Sloppy Firsts_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [96]
I’ve always wanted to have sex with the first guy I had a Hope-like conversation/connection with. The vast majority of boys are too farty and horny and corny all the time. (Scotty, Burke, Rob, P.J., etc.) Why would I want anyone sticking anything on his body into anything on my body if I can hardly stand to talk to him for more than thirty seconds? Most of the time when they’re sweet and smooth, they’re only being sweet and smooth so they can get into my pants. (Cal.) Then there are the worst kind of guys. Guys who’ve got a good game and therefore think that the few dozen girls who’ve been inside their boxers are representative of all femalekind. (No example necessary.)
Oh, I see right through them all. Why doesn’t everyone else?
the fourteenth
Hallelujah. I’m not a shriveled-up spinster-in-the-making.
This morning, I rediscovered the real reason why I’m not a ho-bag. One that I’ve never told anyone. Not even Hope. Here it is:
I’m what Cosmo would call a "highly orgasmic woman."
I know. Certifiable, right? Especially since I’m in a hormonal shutdown that has no signs of starting up again. (I’m not thinking about that right now.) But you haven’t heard the really insane part: I don’t even masturbate. It’s true. And not because I think I’ll go insane or grow hair on my fingers. I don’t think masturbation is nasty or dirty or a one-way ticket to hellfire and damnation. I know that it’s "a safe and healthy way of getting in touch with [my] burgeoning sexuality" (page 92, Learning About Your Body, copyright 1998). But the fact is, all my forays into self-stimulation have been failures. I can’t get over the ridiculousness of rubbing one out.
No matter; I can have orgasms without so much effort. I used to get off just by having XXX-rated Paul Parlipiano daydreams. (That era has ended.) Sometimes I don’t even have to try to think sexy thoughts—my subconscious takes care of it for me. I’ve woken up numerous times to that telltale throb in the middle of the night, the girlie equivalent to nocturnal emission, I guess. And don’t ask me why, but I always feel one coming on whenever I do push-ups, which can be problematic at track practice.
I have orgasms so easily that for the longest time I didn’t even realize they were orgasms. It’s not something they teach you in Sex Ed. And women’s mags make such a big O fuss that I figured that my below-the-belt thumping just meant that I was really turned on. The hard-to-get orgasm had to be on a whole other level than what I’ve experienced since I was eleven and discovered scrambled soft porn on cable, right? The thought kind of scared me, to tell you the truth. Last year when I overheard Carrie P. describing them as "waves of sensation so [fucking] intense, so [fucking] insane, they almost hurt [like fucking hell]," I realized I’d been having them all along.
So I’m not sexually dysfunctional. I’m sexually self-sufficient. My body takes care of biz all by itself. I’ve got a built-in sexual-tension escape valve that will stop me from doing it with a total loser. I can get off without any boy’s help, so what’s the point of getting one involved when he’s only going to disappoint me later?
There’s just one teensy-weensy detail that I’ve conveniently left out: It was a full-on freaky-deaky dream about Marcus that helped me come to this conclusion. (Ha. In more ways than one.)
the twenty-second
I got in trouble today. But this time I really didn’t do anything. Sort of.
The intercom call came during homeroom: "Mr. Ricardo. Could you please send Jess Darling down to the counselor’s office?"
PHS is nothing, if not discreet.
Even though Marcus and I hadn’t talked to each other since our awkward hallway showdown, I instinctively shot him a look as I got up to leave. He