Simon’s face is red and blotchy. It occurs to me he’s probably a virgin too. This awkward label is something we share. I bite into my taco and chew, trying to distract myself.

“I’m a one taco kind of guy,” Edwin says. He and Molly Moye have been inseparable ever since my birthday. “Molly or nothing.”

“Seriously?” Ryder asks. He raises his hand up to imitate cracking a whip, making sounds with his tongue pressed against his front teeth. “Someone’s whipped.”

“Not whipped,” Edwin says. “Smart. I’ll never do better than Molly. She’s amazing.”

“When you have a girlfriend you can get it whenever you want,” Chase says. “One girl who knows what she’s doing.”

“How about ten girls who know what they’re doing?” Ryder breaks into a wide smile. He turns to Andrew. “Right, Reed?”

Andrew rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. I mean, not at once, but variety is nice.”

Andrew talking about girls as if we’re some sampler platter he’d like to try is so gross that I pick up a handful of shredded cheese and throw it at him. The shreds flutter down into his lap and he brushes them off, unbothered. “Whatever, Drewchebag,” I say. “You don’t even like variety. You like blonds.”

He stops brushing the cheese out of his lap and looks up at me. “What?”

“You seriously need me to point this out? Cecilia and Sophie and Susie Palmer all look pretty much the same. You definitely have a type.”

“I’ve never noticed,” he says. “It’s not on purpose.” The tips of his ears are bright pink.

“Susie Palm-job,” Ryder says. “Worst handy of my life.”

“Worst handy,” Chase says. “Kinda redundant. I mean, any hand job is pointless, isn’t it? Like, I’ve been touching my junk for eighteen years. I know what I’m doing. Any chick that tries is set up for failure.”

Sometimes hearing the guys talk like this makes my anxiety spike. It’s like they think a girl is expected to be a pro the first time she ever sees a penis. I hate that I’m not brave enough to tell them they’re being idiots.

“But this was worse,” Ryder says. “Like she was squeezing out a washcloth. She has sandpaper hands.”

“A sand job,” Edwin adds.

“Aren’t we past the age of hand jobs anyway?” Chase says. “Hand jobs were cool in middle school. Like, in eighth grade, I was super stoked if a girl went anywhere near there. But at this point, I’m over it. I’d rather just do it myself.”

“Mouth or nothing,” Simon says, like he has any right to decide.

“I’d use my own mouth if I could reach,” Chase says. “DIY.”

“All right, David Blowie,” Andrew says. “Keep the details to yourself.”

“Would you rather,” Edwin says, “get a sand job or blow yourself?”