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Untitled Part 1

Theo

I'm so nervous I jerk off twice in the shower so I don't explode before I even get touched by Oneida.

Like everything else in the world, the shower stall isn't made for me and I have to duck to get my head under the water and wash my hair after.

They say being tall is an advantage. I've seen the tinder takedowns on Twitter where broads demand, "6 foot or don't bother." But practically speaking? Being tall is a huge pain in the ass.

For one thing, I always wear shorts because it's hard to find pants that don't hang above my ankles.

Where's the flood, Theo?

HA frigging HA.

How's the weather up there?

Wasn't funny the first five hundred times. Cars, countertops, everything except basketball hoops are made for the average person, not me. But the worst is that while most girls do seem to love me being tall, I never feel comfortable having to stoop down to talk to them. They seem tiny and fragile. One wrong move and I'd break them. And I make plenty of wrong moves.

Oneida's tall at least, so I'm feeling good about that. She's also old, but the kind that whispers she knows what to do with a guy, that she'll take control. That's definitely what I'm paying for.

Oneida is also an all-caps LEGEND around the club, the most high-class lay you can have in this town. All a man had to do was say her name in the locker room at Rolling Green and every dude in there would break into schoolboy giggles.

I'd asked what they meant a couple times.

"This joker!" They'd point and laugh at me.

Later, Dad made me solemnly swear to never mention her name— not to my friends, not to my enemies, and especially not to my mom. Knowing about Oneida was one of the perks of belonging to the club, not information for just anyone.

Fast forward to present day: me, about to go off to college, still a freaking virgin. Whatthefrick, right? I lettered in varsity basketball, I'm an A student, my dad sits on the board at Sierra Vista Hospital, and my best friend is literally spending the summer in a threesome. I don't know what I was doing wrong.

OK, maybe I do know.

The truth is, girls seem like people when we're hanging out, working on a project together. But once I cross that line into trying to get them naked, I start acting like a robot, saying stupid, nervous stuff. Things that are sexy in porn— tits and naked bodies and grunting, writhing movements— they just don't translate to the girls I know in real life.

Take Hailey for example. I've been trying to date her all summer. Like, seriously making an effort— taking her out to the movies, showing up at her work. If I could've just fast-forwarded to the part where she was naked, I'm pretty sure I could've done it.

But all those steps in between? I sucked.

Turned out she was balling Jack the whole summer anyway, a third of his threesome. The one piece of luck I got this summer was catching all of them in the act and having the good sense to pull out my phone and document.

Which is how I paid for a night with Oneida.

Or more accurately, how I convinced Jack and his two girlfriends to pay for Oneida.

Blackmail's an ugly word, but you have to see my side of things. First off, they had the money. Second, I was doing them a favor by keeping quiet. And third?

The third part is steadily filling me with panic, because right now? I'm the best I'll ever be— living in a town where everyone knows I'm a sports god, from a good family, smart to boot. In a few weeks, I'll go off to college and be a squeaky new freshman with no chance of scoring.

That's why I this thing with Oneida is exactly what I need. A lesson, a private tutor to get me acclimated; show me the steps to get from 'hi' to sex.

I tell myself it isn't any different from a golf or tennis lesson— some skill you need to fit into the world, and instead of learning it on your own, you hired a professional to show you the ropes. And of course, you convince your friends to pool resources and get it for you as a gift. When those three cooled off, they'd remember it was me, Theo, and that I would never actually out them. I practically said as much to Ella.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I'm cut: six-pack, pecs, guns, quads. That's not opinion, it's just how it is. Which, trust me, makes the fact I can't score even more humiliating. It means I am perpetually cock-blocking myself somehow. It's either my personality or acne. That's a fact too: my face is always blotchy red with some breakouts, my stubble at war with my skin.

Sometimes I hate being me, so I get why other people hate me too.

I give my junk a rubdown and get dressed, spritzing body spray on my chest for courage. I don't dare to go for a third wank before Oneida. That kind of thing could backfire and leave me noodle-dicked.

I get dressed, change my mind, and re-dress. I think about what she'll do to me, if it'll compare to what I saw Hailey, Jack, and Ella doing.

Instead of Jack being my wingman, Lucas shows to pick me up, exactly on time.

Lucas and I went to school together, but we aren't that close. He doesn't like me for some reason, even though we were both jocks at school. He's average height, which makes him shorter than me, and he's built like a bodybuilder or a wrestler— wide shoulders, narrow waist, thick thighs.

He rings the doorbell like my fricking date, and I rush to get it before Mom answers. It's a joke that I'm even worried about it.

"Who is it?" she calls from the living room, sounding like she's well into her second glass of wine.

"A friend. From Rolling Green," I add to keep her from being curious. She hates that Dad spends so much time at that place. I open the door, and—

"Hey." The wind is absolutely knocked out of me.

Lucas works at Rolling Green, a pool boy, slinging drinks from the cabana for all the summer brats and sad housewives. My mom would be one of them if she didn't loathe the place.

I'm used to Lucas in his pool boy garb, his sardonic smile, his professionally off-limits attitude. Or even back in school— casual T-shirts and jeans that bagged at his ankles. Sometimes a thin gold chain at his neck. When I'd get bored in pre-Calc, I'd stare at how it peeked out from his shirt, winding across the back of his neck. His thick, charcoal hair would get longer and longer over the weeks until the chain disappeared. Then the freshly shorn neck stubble and visible chain again.

I aced pre-Calc. In case you're thinking I was distracted. I wasn't. I just notice things.

Lucas stands on my step in a tight white T-shirt and dark jeans, looking like I've only seen him a few times— like he's ready to go out and have a good time. He's just my ride to Oneida's. Oneida's pimp somehow, even though he's my age and she's like... way older.

I pull the door closed behind me. That means stepping out, closer to him. He doesn't step back. I can smell his aftershave. Frick, my pulse hammers so hard I'm sure he sees.

It's finally time to lose my godforsaken virginity.