Page 83 of Confessions of a Virgin on a Dating App
Honestly…I’m kind of worried about it too. I’m anxious that you’re having surgery and I won’t be there for you.
Aww.My anxious heart softened at his words.
I’ll be okay, Devin. It’s not a big deal.
It’s okay to be scared, Avie. You don’t have to brush those feelings off.
Okay, okay. I am scared. I just hate thinking about it.
Well…if you can’t sleep and I can’t sleep, maybe we should stay up together?
What do you mean?
Come over. You can spend the night here.
My heart screamed yes, but my brain had concerns. I knew it was unlikely that we could share a bed for a night without wanting to pull each other’s clothes off, and I wasn’t ready to practice having sex until after I’d recovered from surgery.
I just…I don’t know if I’m ready for that.
Is it the sex part? I don’t expect anything from you, Avie. It’s okay.
It’s not you, it’s me, lol. I’m concerned that I’m going to be all over you if we sharea bed.
You know, I’ve been thinking…if you did want to be intimate, you know we can do so without actual penetration, right?
Not really. What do you mean?
I felt stupid. Between my sexual dysfunction and my abstinence-focused upbringing, my knowledge of sexual activities was limited for someone my age.
Well, maybe you can’t handle full-on sex, but we might be able to get a finger in there. There’s also oral, or just external stuff. Lots of options.
A bubble of hope welled up in my chest. I craved the thought of spending all night with him, and I knew from my limited experience that sexual pleasure was a great way to stave off anxiety.
I looked up at my computer screen and then back down at my phone.
Fuck it.
What’s your address?
Devin lived around the corner from Critical Games, less than twenty minutes from my townhouse. I recognized the name of the community he lived in; I often drove past it when running errands downtown.
Give me half an hour. Need to put some clothes on.
I mean…
Shut up.
As I scrambled out of my gaming chair and into the bathroom, desperate to make myself presentable at well past midnight, the reality of what I was doing sunk into my chest like a warm yet tingling blanket.
I was spending the night.
With Devin.
And I was both thrilled and terrified.
Devin lived in a community called Willow Grove, according to the worn wooden sign flanked with colorful flowers at the end of the main road. It was a small neighborhood, heavily shrouded by oak trees and centered around a large pond. While my townhouse building was in the middle of a traditional neighborhood, this community was entirely single-story townhomes, each with a garage, covered front porch, and muted blue paint. They were modern without being brand-new, built maybe twenty years ago based on the condition of the exteriors.
The long stretches of interconnected homes formed a maze, and I found myself going in circles, unable to understand the inane numbering system used to mark both the buildings and the individual residences. Finally, I came across building number 8, house number 342; an end unit next to a dense cluster of trees. I squeezed my Camry into a driveway that was barely big enough to accommodate it. There was no front yard, only a thin row of hedges that separated Devin’s space from his neighbor’s.
