I couldn't wait for the Christmas party to be over. All of my coworkers, now terribly drunk, had managed to make groping and sexual deviance into some kind of competitive sport. Once again, I realized how out of place I truly was. I was the youngest associate in our firm, so I spent most of my life striving to out-perform all of the buffoons who were now staggering around, sloshing egg nog across their disheveled clothes.
To be honest, I wasn't annoyed by their behavior. I was frustrated by my own inability to join in.
My whole life, from childhood on, had been geared toward success. I went to an all-girls academy until college, where I kept my nose buried in books and excelled in my courses. Unfortunately, I failed miserably when it came to the opposite sex. As scholastic peers, I was completely comfortable with the boys I knew.
But as a potential date or lover?
Let's just say that my best friend and roommate described my behavior as tragic. I was blessed with glossy blond hair, full lips, and a figure that made me look like I had modeled for pin-up magazines from the 1940s and 1950s. But when I was approached by a boy -- or now, when I am approached by men my own age -- I simply freeze up. I'm terrified that I will do the wrong thing and give myself away.
My secret: at 21, I am still a virgin.
I've always done everything well; in fact, I do everything almost perfectly. Unfortunately, what I don't know about sex is enough to keep me from trying. What if I messed things up? What if I humiliated myself? I couldn't bear it. Better not to try.
As a teenager, this was somewhat easier to endure. But a little bullet vibrator can only do so much to satisfy a girl, and what I most wanted was to find a man who would teach me how to do everything so that I could just get on with my life already. Sex tutors aren't listed in the yellow pages, and the ones I managed to find online seemed more likely to be vice cops or serial killers than someone who could acquaint me with the mechanics of fucking.
A hand grabbed my arm and suddenly I found myself sitting in the lap of a man dressed as Santa. How ridiculous! I struggled to get up, but he held me in place. "Not until you tell me what you want for Christmas, Jessica."
For just a moment, I almost blurted out that I needed someone to teach me about sex. Then I remembered that I was surrounded by coworkers and turned beet red. I stammered something about wanting the new Blackberry, and perhaps a Coach purse.
Santa held my gaze for several long moments. As his blue-gray eyes bored into mine, I could feel the blush spread from my cheeks down my throat to my chest. To my horror, I could feel my nipples harden and heat sizzled between us. I trembled as he murmured, "That's not exactly the truth, is it? You want something much more than an electronic device."
Coming to my senses, I scrambled to get off of his lap. He held me in place for one last moment, then promised: "You've been a good girl. You will get what you want. Just dress appropriately and wait for me by your chimney tonight."
I fled the party and made my way home to my apartment. I tried to dismiss Santa's comments, but instead kept wondering: How did he know my name was Jessica? And if he knew my name, should I try to prepare myself for some kind of sex instructor to arrive via the North Pole Express tonight?
While the rational part of my mind was busy arguing against the likelihood of having my Christmas wishes fulfilled, I was busy getting ready. In less than an hour, I had showered, shaved every stray hair from my body, coated my skin with a bit of scented body oil, applied the sheerest amount of makeup, brushed my hair into its shiny best, and donned the skimpiest bra and panties set I owned. I curled up on the couch near my electric fireplace to wait and quickly fell asleep.
