18

But she was. In New York City, in 1987, Carole was a twenty-four-year-old, post-sexual-revolution virgin.

“Really?” Will said, and then he said something ridiculous. “Are you sure?”

“Am I sure?” Carole laughed. “Yes.”

Why? he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t think of a polite way to put the question. In any case, what he meant was, Why me? What about him invited or allowed this . . . this what? Awakening? Rite of passage? But he wasn’t going to ask that question either, lest her answer was to change her mind.

“I mean, I’m not completely without experience. I’ve . . . well, I’ve . . . I just haven’t done that.”

Will nodded. “The first time for me,” he said, “I was fifteen.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Carole looked away and then back. “I mean, I don’t mind, if that’s what you’re asking. Does it matter?”

“No. No, it doesn’t matter. And you, your . . . it’s nice. For me, I mean. But . . .”

“But what?”

Will shook his head. “Nothing.” He’d been going to say that he felt a burden of responsibility, but that wasn’t the right thing to say either. “I just want to know if you’re sure, that’s all. Sure you want to do this.”

“Yes, I am.” Carole unbuttoned her shirt and shrugged out of its sleeves, stepped out of her shoes and skirt. She reached around her back with both hands to unclasp her bra. It was black; he remembers this because he’d expected it to be white, because of stereotype: didn’t virgins wear white underclothes? But her panties were black, too, sexy against her white skin. Not only does he remember being aroused, he can almost feel the barely contained, wet-dreamy quality of that erection, intensified by the slightest stimulus, physical or imagined. She pushed the black panties down and sat on the end of her bed, knees together, and watched as Will untied his shoelaces, leaning over in her rocking chair so that it tipped all the way forward.

“Maybe you don’t want the overhead light?” he suggested when he looked up. “Maybe a candle or something?”

“Okay.” Carole stood. “I don’t have candles. But I could turn off the overhead and leave the bathroom one on with the door ajar. That way, only a little would come in.”

“All right.” Will left his clothes on the chair and lay on her bed. Feeling self-conscious, he put the condom on her bedside table. Carole stood at the end of the bed for a moment, then she lay down next to him.

“Can we kiss for a while first?” she asked, breaking the silence. He nodded and pulled her on top of him, and then one smooth thigh was on either side of his cock.

“I’m going to be . . . I’m going to do the best I can,” he said, pulling back from her mouth, and again she laughed. “I don’t mean to be funny. I . . . I know this is the second time I’ve made you laugh. But, well, I was being sincere.”

“It just sounded funny, that’s all. Like taking the GRE or M-CAT’s or something.”

“I’d like . . . If it’s all right with you, I’d like to touch you first.”

“Touch me?”

“With my mouth.” He put his hand between her legs. “Touch you here.” She nodded and reached for the condom where he’d left it on the table by the bed. “What are you doing?” he asked her.

Carole sat up. “The books, um. I read a book that said I should . . . I mean that the girl, the woman, she should make putting the condom on part of foreplay. You know, so it’s, uh, erotic.”

“The Joy of Sex?” Will asked. “Was that the one?” Now it was she who flushed. “That’s all right,” he said. “I don’t . . . I’ll do it after, when I’m ready.”

“I don’t mind doing it.”

“No, I . . . It’s just that they’re not sexy. Condoms aren’t. So I’d rather do it. But not until after I do this.” Carole lay back down, and he settled himself between her legs, nudging them farther apart with his shoulders. “Bend your knees,” he said, and when she didn’t move he took her, one ankle at a time, and arranged her on the mattress.

“Sorry,” he said, after they’d made love and had rolled apart. “I didn’t last as long as I wanted to.” Carole pulled the blanket up, covering both of them. “I was, uh, I guess I was excited.”

“More than usual?”

“Well, your being a virgin. I . . . I guess the idea of it, of your having never been with anyone before, it . . . I lost my, my restraint.”

“That’s okay.”

“Was it—did it feel all right?”

“Yes.” She rolled up against him, her cheek on his chest. “The thing is,” she said, “what you did with your tongue felt so good that the rest was a little anticlimactic.”

“No pun intended?”

“Pun very much intended.”

“Why me?” Will asked after a silence, but the question came out wrong. He’d meant to sound grateful, not perplexed, and he worried that to her ears the question might have sounded worse than perplexed, even petulant.

“Why you what?” she asked.

“Why am I the first?”

“Oh,” Carole said. “Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because I’m going to marry you.”

Will didn’t reply. He was still trying to figure out her meaning— irony? romantic fantasy?—when she kissed his cheek. “You’ll see,” she said, and she turned over and went to sleep.