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you. You can’t form a sentence. He senses your confusion, probably because in your inebriated state, your face is a screwed-up caricature of a confused face that you might ordinarily try to conceal. Okay, well, I’m interested in sports. . . . Never have you been so relieved to hear someone say that they’re interested in sports—the one subject among all existing subjects you might be the least interested in—if only because it relieves you of the surreal analysis going on in your head. I guess I’m just not interested in anything that you could major in. You could major in journalism and be a sports writer. Uch, I hate writing. I don’t even like reading. And here again the conversation ends.
    At no time does it occur to you to back out. Or, it does, it does occur to you to back out, but for some reason that doesn’tseem like an option. You already said yes, and you hadn’t accounted for variations of mood or circumstance that might lead to a change of plan. So you also overlook that, when you get to his dorm room, he asks his roommate to come back in half an hour. At this point, not having done it yet, you don’t know how long to expect—a half hour? three hours?—but you certainly get it now that in a half hour you’re out of here, which leaves you with a now fully formed watermelon in your stomach of maybe this wasn’t the best idea . Fortunately he’s got a bottle of rum back in his room, which will help wash that right out. Never mind that rum is fully disgusting. Not the point. He motions to his unmade bed; it’s a dorm room, there’s a desk chair, but that’s it. Sit, sit , he says, weirdly casual, like this is an actual home where you’re going to pretend for a minute that you’re not going to do what you’re for sure going to do. He toasts To new friends , that’s not good, even though you’re no more interested in friendship than he is, but whatever, you raise your glass and knock back the rum. He takes off his shirt and pants, even though he hasn’t kissed you yet. It’s not one of the all-time great seductions. You may not know what to do, but you’ve seen a movie or two, which honestly you were planning to use as a rough guide, but you can’t think of any movies where the guy starts by taking all his clothes right off. Are you supposed to take yours off now? Because that’s not going to happen. Your idea of a perfect seduction is Katharine Hepburn in wool trousers with a glass of whiskey in one hand and Spencer Tracy kissing her in front of a fireplace just before he gets up to leave. Steven is now down to just his royal blue bikinis. He got past the dreaded creased jeans somehow, but this has to be a deal-breaker. He doesn’t read, but that you can actually put aside; this, however, cannot be unseen. This has got to be arule, somewhere, that the late-in-the-game revelation of royal blue bikinis is an exit pass.
    This can’t be how this goes. He hasn’t even kissed you yet. You’ve never done this before, and weren’t expecting From Here to Eternity or anything, but maybe some small pretense of romance? You really should go. Right? You can do that. Change your mind. People are allowed to change their minds. How far is the rum? The rum is right there on the floor beside the bed with the cap off. How could anyone leave an open bottle on the floor? That is a booze loss waiting to happen. You grab the bottle and take a swig, put it back down, look around for the cap. He looks at you somewhat expectantly. You look at him expectantly back. He reaches over to help you take off your shirt, moves down to undo your belt, leans you back onto the bed, kisses you exactly once before he’s got his hand all the way into your pants, pushing them down just far enough so he can stick it in. No mention of birth control of any kind has been made by either of you before he moves his dick in the