* *
—
I’m on top of him in my bed, and he’s laughing. I lean in and kiss him, and when I pull away, there’s this look on his face. It’s hard to read, but it’s like this mix of happiness and something else—love, maybe.
I say, “Why didn’t you play How You Lost It?”
“Because I’m not twelve.” He kisses me again, and that look is still there.
“I wish you hadn’t slept with her. It would be a lot easier to be her friend.”
“I wish I hadn’t slept with her either.”
“So how many have there been? Girls, I mean?” And as I ask it, my heart is racing, and I want to say, Don’t tell me. Please don’t tell me.
“Why?”
“I guess I just want to know where I rank.”
“First, I don’t rank. There’s no list, if that’s what you’re thinking. Second, there’s not much of a list. When I’m not on a deserted island, I’m pretty much a full-time caregiver to a grown woman and four younger siblings.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Do you want to tell me where I rank?”
“You’re the only boy I’ve slept with.”
“But not the only one you’ve fooled around with.”
“That seems like a long time ago. Like another person.”
And it does. Shane Waller and Matteo Dimas and Wyatt Jones seem like boys who happened to someone else.
I say, “Have you ever heard of the Viennese oyster?”
* * *
—
Five minutes later, we’re going through The Joy of Sex, studying the police drawings and reading misogynistic passages to each other in a whisper. He delivers his with the drollness of Mr. Hernandez, my tenth-grade Spanish teacher, and I bury my face in the pillow to muffle my laughter.
“Man, this book really is horrible,” he says. “But the positions are…interesting.” He holds one up. I shake my head.
“There are better ones.” I take the book from him.
We settle on the flanquette, which is like Twister, only without the board. The book doesn’t give us much to go on, and right away he gets a foot to the nose, to the eye, to the chin, and I get a cramp in my calf, which means we have to take time out while I hop up and down, wrapped in the sheet because there is no way I’m flapping around in front of him with my boobs hanging out.
The cramp eventually goes away. We compose ourselves. I climb back onto the bed and we try again. This time he gets another foot to the face before I end up falling off the bed with a loud thud. We freeze, me on the floor, and listen. I say, “I think we need something a little quieter.”
I lie back down and he closes the book, sliding it under the bed, out of our sight. “Maybe this is a good time to tell you about the research I’ve been doing.” His voice is almost a whisper.
“What kind of research?”
“Sexual research.”
“Like porn?”
“I’m talking actual educational articles, like ‘How to Give Your Woman Pleasure’ and ‘How to Make Sure You’re Taking Care of Your Lady.’ I figure you can never learn enough when it comes to satisfying your girlfriend.”
“When did you do this research?”
“The last time I was off-island.”
“So did you learn anything?”
“Not a damn thing.” He reaches for my phone. “May I? For illustrative purposes?” I nod. He props himself up on an elbow. The glow of the screen lights his face as he pretends to read. “Actually, that’s not true. There are eighty thousand nerve endings in the clitoris.”
“Okay. I did not know that.”
“Also: ‘She may not appreciate direct contact.’ One said: ‘Use her body as your guide.’ ” He lies there, pretending to scroll through the phone. “Useless, useless, useless.” He stops scrolling and then fakes throwing my phone across the room. He leans over and kisses me. “I want the lights on to see every bit of you.”
I take his hand and place it between my legs, positioning his fingers exactly like I’d position mine.
“If you want to know how to give your woman pleasure,” I say, “just ask.”
* * *
—
A little later, he does the same, guiding my hand, showing me when and where and how to touch him.
Afterward we lie on our sides, facing each other, and I ask him, “What does sex feel like for you?”
He takes my hand, presses our palms together, finger to finger. “Jesus, Captain, your hands are big for a girl.”
“Answer the question.”
He twines his fingers through mine. “I don’t know. I used to say that nobody