FIRSTS Stories: The Boys Tell All

Patrick Myles

Things You Never Say To A Girl:

You look tired

Can't I just see them?

I'd rather watch the game

Any That's What She Said jokes during Important Talks

(Seriously, I write this stuff down. On a notepad I keep on my locker. Because how are we supposed to remember what's okay to say and what isn't?)

And the newest addition, as of today: when can we do it?

Yeah, yeah. It was a stupid thing to say. But give me a break. One, I'm a guy, and guys are shitty with words. Two, I'm Patrick Myles, and the best grade I've ever gotten in English class was a B. And that's only because this really hot girl helped me write my final essay. I mentally undressed her a million times. She slapped me across the face.

Three—I'm a virgin. So that basically guarantees that dumb shit will come out of my mouth at any given time. I seriously think the longer I'm a virgin, the dumber I get. Like, there's nowhere for my pent-up stupidity to go and in a couple more weeks, I'll probably morph into a caveman who can only speak in grunts.

Maybe that would be a good thing.

"You can't possibly be serious," Marla says, slamming her locker door shut. I swear, there's steam coming out of her ears, and that kind of makes my heart do this freaky boom-boom-boom thing in my chest, accompanied by my wish to have a "Delete" button on the dumb things I word-vomit out.

"We've been dating for a month. Dating, Patrick. As in, you haven't even asked me to be your girlfriend. Why should I let you in my pants? Or anywhere near my pants?"

"Will you be my girlfriend?" I blurt out. "I mean, I thought that's what you already were." Shit. I swear we already had that Important Talk. Or was that the night we were on the phone while I was playing World of Warcraft and not really listening? Note to Patrick: Must. Listen. At. All. Times.

She rolls her eyes, stares at the ceiling. My eyes go to her boobs. I know, I know, I'm an asshole. But Marla looks hot today. She's wearing this low-cut top and her lips are all scrunched together because she's pissed off, but she looks even hotter when she's pissed off. Which, lately, is almost all the time.

(Another Thing You Don't Say: Are you mad? Or, its more evil equivalent, Is it that time of the month?)

"Look, Patrick," she says. "You've got a lot to learn." She leans against her locker and crosses her arms, which she probably thinks makes her look all serious, but really just smooshes her boobs together.

"I'm a quick learner," I say, "Coach always says I have the fastest hands." I waggle them in the air. "Just think about how good these'll make you feel."

Her mouth twitches and I can tell she's trying not to smile. Then she breaks into this huge laugh instead. Marla's a laugher, not a giggler. She has this great, giant laugh, not all high-pitched and squeaky like most girls, but deeper, with some rasp to it. It makes me sound totally lame, but that laugh was the first thing I noticed about her. I heard it before I even saw the hot body attached and somehow knew I wanted to be the one to make that laugh come out of her.

(Told you, I sound totally lame. I'd get crucified in the locker room for saying shit like that.)

"You're cute sometimes," Marla says, standing on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek. "Sometimes. Don't let that go to your head."

"I wasn't kidding. Coach really does say I have magic hands."

Well, that's a lie. But she doesn't have to know that, does she?