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I sighed and shrugged and at this point, the whole harrowing ordeal had subsided and my nerves were left to fray and I had no more will to fret about my desirableness. I had no idea how I was going to get out of this without seeming relentlessly prudish and un-fun and therefore, worse still, un-fuckable. That first kiss came from a young aspiring pharmacist who was a foot shorter than me and had tricked out his car to look like KITT from Knight Rider. When I touched his hand I felt like my vital organs were all shutting down in unison. I looked around and saw him sitting quietly, staring off into space, and the room seemed to go quiet and I realized the only way out of this was to tell the truth. Or that I maintained a scrapbook filled with pictures of my favorite action figures.
And for a while my self-control seemed to work out for me: Most girls in my hometown started holding hands in third or fourth grade, kissing in fifth or sixth, dry humping — as teens are wont to do — by eighth. I grabbed my backpack and dashed out the front door without saying goodbye to either of them. I dropped the keys in the dirt, shouted a stream of expletives and knelt down to find them. But having just one TV show you both watched growing up, or reading the same book and liking it: I had no idea how I was going to get out of this without seeming relentlessly prudish and un-fun and therefore, worse still, un-fuckable. I was socially inept and uninterested in dating of any kind until the first day of my sociology course, when this guy walked in and obliterated all solitary impulses: He looked at me, uncertain. I cataloged every object in her apartment, awed at her independent adulthood, one in which you cooked things on a hot plate and had a print of Starry Night taped to your wall. He was so much taller than me. She motioned to the tall, beautiful teenage boy. We sat on the hood of his car for a while and talked about all the things we had in common, which were actually very few. It was then her phone began to ring and she walked off. What the fuck was I going to do? I was going to tell them the truth and if that was embarrassing or objectionable to them, then they could fuck off and I was more than happy to go home right then and complete the best damn suit of chain mail Wine Country had ever seen. I figured that punctuality, in addition to prim organization, would make me irresistible. I laughed again, feigning more nervousness. There was even a painting of her with a sheet slipping down to reveal her breasts. I considered for a moment and concluded there was no way to fake this one. Her first book, Night Terrors , is a collection of essays about sex and dating. I laughed extra long to buy some time. I looked around and saw him sitting quietly, staring off into space, and the room seemed to go quiet and I realized the only way out of this was to tell the truth. Ashley Cardiff is a writer living in Brooklyn. Six months later, we started dating. Or that I drew portraits of myself eating spaghetti with Dostoevsky, one noodle strung between our lips like in Lady and the Tramp. I wanted to sleep on a mattress on the floor in a windowless basement and demonstrate my cursory knowledge of art history and decorate with glamour shots of myself and steal perfume from the mall. They can be really fun.
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