Back in our suite, Benny and Xavier find me frantically typing “I have exactly fifty minutes to learn everything about the mechanics of gay sex because our education system failed me, and gay porn is overproduced, help” into Google. They shut the door and take turns Vanna White-ing an assortment of lubes, dildos, and condoms. Xavier busts open a shoebox filled with more elaborate sex toys, silicone prostate massagers, and now my head is too airy. I’m going to pass out from the combo pack of the information deluge and my embarrassment at being woefully unprepared.

Even though I’ve been jerking off to gay porn for forever and have seen many a thread on Reddit about prepping for anal, I’m overwhelmed by the possibility of actually participating in “getting dicked down,” as Benny keeps saying.

Isthisreallyhappening?

Noticing my hyperventilation, Benny says, “You’re such a little virg. Don’t worry, you don’t have to go penny; there’s lots of other stuff you can do.”

“Penny?” I ask.

“Penetrative,” he says incredulously.

Xavier sits down beside me. His presence is a comfort. “You’ll be fine. You might wanna shower.”

“Do I smell?”

He sniffs me. “No, but a little freshness goes a long way. And, uh, you trim the hedges, right?”

Ohmygod. “Yes,” I mutter.

“You’ll be fine,” he says. “Benny’s right. Take it slow. You like him, and from everything you said, he likes you. Sex, especially penny, is worth the wait.” He winks.

My friends are right. We don’t actually have to do anything. I just want to be with Jack.

I feel slightly better, but every ounce of confidence vanishes when I get to Jack’s room five minutes early and he doesn’t answer his door.

Maybe I’m not knocking loud enough.

Maybe he got scared and bolted back to Vermont. Packed up and submitted a transfer application.

I debate getting on my knees and trying to peer under the crack in the door to see if the light is even on. What do I have to lose at this point, right?

Humiliation rattles me when I realize dorm room doors are designed so that you cannot peer under them—and at the exact moment, one of Jack’s neighbors rounds the corner.

“Lost a contact,” I say so loudly that the guy jumps back before offering me the flashlight from his phone. “Nah, I’m good. Found it.” I grab what I’m pretty sure is a fingernail and flash it quickly so he moves on. “Thanks!”

The clock on my phone says it’s 9:03 p.m. Utterly embarrassed and feeling like quite the failure, I dip out.

As I throw open the building’s front door, I see Jack. Because of course I do.

“Hey!” he yells. “Sorry I’m late. I wanted to get some provisions. Apparently, the bookstore on a Thursday night at nine is the place to be. I shut it down.”