All night, whenever they were walking, Dave had kept his hand on the small of her back, not pushing her, exactly, but supporting her, steering her, from her house to his car, from his car to the restaurant, where he tossed the keys to the valet, from the restaurant back into the car and from there to the lobby of a motel on Woodward Avenue, where they registered as Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and a humorless clerk slid a key with a heavy plastic tag across the counter. The room smelled of air freshener and, faintly, of mold. There was a dresser, a coin-operated black-and-white television set. The bedspread on the queen-sized bed had a synthetic sheen that reminded Jo of the love seat in the hotel lobby where she’d sat, waiting for Bethie. Jo wondered how many naked bodies had lain on that bed, how many heads had rested on the pillows. She felt Dave’s lips on her throat and his hands on her zipper, her bra hooks, and, finally, her breasts, and she told herself to stop thinking. She pretended they were dancing, and she let Dave take the lead, undressing her, easing her down onto the bed, spreading her legs and working himself inside of her. It hurt, but not terribly. Jo stroked the smooth skin of Dave’s back, his broad, muscled shoulders, the unfamiliar hair on his chest, and shut her eyes, trying to think of nothing or, at the very least, trying not to think of Shelley, until it was over and Dave lay beside her, propped up on one elbow, looking pleased with himself.
My first penis, Jo thought, considering the organ in question as it lay, limp and slick and sated, plastered to Dave’s left thigh. There’d been a poem she’d read in college that began My last duchess hangs upon the wall My first penis sticks against Dave’s thigh, she thought, and she’d had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Erect, it had been more impressive, a novel juxtaposition of hard and soft, with its glove of silky skin that slid against the stiff, veined flesh underneath. Dave had groaned when she’d touched it, had settled his hand over hers and showed her how to grip firmly at the base, how to tug the skin up toward the tip. He’d put on a condom, and she’d lost sight of her new friend for a while. When he’d withdrawn it was already beginning to wilt within its rubber sheath. Now it lay before her, dormant, soft, curved in the shape of a C.
“You were a virgin,” Dave said, and Jo rolled over quickly, afraid that she’d been caught staring, and of what her expression might be telling him. He popped two cigarettes into his mouth, lit them both, and handed her one.
“Are you surprised?”
“A little, I guess. All the demonstrating you did, all those marches, I wouldn’t have taken you for old-fashioned.”
“Exactly what do you think happens at a picket?” Jo asked. The physical exertion and the champagne they’d had with dinner left her feeling relaxed and expansive, the way she’d felt after a tennis match, or after her basketball coach had made them run laps for miles. She also felt hopeful. She was, she recognized, not passionately attached to Dave the way she’d been to Shelley. She hadn’t given him her heart, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have feelings for him. She enjoyed his company, and his touch, even if she could admit that the sex was just okay. If being with Shelley had been like a front-row seat at the best concert in the world, sleeping with Dave was like hearing music played on a phonograph in another room, the notes muffled by the walls. The pleasure was still there, it was just distant, more faint. But it wasn’t as if she found him repulsive, or his touch unendurable. She liked Dave. She liked his wit, his loose-limbed grace, his easy conversation, his beaky nose and emphatic eyebrows, his thick, dark hair and his honey-colored skin. Most of all, she liked his confidence, the way he’d assumed responsibility for both of them; the way she’d been able to just nod and smile and go along with his plans: for dinner. For dancing. For finally having sex with a man. Maybe, even, for the rest of her life.
Dave put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “I bet you had a million fellas sniffing around in Ann Arbor.”
“Not a