We met through a mutual friend she'd been fucking at the time, the night before the dorms closed for Christmas break. She'd come over to our dorm from the all-girl college she attended nearby. Our mutual friend was generally stoned and generally preaching whatever philosopher he'd been reading in whatever class he was failing at the moment. That night, it was Nietzche, and his barrage of two-bit words made it even less sexy than usual. We ran away and snuck up onto the roof to smoke a cigarette and talk about the sex neither of us would be having that night. We came down hours later, our friend passed out on the dorm couch, so I drove the girl to a diner, and eventually to the airport.

I'd always had lots of female friends; I got along well with girls my age, but always as friends. She was quirky, odd, eccentric, but beautiful. She looked like one of Tolkien's elves, and her openness lent her this air of mystery. It seemed too easy to connect with her, and admit our mutual physical attraction. I thought she was crazy, but it only made me want her more.

Illustration by Thomas Pitilli

Over break, we talked incessantly via email, and I had a feeling that it wasn't going to be too hard to get her into bed. I fancied that I was "playing" her, but was really falling in love with the idea of losing my virginity to someone who wasn't drunk. I even felt bad about plotting to get into her pants. I was supposed to be a nice guy, and a reliable friend.

I met her at the airport in January. She'd had trouble with family and several ex-boyfriends back home. I drove her to her dorm, carried her bags into her room, and threw her up against a wall. She attacked me with a ferocity I'd never even seen in films. I found out later that I was the only person who'd ever befriended her before trying to get her into bed.

We kissed, and fell into her bed. I awkwardly undressed her as she squirmed against me, trying to do the same. She sheepishly admitted she'd worn "granny panties" because she hadn't wanted to sleep with me, but I was so excited I couldn't even tell what color they were. She had been a long-distance runner, and her body was spectacular. She had condoms, but had been recently tested, and was on the pill, so we didn't use one.

I entered her, and as she rocked against me, she called me by my hippie-stoner philosofriend's name. I tried to ignore it, but it happened several more times, and I couldn't finish. As I dressed, she apologized repeatedly, crying and telling me to spend the night. She hadn't meant to call me by another name, it had just slipped out. When I declined, she started undressing me again, so I went back to bed. This would be a pattern for us over the next year and a half. I was her anchor, just as her sex was mine.