When first emerging out of a very late puberty, there's nothing better than having every type of crazy, wild, random sex you can imagine. Beach-chair blowjobs in Costa Rica, nightclub orgies in Cancun, a handjob from my cousin's friend in Central Jersey — for me, any fantasy was possible. I could construct the exact sex life I wanted, down to the whipped cream and barbecue skewers. Sure, I was a neurotic, short virgin who gravitated to the friend zone, but no one had to know that — as long as I could make my fantastic sexual encounters sound convincing.

My fantasies sparked after my sophomore year of high school, when my best friend defeated me in our mutual pursuit of a busty, freckled junior; we were hypnotized by her cleavage and ignored her screams of delight upon any mention of My Chemical Romance. A few months later, we both fell in love with the same literary lesbian, but he was the one who got to enjoy a conversational, repressed romance with her. On my many dateless nights I watched a lot of teen movies, and I was quickly identifying myself as the fall guy — known in scholarly teen-movie circles as "The Baxter." Not that I'd ever admit this to my friends.

Instead, my elaborate lies seemed to work. But as I approached the end of high school, I still resisted lying to my friends that I had lost my virginity. I felt comfortable telling my soon-to-be college roommate that a girl had just lathered my dick with AstroGlide while we watched a Hugh Grant marathon (this act was, sadly, actually executed by my left hand), but I couldn't imagine the kind of fictional character that could take my virginity. My friends would really dig deep to investigate, and I was afraid I would crack under the pressure and scrutiny.

The answer for me emerged, as it does for many virgins, with the coming of prom.

I asked my crush to go with me, but she already had a date with the dude that sold steroids out of his locker, so I went home, filled a half-empty 46-oz. QuickChek Coke with Bacardi, and IM-ed a girl I'd met at a college's admitted students day.

Her name was Rori, and we "picnicked" on a south Jersey dock. The fried chicken soon turned cold and soggy. She kissed me, which I'd done with real girls before, so I felt reasonably comfortable. Soon, though, she led my hands under her skirt. My hands began to shake. These things were far less frightening in my imagination. But to my utter surprise, my quivering fingers soon gave her an orgasm (or so she claimed). I repeated the act in the back of my Camry in a dark, abandoned lot, delaying the prospect of having to do anything more. Then she said she wanted to fuck me. I asked for a blowjob instead, a terrified tremor reverberating in my voice. Her mouth was gaping; it turned her otherwise pretty face grotesque and frightening, and I never wanted to see her again.

The next night I got very drunk at a party and announced to all of my friends that I had lost my virginity. Yeah, I got all in there, with you know, my penis. The vodka tonic strengthened my resolve. Fuck it, I figured, Rori actually existed and graduation was only two weeks away. If I didn't act now, everyone would think that I left for college a virgin.

My friends surprisingly accepted this story, and I counted the days until I'd arrive at college, where my fantasy world really would have the opportunity to flourish. My high-school past would become boundary-less and malleable. It would have all the fun of shaping a penis out of clay, except that penis was my penis, and in my retellings, I could put it anywhere I wanted.

Two months into college, I was still really enjoying soaking in my fantasy world, but a problem had arisen in the form of my new girlfriend, Hadley, lying naked on her dorm room bed, very ready for us to have sex for the first time. All right Joe, you've done this before, I thought — but then I remembered that I hadn't.