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I was never one of those guys who always had a way with girls. Not even close. Some of it was natural, I suppose, but most of it was psychological, if I am honest with my own history.
I was never a natural flirt. I was never the fun guy, the one who could be playful while testing the ground, the one who could make a girl laugh and still make it clear what he wanted. Whenever I liked a girl, I usually watched from a distance first. Then I would try to approach her by seeming cool, relaxed, more in control than I was. I tried to look charming, but I was not natural at it. I did not have the confidence to be loose or shameless. I was, and still am, too careful.
That does not mean girls were never interested in me. They were. That was the second problem. I was almost never interested in the girls who were clearly interested in me. And for some reason I could not be the kind of asshole who played with girls just because they liked him. Not because I was good, or decent, or noble. I simply had a very specific type, and when a girl did not fit it, I could not get excited. I would have been more than willing to play with someone’s feelings if she did fit my type. It just happened that the two things never aligned.
So there I was, two years ago. Twenty one years old, in my senior year of college. Fairly good looking. Girls had often told me I had a cute face and a cute smile. I was average height, lean, not muscular, not magazine hot, with even the beginning of a beer belly showing if I let myself go. Given that, you might think I had at least some experience by then. I did not. I was still a complete virgin.
I had hooked up with some girls. I had gotten a blowjob once behind those chemical bathrooms they put up at big college parties. I had touched some boobs. But I had never actually closed the deal. A few of those hookups led to messages, to more than one night of making out, but then the girls just drifted away. I think it came back to the same lack of style. I tried to be charming, but when things turned sexual I could not hold the tone. I could not be the fun, shameless guy who could say anything and make it work. I tried to be myself. I showed up, talked, waited, hoped they would like me enough for things to progress. I wish someone had told me earlier, dude, they are young women. They want to feel desired. They want to feel wanted.
Still, I started senior year trying for a better life. I watched fashion YouTubers and improved my style. I read about seduction and actually tried some of it during the summer, with mixed results, but better results than before. I also tried to relax more when talking to people.
Around that time I moved to a new place. I was starting a part time internship that paid well, and since I needed to commute there, I chose a room in a shared apartment that was close enough to both my college and the office.
I moved in August, which gave me time to adjust before classes really started. I would be sharing the apartment with three other guys, all from different backgrounds.
Jack was the first one I met. He had been there the longest and had the landlord’s trust. He was older than me, already twenty eight. We got along quickly. He had also studied computer engineering, like I was doing then, and we shared some interests: movies, technology, some politics. His style suited mine. He was not expansive, but he was pleasant. It became common for us to sit in the living room and talk for a long time, despite the age difference.
After him, I met Gabriel.
Gabriel was an immigrant who had moved here to study. He was twenty four at the time, and we did not see each other that often because he worked most days and weekends to pay for his life there. Still, I liked him a lot. He was genuinely hardworking and a very nice guy. He mostly stayed with his own group of friends and never brought them over, so inside the apartment he remained a little outside everything.
The third one was Carl.
Carl was my age, twenty two, and for obvious reasons we tried to become closer. We went out together, met each other’s groups, and shared some of the same general vibe. But it was obvious we were different. He did not care for the more intellectual conversations I had with Jack. He preferred joking around, laughing, keeping things light. Still, we got along.
We were also different in how we handled parties and hangouts. The first time I brought my friends to the apartment, and every time after that, it was simple. A chill night with the boys. Beer, weed, stupid arguments.
Carl was wilder. Two days after I brought my friends over, he organized a party of his own, the kind he would repeat often. A bunch of people, both guys and girls, drinking, dancing, loud music. I enjoyed it. I liked those things too.
Carl and I talked about girls often. He was not a player, not really. I only saw him bring a girl home after I had already been there for some weeks. That is why I would not say we were complete opposites. In the beginning, I think he even had the impression that I was the player, because when we went out together I usually got more attention from girls than he did. In clubs, girls sometimes came after me. They showed interest. I hooked up with some of them. Carl noticed.
To be honest, although he was more attractive than me in terms of body, because he went to the gym more often, I think I was better looking overall. My face was better. I had more natural beauty, and girls did point that out. I also took better care of myself. I went to the barber more often. I dressed better. So yes, I got more attention. And when Carl assumed I was also having a good time, I never really corrected him.
But Carl did have girls here and there. Usually he would talk to one for a while, then start bringing her home, then move on to another. He was not the guy who called himself a player, and he was not bringing home a different girl every week, but in the first four months I lived there, I think I saw him bring home four different girls. That was a pretty good number, if you ask me.
I never knew exactly what he did with them, because Carl was always quiet about it. That was strange, because in every other way he was extremely extroverted. He was funny, easy to be around, the kind of guy I had always envied a little. Girls opened themselves to his flirting without seeming to feel played by him. But whenever I asked about what happened, he kept it vague.
The first time he brought a girl home, I asked him the next day, so what happened, man?
He said, nothing really. We just made out and slept together.
I asked if that was all.
He said yes.
I believed him. Maybe she was taking her time. Maybe that was normal.
But the next girl was different. He brought her home, and they made enough noise on the bed that it was obvious they were having sex. Every time she came over, it seemed to happen again. Still, when I asked him, he gave me the same vague answer. So I never fully knew what to trust.
I had my guesses. With the first girl, I do not think they had sex, because later he did admit he had sex with the second one, while still saying the same thing about the first. With the third girl, I think they did have sex, even though she made no noise and he did not say so. I could see it in his smirk. With the fourth, I am almost sure they did not, because she did not seem like the type, and when they stopped talking he looked genuinely sad. Not destroyed, but low. He talked to me about her in a different way. I think he thought that one might become something.
This is where the second part of the story begins, in a way.
After that fourth girl, Carl started talking to another girl he had met through common friends, parties, and that whole circle. I had never seen her at any of his parties before, but I had met people who knew her. When I asked about her, he said they were meeting, that they had hooked up, that they had started making out, that things were progressing. He never said he wanted to date her. That was not how he talked. But I think Carl was the kind of guy who might date a girl if they hooked up for a while, maybe had sex, stayed close, became friends with benefits, and then something grew out of it.
That was probably why he had been sad about the fourth girl. Not only because she had not had sex with him, but because he had started to like her and imagined it might go somewhere.
With this new girl, it sounded casual but alive. She was part of his group. They were fun people, party people, people who made out with each other and let things happen without making them heavy. She and Carl were doing that now. It was not strange inside that group. It was just something that had happened, and maybe it would continue.
About a week after he told me about her, Carl organized another party.
Carl’s parties were good. Pretty neat, actually. I was there because I lived there, and because I liked his friends and they liked me. I knew we would not become lifelong friends after Carl and I left that apartment, but we enjoyed each other in that time. His friends were cool to me. My friends were cool to Carl. It was a good atmosphere.
So I went. I bought wine for myself. People drank. People danced. Music filled the apartment.
That was when I met her.
That was when I met Jane.
Carl did not introduce her to me. I remember standing around while people talked, and there was this group of girls I had not met before. I introduced myself as Carl’s roommate. They introduced themselves back, and one of them said her name was Jane. I remembered then that the girl Carl had been talking to was also called Jane.
Then I really looked at her.
Jane was not the type of girl I thought Carl would go after. I had met the other four girls he brought home, and most of them had the same energy. Wild, extroverted, or at least clearly comfortable with that kind of scene. Girls who looked like they would enjoy hanging out with a guy like Carl, hooking up, seeing where things went. Not girls you imagined alone in a library, studying quietly.
Maybe the fourth girl had been a little different. She did not fit the party girl image completely. She seemed more assertive, maybe more interested in other things. But even with her, you could see the wild side. The makeup, the tight jeans, the tight dresses, the short skirts. She still fit the general vibe, only in a slightly different way. Maybe that was part of why Carl liked her.
Jane was different.
At the same time, I could see why Carl was moving slowly in her direction. She had an easy smile, but soft, so soft it made her look innocent. Almost pure, if I am being honest about how I saw her then. She had a round face that made her seem younger, gentler. She wore square glasses. She did not seem to care about heavy makeup, but she was very beautiful.
She had jeans on and a top that fit her well and showed a little bit of belly, but not too much. Her body was very attractive. Slim, but with hips. Big enough to notice, not exaggerated. Thick thighs, but natural. Small breasts, which also made her different from the girls Carl usually went after. He usually liked the more voluptuous type.
But it was not just her looks. It was the way she talked. She talked to me about movies. She smiled at me. She had that soft, caring presence some girls have, the kind that makes you imagine they would take care of you. I could not see the fit between her and Carl. I could not understand it.
We stayed near each other for part of the night. I tried to apply some of the things I had learned about flirting. It is not that they failed exactly. It was more that she seemed to see through them. She looked me in the eyes in a way that made the tricks feel thin. Still, I sensed that she liked me.
Later, the party started fading. People who stayed behind began hooking up, which often happened at Carl’s parties. I was the only one without anyone there. It seemed like everyone else had already brought their person to the party, or found one there.
Then I saw Carl hooking up with Jane.
It was not a pleasant view.
I went to my bedroom. I was drunk, very drunk, and I had this sick feeling in me. Carl was getting this cute girl who actually fit my type. Not only that. I felt, stupidly or not, that she fit me. I thought I liked her already. But what could I do?
I followed her on Instagram almost immediately. I am not proud of it, but I did. I was drunk and horny, and I jerked off to her pictures two or three times that night. Maybe more. It was not pleasant, doing that while she was in the living room, or maybe in Carl’s room, doing whatever they were doing. I pictured it. I tried to picture her with me, but I kept seeing her with Carl. I kept imagining them having sex. I am not proud of it, but I jerked off at least three times thinking about it.
The next morning I woke up hungover, although I never had terrible hangovers. Coffee usually fixed me. I went to the living room and saw some people sleeping there, nothing abnormal after those parties. My friends had slept there too sometimes. I went to the kitchen, made coffee, and stayed around while people woke up. They came in, said goodbye, said it was nice meeting me, and left.
Then Carl and Jane came out of his room.
I felt sick looking at them. Not only because of what I had done the night before in my own bedroom, but because of what seeing her there did to the image I had already made of her. She seemed different. She did not seem like the type of girl who would sleep in Carl’s room after a party. And yet there she was.
In my mind, they were going to date. I thought, if this girl is doing this with him, and she looks like that, then of course something serious is going to happen. At the same time, it destroyed something for me. It made her seem less like the girl I had imagined. But I still felt the same pull. I still felt she would fit me better.
You can judge me all you want. You can call me a misogynist, or whatever else. But the truth is simple. I liked her. I wanted to be with her. She seemed like my type. Maybe that type was stupid. Maybe wanting her because she looked innocent and caring says something bad about me. What the fuck are we in, the twentieth century? But that was how I felt.
The moment I saw her leaving Carl’s room, I thought, man, she is just another slut. Worse, she is a slut with my friend. How could I be with her now? There was no possibility.
I was heartbroken, which was ridiculous, because I had met her the night before.
She said goodbye to me and hugged me. And again, when she hugged me, I felt there was more connection between us than between her and Carl. That made it worse.
Carl sat on the sofa, and I sat with him. I tried to get information out of him.
So what was that, man?
He avoided the subject, as usual. I had heard nothing during the night, so part of me thought maybe they had not had sex. Maybe there was still a chance. I was that stupid.
Carl kept dodging, but he did say one specific thing.
Man, you looked at her and thought she would be that kind of girl?
Then he laughed.
I said something like, yeah, true, maybe you are right.
I patted him on the back and told him I was sure he would get there.
He laughed again.
And since Carl was not the kind of guy who always sealed the deal, and since he had more or less admitted before that some girls came over without fucking him, I let myself feel relieved. I thought, maybe I can do it.
So I picked up my phone and texted her on Instagram.
I joked about something stupid we had said the night before, something about a movie. At the time, The Avengers was everywhere, and I made some joke about how maybe we should watch the last three before the new one came out, since we did not remember anything.
She replied that it was actually a pretty good idea.
She said we needed to do it.
From then on, we started talking on Instagram.
And that is how I met Jane.
Part 2
For the next two weeks, I kept talking to Jane.
Carl and I never talked about her. I think I was afraid of asking too much and making him realize that I was talking to the same girl he was trying to get. With Jane, though, everything felt natural. Too natural, maybe. We talked about movies. We talked about the future. She was my type in almost every way.
She was studying economics. She wanted to work for a consulting firm after college, and she was a good student. A serious one. She spent a lot of time studying, and sometimes she worked to pay for tutoring lessons in the harder subjects she needed to pass. She knew what she wanted and she went after it.
She also seemed to care about me almost immediately. She asked how I was doing, how my classes were, how my internship was going. I told her I was not exactly the studying type. I was going through college subject by subject, passing what I needed to pass, not caring much about grades. I was studying computer engineering, so the future still looked decent, but I did not have her discipline. I did not have that clean direction.
The first time we went on something you could call a date was about a week later. She told me she was going to the college library on Saturday and said I should join her so we could study together.
It was perfect.
Really perfect.
We joked around. She gave me tips on how to study. Every time I got distracted, she told me to come on, go back to work. Sometimes I made her blush, and she would smile with that easy, soft smile of hers. Beautiful smile. She was amazing.
We hit it off. I knew, or at least suspected, that she was still talking to Carl, but I could not stop. During the next week we met three more times to study, usually after my morning classes and before my internship. It became normal very quickly, which made it more dangerous.
On Wednesday, I held her hand.
My heart was beating so hard I could feel it in my throat. I said, Jane, do you want to grab dinner tonight?
I meant to say Friday. Friday made sense. But I was nervous, and tonight came out.
She looked at me and said, Yeah, I’d like to, but I can’t tonight. Can it be Friday?
She gave me the answer I had failed to ask for.
I said, Yes, of course. Friday.
I chose a restaurant close to her apartment. I still picked her up by Uber, stopping in front of her building. When she came out, she was wearing this beautiful pink dress. She had done her makeup. On normal days she was pretty, but that night she looked stunning. She was not wearing her glasses either. She had contacts on. She looked like one of those actresses they cast as the sweet girl in a romantic comedy, the kind you are supposed to fall for before the plot even begins.
During dinner, we really connected. We drank, so we got a little drunk. When I drink, I usually talk too much. I start saying my ideas out loud, and many girls do not like my ideas, obviously. That is common now. After the 2020s, a lot of guys became a little more misogynistic, and a lot of girls became more liberal, more feminist, whatever you want to call it.
Jane did not agree with everything I said. She told me so. But she laughed some of it off, and even when she disagreed, she said she could see my point. That meant a lot to me then.
We talked about past relationships and modern relationships. She seemed to agree with me more than I expected. She said she did not like going out that often, even though she still did it with her friends sometimes, going to clubs and parties. But lately, she said, she had been more focused on building her future. She liked to take things slowly. She liked to get to know a guy before actually dating him.
I told her I had had a girlfriend in high school. She told me she had had a boyfriend in high school too. I told her I had never had a girlfriend in college, only some dates and things that never really progressed. She was different. She had had two boyfriends during college, both more or less long-term, but neither had worked out.
She criticized modern relationships too. People going from one relationship to another, never trying to fix anything, never trying to make it right. She seemed like my fit. Again, maybe I was building an image that was not true. Maybe I was choosing for the wrong reasons. But that was what I wanted. Or at least that was how I felt.
I knew she was not a virgin. Obviously. She was a stunning girl with three past boyfriends. What were the odds? She was not keeping herself for marriage. Even though she came from a conservative background, like I did, I knew how the twenty first century worked, especially the 2020s. Girls had sex. That was normal. You can call me whatever you want. I just did not want a slut.
Still, I was conflicted because of Carl. Was I going to date a girl Carl had been hooking up with? I did not even know what they had done. Had they touched each other? Had they slept together? Had they fucked? I did not know, and it bothered me.
After dinner, we went to a bar next to the restaurant. We stood instead of sitting, drinking and talking close to each other. That was when I moved. I held her hand and kissed her.
We made out.
Then I walked her to her apartment. I tried to hint that maybe we could still talk a little more upstairs.
She kissed me on the cheek and said, Next time you’ll come up.
I felt like I was living the best time of my life.
When I got home, I was happy as hell. Jack and Carl were sitting in the living room. I sat on the sofa and let the air out of my lungs in that stupid happy way, like I had been holding it in all night.
They both looked at me.
Jack said, What’s up with you?
I said, I just had a date with this girl. I think we really hit it off.
Carl said, Congratulations, man.
I felt bad then. At the same time, I felt great. I had gone out with a girl who had been hooking up with Carl, and I did not know if I could continue. I felt like I was stealing his girl. But I also felt like she was different. The way she talked, the way she looked at me, the way she seemed to understand things. I told myself it was not the same with him.
Jane and I kept talking. The next week we went to see the Avengers movie that had just come out. We made out again after. By then I knew I needed to actually try with her, not just float around the situation like a coward.
That same night, after the movie, I went home and asked Carl.
So, what’s going on between you and that girl?
He looked at me.
Which girl?
Jane.
He shrugged and said, Yeah, man, she got a little colder about a week ago. She’s not answering my messages much. I tried to set up a date with her, but she wasn’t really responding. So I stopped talking to her.
I said, Yeah, man. That sucks.
Obviously, inside, I felt good.
I asked, But didn’t you guys progress a lot?
Carl dismissed it.
You know me, man. I don’t kiss and tell. I don’t need to tell you how far we went. She’s very hot, though. And she’s nice. I thought I’d like to spend more time with her, but that’s life.
He was not as sad as he had been with the other girl. I could see why. They were not a fit. I had known that from the first night. He knew it too, even if he did not say it.
So I said it.
Yo, man, I actually fancy her. Do you mind if I text her?
Carl looked at me and put his hand on my shoulder.
No, man. You can. I’m not jealous. It’s not like I was in love with her. I was just trying. Go ahead. You’re not stealing my girl or anything. We never actually dated.
I said, Thanks, man. I’m going to text her.
He never asked me about her again. Not in the next month, not after that. As far as Carl was concerned, the matter was over.
Jane and I kept going on dates.
But we did not have sex.
Again, I think I was not moving enough. I was not pressuring her. She let me come up to her place. We slept together. We touched, kissed, stayed close, but never actually had sex. She would stop, and I would stop too. I thought that was how things were supposed to be.
Once, she told me she liked that I was not like other boys, always trying to get into her pants.
I thought that was the best compliment in the world.
Looking back, I understand it differently. Maybe she meant it as a compliment. Maybe it really was one. But it also pointed to the same problem I had always had with girls. I was not pushy enough. There is a way of being too pushy, where girls find you creepy or dangerous. But there is also a way of not being pushy enough, where nothing ever happens. I was that kind. I was not the guy in the middle, the one who pushes just enough.
Still, things did get more physical. We made out more. We got more aggressive with each other. It felt like we were becoming a thing.
By then, I had almost forgotten about Carl. I was pretty sure nothing serious had happened between them, and Jane was the first one to bring it up. She never said it directly, but one night she said, Me and Carl never had anything serious.
To me, that meant they had not had sex.
That was what I wanted it to mean.
We continued like that. Dates, messages, studying, making out. We never officially became boyfriend and girlfriend. I kept thinking I would ask her after things progressed physically. I wanted the body to confirm what the words had not yet said.
But after a month and a half, maybe two months, she brought it up herself.
We were lying on her bed. It was winter, but she was wearing tight shorts and a top, the kind she wore at home. She did not have a bra on. I would not say I could see her breasts, but I could see their shape. I was horny as hell. Her breasts were small, but I loved them. I loved everything about how she looked then. The shorts, the top, the square glasses, the softness of her face.
She looked at me and said, Can I ask you something?
I said, Of course, Jane. You can ask me anything.
She hesitated.
Don’t you want to have sex?
I said, Yeah. Of course I do.
She looked relieved and worried at the same time.
I know I told you I like that you’re not pushy, she said. But are you mad at me? Because I’m not having sex with you? Because I’m not opening myself to you?
I said, No. I think you want to take your time. You’re that type of girl.
She nodded.
Yeah. Thank you. I am. I don’t want to be used, you know? I’ve had my fair share of being disappointed with guys. I don’t want to be disappointed with you too. I’m starting to like you.
I said, Of course, Jane. I feel the same.
This was about two months after our first date, after that night we went to the cinema and I talked to Carl. I remember asking her, Are you really starting to like me?
She smiled a little.
Yeah. I mean, it’s not like I want to marry you already. But I like spending time with you. And like I said, I like to take things slowly when I think there might actually be a shot at something.
I said, Me too. I agree.
And in that moment, I felt like I loved her.
It sounds strange. Maybe it was strange. But I felt it. I thought, I love her. I actually love her.
I did not say it.
We kept dating.
A month after that, everything changed.
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