My Number

This could turn into a real romance story, but I also considered putting this in Erotic Couplings.

*****

I had always thought it just wholly unfair that men could screw around all that they wanted, and they became studs, while women who did that were just sluts, and maybe I was just determined to break that tradition, for political reasons, don't you know, but now, for the first time in my entire fucking life, I was regretting my 'number.'

Why? Oh, my stars, I just couldn't take my eyes off of the cute, innocent guy asleep beside me this morning. Yesterday, he was a virgin, but now, he is a man.

I guess that I need to step back for a moment, to tell you the whole story. I wasn't a sorority girl, but that sure didn't keep me away from the campus parties, fraternity or otherwise. A rough week at school had just finished -- I had had three midterms last week -- and I was ready to par-

tay!

So, my roommate and I got all tarted up, to head over to this off-campus party over on East Maxwell. The beer was flowing freely -- and I had pretty much forced myself to like beer, which, for me, was definitely an acquired taste -- and plenty of it had flowed freely through me. I'm tall, but pretty thin, so it doesn't take too much to give me a nice buzz.

Well, Amanda and I were back in a corner talking, surveying the guys, both of us pretty sure that we'd be getting laid tonight, and trying to figure out by whom. Amanda, at least, had had a steady boyfriend for a while, but they'd broken up, and she was as horny as I was. Thing was, while this had been an awesome party, it was kind of disappointing to see that I'd already slept with a lot of the guys there. Kevin was there, and he'd always been sweet on me, but he was uninspiring in bed, to say no more. Trace was there, and he was better in bed than Kevin, but once out of bed, he was the most boring guy in town. Then there were a couple of guys there I didn't know, but Amanda either did, or had heard about through the grapevine.

"How about him?" Amanda asked me, pointing to this tall, kind of too-skinny guy trying to look like a hipster, but not getting it quite right. He was standing by himself, surveying the room, but it was easy to tell: he really, really wanted to approach a girl, but he was just plain scared shitless.

"Girl, that'd be a mercy fuck if there ever was one! He's just got to be a virgin. Look at him: he's got pimples that he's tried to hide, and I'll bet that he's only eighteen or nineteen."

"So, go up to him; you'd make his night. Then he'll have to go home and jack off while he's fantasizing about you." We both laughed, a kind of beer-inflated laugh, at that one.

"Hey, if you think he needs help, you go for it."

"Me? No fucking way," Amanda protested. "He'd probably follow me around campus for the rest of the semester, thinking that he's in

luuvvv!

"

We were still laughing about the poor guy, and then for some reason that I still can't fathom, I decided to go for it. I mean, we had been giggling about this for five, maybe ten minutes, and the nerd-

cum

-hipster was still there, very slowly nursing a beer in a translucent plastic cup, still surveying the room trying to find some bare opening. He had on his hipster glasses, and the fashionably-untucked shirt, and he had tried for the stubble-beard, but it didn't really work for him: a couple of bare spots gave it away.

Me? I was a hottie, and I knew it. Oh, I didn't have a big chest or anything, but I was blessed with a naturally slender figure, one with just enough in the right places so that I'd never be mistaken for a boy. The girls who had to watch their weight all hated me, because I could eat anything, and still stayed thin. I guess that I should have hit the gym, to get a bit more definition, but I was way too lazy to do that.

And tonight, I was dressed to kill. Oh, I didn't need the over-blinged party clothes, and never had. Just a pair of very well fitting skinny jeans, and a tank top that could have been body paint, always drew guys' eyes to me. I was small enough up top that I didn't need a bra, and my nips were just subtly-enough obvious to keep men drooling. If I'd worn a pair of fuck-me heels, I'd have really killed the nerd, but I already knew that, in parties like this, my fashionably-old Converse Chuck Taylor All Stars were the right shoes. I could stay on my feet in situations where a lot of other girls were doing face-plants in the pretzels bowl. I didn't wear a necklace, which left a lot of skin completely unadorned between my neck and the low neckline of my tank top, but I did have on some attention-getting earrings, and my hair pulled back in a pony to show them off. This poor boy was probably going to have heart failure when I walked up to him.

I had thought that I was just as tall as my intended victim -- I'm five-foot-nine -- but once I got up to him, I realized that I wasn't; he'd kind of been slumping a bit. He had enough sense to stand up straight when I walked over, and then I realized that he must've been six-one or six-two. He saw me approaching, and I could tell that he was trying to figure out what to say, but I took mercy on him, and started. "Hi, I'm Marcy. I haven't seen you around here before."

The poor boy somehow managed to avoid having a coronary right on the spot, and said, "Oh, hi, I'm Dave." I thought that he'd stutter or stumble over his words, but he didn't. And then he smiled at me, the first time he'd smiled all night.

I was surprised: his smile was pleasant, a nicer smile than I had expected. Oh, good Lord, I had just encountered a Nice Guy! He was taken by my looks, no doubt about that, but he was trying to actually look me in the eyes, rather than talking to my tits. It took me to break the ice, but once that happened, Dave was pleasant to talk to, and wasn't trying to push sexual innuendoes into every sentence. Somehow, most of the guys thought that that was what was necessary to get girls interested in sex, as though we didn't have hormones of our own. Too bad Nice Guys had a reputation of being bland in bed.

It turned out that my prey -- was I really thinking of him that way? -- was not only pretty smart, but a business major like me. He was younger, a sophomore, while I'm a worldly junior, but he seemed like he was right up with my level courses, and understood economic concepts very well.

Still, it was kind of hard to talk in here, with all of the other conversations and yelling and music, and I asked Dave if he'd like to go out into the back yard for a bit, where it was quieter. Sure, he said, and we headed out through the old kitchen and down the back porch steps. There were a couple of chairs out there, around an old kitchen table that someone had set out back in the weather.

We kept talking, for I'm not sure how long, when I started to get cold. All that I had on was a fairly thin tank top, and the evening was getting chilly. Dave spotted it, and simply stood up and put his jacket around my shoulders. My God, a

really

Nice Guy.

Dave really had no idea how to talk to girls, at least not how to chat them up the way more experienced guys did at a party, but once he got over his initial embarrassment, he managed to talk with me in just a regular conversational manner, just as though we were sitting in the Student Center cafeteria rather than at a party. He didn't know how to try to seduce me, and while he probably wanted to, not knowing how left him talking just normally. All of a sudden, I was liking this hipster-who-wasn't.

I was also sobering up. I'd had a half-empty cup of beer with me when I had approached him, and never had a chance to refill it. I'd nursed it along, but despite my light weight, I was getting less drunk, not more. Dave had a beer as well, but I think it was his first, and he wasn't drunk at all.

Not really being drunk, I got kind of pissed off when the back door exploded, and a group of eight or ten drunk guys spilled out into the back yard, partying loudly enough that the cops could get called any minute. "Listen, Dave," I asked him, "do you live around here? This place is kind of getting on my nerves."

I guess that I stunned him. I was sure that he'd have loved to be able to take me to his place, but didn't have the first clue about how to do it. The term I had laughed about with Amanda, "mercy fuck," started to run through my mind, and I started not to like it. I'd screwed enough guys that even though I think I'm selective, one more wasn't any big deal, and the idea of sleeping with Dave was starting to appeal to me. Besides, if guys can be studs for getting laid on the first date, why can't girls have fun too?

"Su-sure," he said, stumbling a bit over his words, the first time he had tonight. "My apartment is just a couple of blocks away, if that's where you want to go."

"Yeah, I do," I said, and I actually meant it. I tossed back the rest of my beer -- there were only a couple of sips left -- so that I wouldn't be walking down the public street carrying it, and Dave led me east, down the street, toward his place. I was hoping that it wasn't too much of a dump, or filled with nerds playing some idiot video game on a Friday night. Dave was the taller version of Leonard Hofstedder, and I was hoping I wouldn't find Sheldon and Howard and Raj all there.

This was just so strange for me. I knew that Dave was hoping to get closer to me, but was clueless about how to take the next step, so I did it for him, and took his hand while we were walking down the street. I caught the surprise in his breath when I did that, and you know, I think he grew an inch taller.

We got to his place, a one-bedroom apartment in an old brick apartment building -- not a converted house, like a lot of the student slum places were -- and headed up to the third floor. He opened the door, and waited for me to go in, being a perfect gentleman. The place was old, with some obvious wear on it, but it was neat and clean, and there were no nerds in there playing Halo or something.

Dave was being a perfect host, saying that he didn't have any beer in the fridge, but asking me if I wanted something to drink, and, seeing a Keurig on the kitchen counter, I asked for the one drink I'd never expect on a Friday night; I asked for a coffee.

We say down on his couch, old but still clean, and just kept on talking.

And talking.

And talking.

Oh, my God, this was the sexiest thing that had ever happened to me! Dave didn't have any clue how to talk to a woman, no idea how to seduce a woman, and was doing the only thing he could, he was being kind and polite. So many guys around here want to do nothing but pull a girl's pants off and go at it, and have no fucking clue about patience or romance or anything like that. And, truth be told, I've given in a whole lot of times to those guys, and have pretty much gone out looking for it like that, three beers, some hard kissing and all of a sudden my pants are around my knees.

Not this time. Dave was talking to me, and the subjects got pretty wide ranging, from politics to foreign affairs and back to economics and business and even some Civil War history. For a second, that worried me, but it turned out that he wasn't a 'reenactor,' but his brother was. "Yeah," he said, "I suppose it looks like fun sometimes, but wearing an old wool uniform when it's 97º outside? Nahhh, other guys can do that stuff."

I laughed at that, and took his hand. I wondered if he'd get a clue, and he finally did; he just said "Marcy," and then he leaned over and kissed me.

Oh, my God, it was wonderful. So many guys just want to stick their tongues down your throat, but Dave's kiss -- was it his first kiss? -- was sweet and soft and gentle, just right to turn me on wanting more, knowing that he was still afraid and not knowing what to do. There was only one thing to do: I reached over and kissed him, my lead, just as soft as the kiss he had given me.

This was crazy; no guy had ever kissed me like that, and I'd never kissed any guy like that. Every kiss I'd ever had -- except for the boy who'd kissed me in the second grade! -- was rushed and desperate and let's-fuck-now kissing.

All of a sudden, I was the one who didn't know what to do. In the beginning, I was just going to give the poor nerd a cheap thrill, and then leave him standing alone at the party. Then, later on, when I decided that yeah, he just might be worth a go, I was thinking in terms of a mercy fuck, and not finding the term quite as funny anymore. And now? He wanted me, but didn't know how, and I wanted him, but was afraid to just charge on ahead like I've done so many times.

I did the only thing I could do, to just give him enough encouragement to keep going. He reached out to hug me, kind of clumsily, and he knew that he was clumsy, and I whispered to him, "It's OK." I kicked off my tennis shoes, trying to give him a sign that yes, I wanted to stay. Just a simple, "Yes, Dave," and I think he finally realized that I wasn't going to bolt or run or laugh at him.

Finally, after more soft kissing and hugs, some of them kind of clumsy on the couch, I stood up, took both of his hands, and pulled him to his feet. He kissed me again, and then I started to pull his shirt off over his head. I know that's what he wanted to do to me, but was trying to figure out if it was OK. When he put his hands on the hem of my tank top, I just smiled at him and raised my arms over my head, silently telling him to go ahead. With both of us just standing there, kissing again, I finally took his hand and led him into his own bedroom.

Dave was a virgin: I was sure of it. He hadn't said so, of course, but his obvious innocence and nervousness were just totally endearing. I was going to have to take the lead on this, and did, even though I tried to look not quite as experienced as I was. I unbuckled his belt and unsnapped and unzipped his pants, but didn't just go ahead and pull them down; I waited until he went ahead and undid my jeans. Then I went ahead and pulled my own jeans down; being skinny jeans that fit me so well, I figured that he'd have a problem getting them off of me. Dave never took his eyes off me as he pulled down his own pants, showing off his oh-so-fashionable tighty-whiteys. But then I noticed: yeah, he was looking at my body, but, unlike a lot of other guys, he was also looking at my face, looking into my eyes.

My first time had been a big disappointment, when I had just turned 18, with a guy no older than me. He was rushing, he was fumbling, and he wasn't that interested in taking care of me at all. Thinking back on that, I wanted to make sure that Dave's first time was special, and hoped that he'd be up to it.

Of course, I kind of figured that his first time, no, he wouldn't last long enough to take care of me, so yeah, I was willing to fake it a bit, and maybe on the second go-around, I'd be able to get off. I gently pushed Dave back down on his bed, because to take control, I was going to get on top. I could set the pace, and keep it slow, love-making slow, and just look into his eyes.

Then, OMG, I hadn't expected this! Dave was nicely built, and very hard, which I did expect, but I was more turned on than I think I've ever been, and as soon as I enveloped him I realized: if he could last any time at all, I wasn't going to have to fake anything. I started out slow, rocking on top of him, with my hands on his chest, while he moved his to hold my hips. But it was his eyes that did the trick: this boy was looking into my soul!

I don't really know: was it his movements, was it his hard cock, or was it his deep, soulful eyes that did the trick, but no faking at all, I built up to a spectacular climax, really quickly, and wasn't even half way down from that one before another one was building up, and then that washed over me, too. He was crying out my name, and I was crying out his, and a third wave broke over me just as Dave stiffened up his whole body and he emptied himself inside me.

There was no second round, not last night. I literally collapsed on top of Dave, covering his face with kisses, kisses he was so eagerly returning. I honestly don't remember much, other than finally laying my head down on his shoulder, lightly playing with his chest, as I fell asleep with him.

Saturday morning came, and the light of dawn was filtering into the bedroom, when I woke up. Dave was still asleep beside me. I wasn't on his shoulder anymore, but laying on my side, facing him, watching his chest rise and fall with his breath. His dark hair wasn't too messy, because it was pretty short, but even asleep, he had a smile on his face. I just knew that his first time had been as wonderful as mine should have been, but wasn't, and I found myself wishing that last night had been my first time, too.

That thought was crushing me. All of those men -- a lot of them boys, really -- and never once had I felt what I was feeling with Dave. All of those guys I could say that I was over after one night, after one fuck, I learned from them, but I really didn't miss many of them. What was I going to say when Dave asked me, and I had to tell him that I'd screwed 54 guys before him?

Fifty-four! That's a huge number, way above 'average,' whatever the Hell average was, and I was only 21 years old. It was all because I was cute, and guys came on to cute, and I was just plain easy. Never, not even once, before, had I wanted a guy like I had wanted Dave, never had anyone else made me feel so special, and never had I wanted to be so special for anyone else. Dave was going to wake up soon, and while he wouldn't be asking me about my 'number' right away, eventually it would have to come out . . . and I was dreading that.

I remembered a Hallowe'en party a few years back, when I was still in high school. The grown-ups had all gathered at the basement bar and were laughing and carrying on, and somehow the alcohol-fueled discussion got onto how you tell your significant other about your number. My mom was dressed up in her long red Jessica Rabbit dress, one that fit her like a glove, and I remember her, specifically, laughing and saying that no matter what, whenever you told, your number was always five. You couldn't deny not being a virgin, they all laughed, but your husband or wife didn't need to know the truth. I guess that my dad knew the truth, because he was laughing right along with everybody else.

My parents, that older generation, they all knew: 54, heck, 55 now, was a bad number, one you might tell your girlfriends about, if you were drunk, but you'd sure never admit to your husband or boyfriend. How could I ever admit that to Dave?

His eyes fluttered awake, and he moved his arms to rub the sleep out of them, before he realized that he wasn't alone in his bed. Then he looked over at me and smiled, a huge Tom Cruise smile, and it was like complete joy flooded his face. I know, I felt it too, but it was still held back by that awful number 54.

"Marcy," he began, "oh, my gosh, you are just so wonderful, so amazing." I could see it coming, and just barely got my finger to his lips to shush him, as he began, "Marcy, I . . . ."

"Dave, last night was your first time, wasn't it? Please, don't say anything you can't mean yet." I already knew it: he was going to tell me that he loved me, which couldn't possibly be true. A guy never forgets the first girl he sleeps with, but love? No, out of the question. Still, I was feeling a lot more of an emotional connection to Dave than to any of the Other 54.

And I had to pee. That's another bad thing about being so experienced: at the one time when I most needed to stay in bed with Dave, to offer him gentle kisses and caresses, the part of me who'd been awakened by so many other guys, who didn't find it all that special anymore, thought nothing of jumping up to head for the bathroom. "I'll be right back, " I said, but I realized as soon as I got up that I'd disappointed him. Still, once up, I might as well take care of what I had to take care of!