Over the next few days, I found myself in a pattern. I’d wake up, study books for an hour or two, and head out to attend some orientation activities. Then, in the evening, I’dgo to parties and meet so many people, I’d instantly forget all their names. I drank every night, which I knew was bad for my health, but I took care to make sure I didn’t drink too much. I didn’t want a repeat of Sunday night. Then I’d stumble home sometime early in the morning, sleep in, wake up and do it all over again.
I only saw Taylor once during those days. It was evening on Wednesday night, and I was in the bathroom, checking my hair before I went to a party hosted in another dormitory building. The bathroom door was open, and I saw Taylor leave his room in the mirror’s reflection. He came out wearing a bedsheet, and I was confused for a moment before I realised it was meant to be a toga.
He spared me a glance, didn’t say anything, and left the dorm. I was left staring at the space where he’d been standing. It truly wasn’t fair. He’d worn a handmade toga and it looked messy as hell, but somehow he looked glorious. Maybe it was all the skin he had exposed. Only one nipple was covered, the other a rose-pink colour.
Finally, it was Friday night — competition time. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what the competition would involve. I tried to prepare for anything, and as I sat on the couch, waiting for Taylor to arrive, I revised all the information I’d read. I’d watched some video tutorials too. There were some on YouTube, and then there were the NSFW ones on adult websites. I’d watched one video explaining how to fuck, and sure, it’d been helpful, but I’d gotten hard thirtyseconds into the video and stopped watching so I could rub one out.
I’d been more horny than usual recently. It was probably the new environment I was in. University and the endless future possibilities of having sex. I’d also talked to a lot of gorgeous girls at parties and from the way they looked at me and touched my arm, I knew that if I wanted to sleep with them, I could. I almost did, for a variety of reasons. Of course I wanted to have sex with a gorgeous girl, and also, it’d be good to have some practice in before the stupid competition thing.
But something stopped me from going through with it. I don’t know why, but it felt wrong.
Maybe I was a romantic after all. Maybe deep down, I wanted my first time to be with someone I loved, or liked a lot. Or at least someone I had known for more than an hour.
At 8:55, Taylor entered the apartment, wearing a plain navy shirt and black shorts. It was a simple outfit, but somehow he still looked like a high fashion model.
“Were you waiting for me?” He fell onto the couch beside me.
I scrambled out of the way. I didn’t want to accidentally touch him. “Duh,” I said. “We have our competition.”
He leaned over, so his face was inches from mine. I could see the black ring around his irises. I could smell him, and damn, he smelled good.Musky and clean.
Then I realised what he was doing, getting all in my personal space, and shoved him away. “What are you doing?”
“Just testing how close I can get.”
“Huh?”
“Well, it’s a sex competition, right? But you don’t like me getting close to you.”
“Of course, I don’t,” I snapped. “Maybe this is news to you, Taylor, but not everyone in the world is in love with you.” Then I remembered what he’d said. “Hold up. Our competition isn’t going to involve…touching each other, is it?”
My heart pounded. We’d boasted about our sexual experience, but obviously that meant experience with girls. There was no way Taylor was going to ask me to touch him. To run my hand up and down his defined stomach. To wrap my fingers around his hard, throbbing —
“No, it isn’t,” he said, sounding calm as he interrupted my panicked thoughts. “I thought about it, and there’s a way to decide who’s better in bed without touching each other, or getting naked.”
“Oh yeah?” I was hoping for a verbal test. Hopefully he’d say something like “how many nerve endings does the clitoris have?” and I would answer and then I would win.
“Yeah,” he said. “Take your pants off.”
I almost jumped off the couch. “Hold up. You said weweren’t getting naked or touching each other.”
“We won’t. Stop looking so terrified.” He hooked both thumbs in the waistband of his shorts and pushed them down, untangling them over his ankles and throwing them to the side.
I stared. His lower half was covered with nothing but a pair of black briefs. I ripped my eyes away from his crotch to see him staring at me.
“Just take your pants off. Trust me.”
“I’d never trust you,” I grumbled, but I did what he said. It was a good way to distract me from the sight of his long, lean legs and the suggestive shapes underneath the black fabric. “Okay, done,” I said, after I’d taken my pants off and placed them on the couch beside me.
He looked at my boxer briefs — they were blue and covered in tiny bananas and I fought the urge to kill myself right then and there — and dragged his eyes up to meet mine.
“You know what women love?”
“What?” I asked, my mouth as dry as a desert.
“Dirty talk. We’re going to compete to see who has the filthiest mouth.”
Dirty talk? Well, sure, I’d read a few books that mentioned some people loved verbal confirmation during sex. I’d also read some articles online that suggested phrases to use. “Fuck” was a good simple one, if you were too embarrassed to say anything more complex. There wasalso, “you’re so hot”, “you’re so tight”, etc. etc.
