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Part 6 & 7 & 8
Part 6
Not that what I had already read did not hurt.
It did.
I had learned that the girl I thought was innocent, the girl I thought had maybe been with three men before me, had been with more than twenty. Maybe more. I had learned that the girl I thought was cute and careful had been sleeping with men on the first night while I waited months just for the chance to maybe be allowed. I had learned that she made me use condoms in the abstract, in the future, in the careful fantasy of us, while with other men she had apparently been reckless enough that she and her friends joked about tests and morning-after pills like they were part of the lifestyle.
That contrast broke something in me.
Because Jane was sweet. That was the thing. She had the easy smile. She hid her mouth sometimes when she laughed. She wore simple clothes. She did not dress like the girls I imagined doing those things. With me, she was soft, almost shy sometimes, the caring girl who touched my face and called me honey.
But with her friends, there was another Jane.
That Jane went to clubs, got drunk, hooked up with strangers, had friends with benefits, sent pictures, received pictures, compared men, laughed about them, chose them, used them, got used by them, and then went back to being the sweet girl with glasses the next morning.
And worse than all of that, I started to understand the looks.
When Carl’s friends had patted me on the shoulder and congratulated me, when some of them had smirked, I had thought they were jealous. I had thought they were saying, good job, man, you got her.
Now I wondered if they knew.
It was not admiration at all. It was, yeah, you got her. They had been with her. Maybe they knew things I did not I was the only idiot in the group who thought he had found the innocent girl, when everyone else knew the truth already. They all fucked her.
I felt furious.
And still, I was hard.
That was the worst part. I kept reading and could not stop. Especially after the messages turned to me.
After our first date, she had texted her friends about it. She told them it was the sweetest thing in the world. She wrote, I feel like this guy could be the one.
One of them asked how I was in bed.
Jane said we had not had sex.
They were shocked.
Why?
Jane answered that she did not know. That it would ruin things. That I felt real. That she could actually see herself dating me, maybe even marrying me. That I fit her too much.
Her friends teased her for it.
One of them basically said, so you’re making this nice guy wait while you’ve been fucking half of college?
Jane did not deny it. She said it was different. She said she did not want to ruin things with me. She wanted to take it slowly. She wanted to prepare me for us.
That word stayed with me.
Prepare.
Her friends joked that she was still in her own universe.
Jane said she had not lied to me. I had simply never asked how many guys she had been with.
One of them said I seemed like the type who would get angry about it.
Jane admitted I probably was. She said I was conservative. She said she was too, in her way. She did not like feminine men, liberal men, men like that. But then she added that on this particular point men had to accept reality. Girls were fucking more now. Girls were the ones fucking around and then expecting a virgin guy.
They laughed at that.
One of them asked if I was actually a virgin.
Jane said she did not think so. I had told her about dates in college and a high school girlfriend. Besides, she said, I was hot. It would not make sense.
But one of her friends said I had the vibe.
The vibe of a guy who still was not having sex.
Jane wrote back that maybe I did.
They laughed about that too. Not cruelly, maybe. Not exactly.
At least you won’t have to be jealous, one of them wrote.
And they laughed again.
As Jane and I kept talking, kept going on dates, kept moving toward whatever we were becoming, that conversation with her friends kept going too. And what hurt most was that Jane was still seeing other men.
Not seriously. That part, in her mind, maybe remained true. She had told me she was not seeing someone serious, and maybe she believed that was enough. But she was still sleeping with other men. Especially one friend with benefits she kept going back to. They flirted constantly. They sent each other pictures. He sent her his body. She sent him hers. Then she would get an Uber and go to his place.
Some of the dates matched nights with me.
That was the part that made me feel like I had been living inside a trick.
There were evenings when we had gone out, when I thought the date had ended because she was tired or had to go home, and then she had gone to him. Straight from me to him. I had walked away happy, thinking I was being patient, thinking I was respecting her pace, while she was on her way to another man’s bed.
And again, I hated myself because I was hard.
I looked at the pictures she had sent him. I read the way she described him to her friends. I read about men who were tall, men who were strong, men who knew what to do, men who did not have to wait, men who got her body easily while I stayed outside the final door like an idiot. All of them got what I wanted. All of them except me.
Then I reached the night she had planned to have sex with me.
The night I already told you about.
Before it happened, she had told her friends she thought she might do it with me the next day. They cheered her on. They asked for updates.
Then the next day, after everything, she finally answered.
You girls won’t believe this, she wrote.
What?
He’s a virgin.
One of them immediately said she knew it. She had known I was the type.
Jane told them I had come very fast and then admitted it. She said I was a virgin. A virgin with her.
They reacted exactly how you would expect. Little messages, laughing, calling it cute, saying it was sweet.
Then they asked how I was.
Jane said I had gone down on her and that I was actually good. She said I listened, that I followed what she told me. She said I had made her come.
Reading that should have made me feel better.
It did, for a second.
Then she wrote that after I came, she had not wanted to take my virginity.
Her friends asked why.
Jane said she did not know how to explain it. She said I had looked at her like she was the most precious thing in the world. She said I looked innocent. She said that taking that away from me felt wrong.
One of them said, Jane, that is so mean.
Jane said no.
She said she was protecting me.
Protecting me.
That was the word she used.
Not denying me. Not controlling me. Not keeping me there while she kept fucking other guys. Protecting me.
Then one of them made a joke.
Are you sure it’s not because he has a small dick?
I stopped breathing for a moment.
Jane answered.
She said it was not big.
Then she corrected herself, almost like she was trying to be fair.
Okay, she wrote. It’s small. But I like it. It’s cute. It fits him.
The others laughed.
Jane said she liked holding it. She liked how easily I reacted. She liked making me come fast. She said she did not want to ruin that.
Ruin that.
Then they asked if she was going to stop seeing other guys now.
Jane said no. Not yet.
We were not serious, she said. We were not monogamous. She did not intend to stop having sex. She wanted to keep having good things.
Then she added that it was not like I could not do the same.
I almost laughed when I read that.
This was insane.
She knew I could not do the same. She knew exactly what I was. She knew I was not that guy. She knew I was not going from bed to bed, not fucking strangers after dates, not sending pictures to girls, not keeping a list of options. She knew I was waiting for her. She liked that I was waiting for her.
And still she wrote it as if we were equal.
As if she had not made my virginity into something precious while treating her own body as something free to give anyone who excited her enough.
As if she had not told me she was protecting me while going out and doing the exact things that would make me feel ruined if I ever found out.
I sat in the bathroom with her phone in my hand, feeling sick, furious, ashamed, and aroused.
I had wanted the truth.
Now I had it.
And the truth was worse than anything I had imagined.
Part 7
And that was the worst part.
I finished reading the conversation with her friends feeling sick, aroused, ashamed, furious. Everything at once. There was no clean emotion left in me.
She had described the night I asked her to be my girlfriend. She had told them she did not know if she should say yes yet, because she still wanted to live a little more. That was how she put it.
She still needed to get more dick.
Exactly that expression.
But she loved me, she said. She knew I would not lose my virginity to anyone else. Her friends laughed about that. They told her she was getting the perfect guy, the untouched virgin boy who was sweet to her, who loved her, who looked at her like she was a princess. They said any girl would want that. Any girl saving herself, any good girl, would dream of having that kind of boy. But Jane the slut pulled it off.
And Jane said yes.
She said she was lucky.
When we finally started dating, I did find out she had stopped. At least since we became official, she had been faithful. I guess that was something. The bare minimum, maybe, but something.
Still, I could not stop.
I kept reading messages with other guys. Men she had slept with. Men she had flirted with. I found one conversation with a guy she had seen the day before, back then, before we were official. He was telling her what he wanted to do to her again, how he wanted to hold her down, how he wanted to finish inside her.
And I came reading it.
I went back to bed, but I could not touch her.
She was sleeping there beside me, peaceful, beautiful. Her perfect little nose. Her soft face. The girl who looked like everyone’s innocent next-door crush. The girl people would look at and think, there, that one is different.
And now all I could see was the hidden version.
I left her phone where it had been. Early in the morning, I texted her that I needed to go home, even though I was still in the same city, even though I had nowhere urgent to be.
When I got back to the apartment, Carl was there.
He looked at me and gave me one of those little smirks.
Spent the night with Jane?
I stared at him.
Yeah.
I wanted to punch him.
I hated him in that second. But it was not his fault. He had not lied to me. He had not promised me anything. He had been what he was, and she had been what she was, and I had been the idiot between them.
I had taken screenshots from her phone and sent them to myself, then deleted the evidence from her side. I know how ugly that is. I know. But I did it. And in the days after, I read them again. Her messages with men. Her descriptions to her friends. The things she had done. The things she had said about me.
And I jerked off to them.
More than once.
Every time, I felt bad afterward. Disgusted with her, disgusted with myself, and still unable to stop thinking about it.
I became cold with her during those days, and of course she felt it. Jane always felt things like that. She told me to come over because we needed to talk.
I knew what she wanted to talk about.
When I got there, she already looked emotional. Her eyes were red, or maybe they became red as soon as she saw me. I knew she loved me. That was part of the pain. She had said it too many times for me to pretend it was nothing.
She started crying almost immediately.
Why are you being cold to me? she asked. Don’t you love me anymore? Don’t you want to be with me? Did I do something wrong?
I did not know how to answer.
I was close to crying too, but even then, even in that moment, part of me was aroused by her. By the knowledge of her. By the thing I had discovered and could not undiscover.
I looked at her and said, I read your fucking phone.
She froze.
What?
I read your messages.
Her face changed completely.
What did you do?
I read everything. The conversations with your friends. The guys. The sex. Everything.
She looked shocked, almost scared.
I said, You’re not the perfect innocent girl you pretend to be.
She said my name.
You’re a fucking slut, I said.
The words came out ugly and hard, and once they started, I could not stop.
I feel disgusted looking at you. You were making me wait, making me stay sweet and innocent for you, because you wanted my first time to be perfect, because you wanted to protect me or whatever. And the whole time, before we were official, you were fucking guys left and right. Letting them have you like it was nothing.
She went still.
Then her face hardened.
You had no right to read that.
I laughed, but there was no humor in it.
No. I didn’t. But I’m glad I did. Because now I know who you are.
She started crying again.
That was the past, she said.
It wasn’t all the past.
It was before we were official.
You were seeing me.
We weren’t monogamous.
You knew what I thought you were.
No, she said. You imagined what I was.
That hit me, but I kept going.
You lied to me.
She stood up straighter.
Lied? I never lied to you. You never asked me how many guys I had slept with. You never asked me if I was still sleeping with people before we became official. I told you we were not monogamous. I told you that.
Yeah, but we’re not the same, and you know it.
She looked at me, angry through the tears.
No. You had the same chance. You could have done whatever you wanted.
I couldn’t.
Yes, you could.
You knew I wouldn’t.
Yes, she said. I knew how you were. But you never asked me not to. Not once. You never said, Jane, we don’t have to date yet, but please don’t sleep with anyone else. You never said that.
Because I never thought you would be doing it.
Why not?
I stared at her.
Why not? she repeated. Am I not a girl? Don’t you know how girls are now?
That made me almost laugh again, but she did not let me interrupt.
I’m a normal girl, she said. You made this thing in your head where I had to be sweet and innocent in the exact way you wanted. And I am sweet. I am. But the truth is that sweet girls now also have sex. Innocent-looking girls also fuck around. That is the truth.
I shook my head.
No.
Yes. Twenty years ago, maybe you would have been the one sleeping around. The sweet boyfriend, the nice boy everyone likes, having his fun before settling down. And I would have been the little virgin waiting for you. And we still would have matched. We would have been perfect then too. But times changed. Girls sleep around now. Girls get experiences. You could have done the same. You just didn’t.
She wiped her face.
And I’m supposed to be blamed for that? For being normal? For having experiences you could have had too? Experiences that men had for generations while girls were told to stay clean?
She was right.
And she was wrong.
That was the horrible thing. I could feel both truths in the room, and I did not know how to hold them.
I said, I need time.
She grabbed my arm.
Please. Let’s talk. We can solve this. I know we can.
I looked at her.
I love you, I said. But I hate you at the same time.
Her face broke.
All those guys have been laughing behind my back.
Why would they be laughing?
Because I’m dating the slut. Because I’m dating the girl they all had before me.
Her expression changed again. Hurt, then anger.
So you’re going to stop being with the girl you love because some guys might laugh at you?
I said nothing.
Is that how weak you are?
I looked away.
Is that how weak you are? she repeated. You can’t put your chest out and say you don’t care? You can’t say, yes, I love her, and I don’t care what any of you think?
I hated that she said it.
I hated more that I understood it.
I started crying then. Not fully at first, but enough that I could not hide it.
I don’t know, I said.
She stepped into me and hugged me.
And that was when she felt it.
That I was hard.
Part 8
She did not acknowledge it immediately.
She did not say anything about it. But I felt her body go stiff against mine, just for a second. She had noticed. Of course she had noticed.
Then she took my hand.
Honey, she said. Come here. Come with me.
She led me back to her bedroom, and we sat on the bed. Her face was still wet from crying, but her voice had softened again.
I love you, she said. I love you so much. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything.
I looked away.
But I knew, she continued. I knew if I told you everything too early, you would never give me a chance. You would never let yourself see how much we fit. Because you are like that.
You had no right.
I know.
No, you don’t.
I do, she said. But it’s unfair.
I looked at her.
What’s unfair?
She wiped her face with the back of her hand.
All of it. The way the world changed.
I said nothing.
They told us girls we could live, she said. That we could have sex, that we could be free, that it was fine. That we did not have to be ashamed. And then we start meeting men, and men don’t want that. Men don’t want girls who lived. But we all did. So what are we supposed to do? Tell everything immediately and lose every good man before he even knows us?
I stared at her.
You hid it.
I didn’t hide it. You never asked.
That’s the same thing.
No, it’s not.
She leaned closer.
You looked at me. You saw me. You saw the way I am with you. You know I’m sweet. You know I care about you. You know I am that girl, the one you thought I was. I just had sex before you. That’s it. But because of that one fact, suddenly everything else is ruined. Everything I am gets erased.
It’s not one fact.
To you it is. It becomes the only fact. That’s the problem.
She looked down for a moment, gathering herself.
The world moved, she said, but boys didn’t get the memo.
I almost laughed, but I did not.
Twenty years ago, she said, you probably would have been the first guy I slept with. Or maybe I would have had one boyfriend before you. Maybe two. Because that was how girls were supposed to behave. That was what everyone told us. And maybe I would have been happy like that. Maybe we would have met and it would have been simple.
Her voice changed.
And you, maybe you would have slept around more. Because that was what men did. Even nice men. Even good men. They had more chances. They were expected to chase. To try. To take. But now everything is different. Guys like you, the nice ones, the careful ones, the ones who don’t push, end up behind. And girls like me go out and sleep with the guys who do push, the ones who know how.
She looked straight at me.
And yes. I let many of them have me.
I felt my body react before I could stop it.
She saw.
Yes, she said, quieter now. I did. I let them. And I liked it. I didn’t think it was bad. Why would I? Everyone told me it wasn’t bad. Everyone told me I could enjoy my life.
I swallowed.
Then I started realizing, she said, that men still care. Men like you. Good men. Men who want a wife, a real girlfriend, someone they can trust. They care. They hear those things and suddenly we’re dirty to them.
Because maybe it matters.
Why?
I had no answer fast enough.
Why is it bad that I enjoyed sex? she asked. Why is it bad that I liked men, or that I let men like me? You would have done it too if you could. You know you would have. So why is it bad that I lived, and then chose you?
She moved closer.
That is what you don’t want to see. I chose you. Not them. You.
I was breathing harder.
You think the best girl is the one who never touched anyone, she said. But that isn’t how the world works anymore. Girls changed. We know men didn’t, not really. We know what men still want. But we changed anyway.
She touched my face.
And we know something else too.
What?
We know the best men now are like you.
I looked at her.
She nodded.
Yes. The low body count guys. The virgins. The careful ones. The ones who didn’t turn into animals just because they wanted sex. The ones who can love. The ones who look at a girl like she matters.
She gave a small, sad smile.
That’s why I was happy when you told me. That’s why my friends thought it was cute. Not because we were laughing at you. Because it meant something. It confirmed what I already felt. That you were good. That you were the kind of man I could maybe marry one day.
I did not know whether to believe her.
I asked, You really think girls are sleeping around that much?
She looked me in the eyes.
All girls? No. But most, absolutely. We talk, we girls, we know. More than you want to believe. Even the good ones. Even the sweet ones. The ones who would have been virgins twenty years ago. The girl next door. The one you introduce to your parents. The one with glasses who studies and smiles at you like she’s innocent.
She paused.
Girls like me.
I felt sick again.
The roles reversed, she said. That’s all. And maybe that’s not fair to boys like you. Maybe it isn’t. But it happened.
Then she touched me.
Slowly at first. Carefully. Like she was asking and not asking at the same time.
Jane, I said.
Shh.
I don’t know.
Calm down, honey.
She kept her eyes on mine as her hand moved lower.
You’re angry, she said. I know. You’re hurt. I know that too. But this part of you understands something your head is still fighting.
Jane.
She looked down, then back at me.
This little guy knows what he likes.
I closed my eyes.
You know it too, she whispered. You just have to admit it.
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