long and drawn-out sign, I gathered back up my bag and slung it over my shoulder. Then, I started aimlessly down the halls, starting my own Walk of Shame—this one being the roommate whom had the unfortunate job of being a bro and stepping aside to let a fellow female let themselves be degraded and taken advantage of all in the name of…what? Sex? Definitely not love. They were taken in by the taunting smiles, or the twinkling eyes, or the bulging muscles, or…um…what?

Well, if that’s what they needed, then who was I to stand in the way?

Nobody. Because here I was. Walking my Walk of Shame.

The girls dorm was usually empty this time of a Friday night—not including girls like my roommate—who were spending their time at the university doing what everyone did—getting drunk so you could avoid regret for one night with a random stranger, only to wake up the next morning with said placated regret. Fortunately, I was not one of them.

Although, I thought sadistically of the sock on my door, it certainly had its perks.

“Cassandra?”

 I stopped short as soon as I had rounded the corner, dropping my bag once again. I could almost hear my laptop protesting in shock and frustration, already refusing to boot up Monday during my lecture. But there was a more pressing matter—and, if I was not mistaken, one that would certainly be steaming up my Friday night—who stood in all his glory leaning against the dorms entrance, his large arms crossed over his even muscular chest. At this point during the night, I wasn’t even surprised.

And then it hit me—and I was laughing. Sides splitting, dizzyingly rocking laughter. I stepped around him and out into the cool night air. “You here for Matilda, huh?” I asked between bursts, attempting to settle the hilarity he was obviously clueless to.