Chapter 74: The Virgin's Lament
The pact became a chemical burn under Becca’s skin, a constant, low-grade fever. For three days, she moved through her college classes like a ghost, the voices of her friends—for all of us—a whisper in her ear every time she saw a pretty girl. Her crush, Elise, was in her Art History survey. Elise had a soft laugh and painted her nails a different pastel every week.
On Thursday, as the lecture hall emptied, Becca’s feet moved before her brain could protest. The air smelled of old books and floor polish. “Elise?”
Elise turned, her strawberry-blonde ponytail swinging. She had a smudge of green ink on her thumb. “Hey. Becca, right?”
“Yeah.” Becca’s mouth was dry. Chloe’s fierce eyes, Maya’s resigned nod, Zoe’s hopeful smile flashed behind her own. Proxy. Vow. “I was wondering. There’s this new board game cafe on Maple. Lots of cooperative games. Thought maybe… you’d want to check it out? Sometime?” The words tumbled out, a rehearsed script she’d practiced in the mirror.
Elise’s eyebrows lifted, then a smile bloomed. “Yeah? I love those places. I’m brutally competitive at Catan, fair warning.”
“That’s okay,” Becca said, a real laugh bubbling up, surprised at her own lungs. “I’m a pacifist in games. I just like building the roads.”
“Friday?” Elise suggested, and just like that, the engine was lit.
The group chat exploded. CHLOE: HOLY SHIT. IT’S HAPPENING. ZOE: What are you wearing? MAYA: Remember. For us. All of us. Becca stared at the last text, the screen’s glow the only light in her now-sanctuary-turned-war-room. The vanilla candle smelled sickly sweet.
The board game bar was a cacophony of rolling dice and cheerful shouts. Becca and Elise commandeered a small table sticky with spilled cider. They played a silly game about farming, their fingers brushing over wooden sheep tokens. Elise’s knees touched Becca’s under the table and didn’t move away. The promise felt less like a lead weight and more like a secret thrill. This could work. This was a real date, with a girl who laughed at her jokes and didn’t seem to notice the faint, surgical scars on Becca’s wrists from the IVs.
“You’re really easy to talk to,” Elise said, two hours in, swirling the last of her sour beer.
“You too,” Becca said, and meant it. The vow quieted to a hum.
When Elise suggested her apartment was just two blocks away and she had an amazing vinyl collection, Becca’s heart didn’t sink. It soared. This was the sequence. This was how it was supposed to go. The proxy was on schedule.
Elise’s studio was neat, smelling of sandalwood and weed. Records were alphabetized on a shelf. She put on something mellow and guitar-driven. They sat on the futon, and the space between them dissolved naturally, inevitably. Elise’s mouth was soft, tasting of hops and mint gum. Her hands were confident, sliding under Becca’s shirt, tracing the lace of her bra.
“You’re so pretty,” Elise murmured against her neck, her voice husky.
Becca’s body responded, a confused, eager symphony. The old, deep hunger was gone, replaced by this sharp, localized need, the biological fluke awakening. It felt real enough. It had to be.
They undressed in the dim light from a geometric floor lamp. Becca focused on Elise’s body, the gentle curve of her hips, the soft swell of her breasts. She used her hands, her mouth, losing herself in the sensation of giving pleasure, of feeling Elise shudder and sigh beneath her. For a few minutes, she forgot the pact. She forgot the scars. She was just a girl with another girl.
Then Elise’s hand, slick from her own wetness, drifted down. She found Becca’s stiffness, so modest, so earnest in its half-formed state. Her fingers traced its length, once, twice.
A snort escaped her. A puff of air against Becca’s cheek.
Becca froze.
Elise tried to stifle it, her shoulders shaking. It wasn’t malicious, not really. It was the kind of laugh reserved for seeing a puppy in a ridiculous costume. “Oh my god,” she giggled, the sound terribly bright in the intimate dark. “It’s so… cute. Like a little button. Is that… all of it?”
The world did not so much shatter as delaminate. Becca felt herself peel into two people. One was still here, naked on a futon, humiliated. The other was floating near the ceiling, watching it happen. For all of us, the floating one thought, coldly.
The heat in Becca’s groin didn’t just fade; it recoiled, a dying animal scurrying back into its hole. She felt it physically shrink, a retreat so violent it was nauseating.
“I…” Becca’s voice was a stranger’s.
“No, hey, it’s fine!” Elise said, misreading the horror for insecurity. She was still smiling, a patronizing, pitying curve of her lips. “It’s adorable. We can work with that.” Her hand moved again, a patronizing pat.
That touch was worse than the laughter. Becca flinched back as if burned. She scrambled off the futon, her limbs clumsy, snatching at her clothes from the floor.
She fumbled with her jeans, the denim feeling impossibly thick and cumbersome. Elise’s giggles subsided into a confused, slightly wounded silence. “Becca, wait, come on. I didn’t mean it like that.”
But the words were just noise. The floating version of herself watched the scene with cold clarity, narrating the failure. You have one job. For Chloe. For Maya. For Zoe. The weight of their collective hope, now twisted into this grotesque humiliation, anchored her back into her body with a nauseating thud. She couldn’t return to them with this. Not yet.
Her hands stopped buttoning her fly. She stood there, breathing hard, staring at the geometric pattern of the rug. The pact was a chain, but it was also the only script she had. Elise was still here, still willing, apparently. Becca turned around, her face a mask of grim resolve. “No. It’s fine.”
“Are you sure?” Elise asked, her head tilted, concern now overriding her amusement.
“Yes.” Becca’s voice was flat. She approached the futon, her movements mechanical. She guided Elise onto her back, avoiding her eyes, focusing on the objective. Penetration. Completion. For all of us. She positioned herself between Elise’s legs, which parted for her. The sight, the smell, the wet warmth so close to her own skin should have been exhilarating. It was just a target.
Elise smiled, a gentle, encouraging thing, and reached down to guide her. Her fingers brushed the small, stiff length. Becca hovered, the tip making contact with slick heat. The sensation was overwhelming, a concentrated blast of nerves she wasn’t prepared for. It wasn’t pleasure; it was a seismic alert.
Her body betrayed her with devastating, instantaneous efficiency. A sharp, involuntary clench shot up from her core. A pathetic, weak pulse. A tiny spurt of clear fluid released, landing on Elise’s lower belly with a damp, insignificant splatter.
It was over before it began.
Elise looked down at the small, shiny patch on her skin, then back at Becca’s horrified face. Another laugh escaped her, a soft, incredulous puff of air. “Wow. Okay. You’re, uh… you’re really lacking in the dick department, huh?” She immediately winced, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Shit, that came out wrong. I’m sorry. I just… the girls I’ve been with usually have, like, a lot more to work with.”
Becca pushed herself back, collapsing onto her heels. The room seemed to warp, the sandalwood scent now cloying and suffocating. Every word was a nail. Lacking. Department. It sounded like a clinical assessment of a defective product.
“No, hey, look at me,” Elise said, sitting up, her voice softening with genuine regret. She reached out. “It’s okay. Really. We can do other stuff. I like you, Becca. You’re sweet.”
Sweet. The ultimate dismissal. It was the word you used for a child who brought you a dandelion. It was not the word for someone who was supposed to be a proxy for three other people’s shattered sexuality. Becca scrambled up again, the earlier clumsiness replaced by a frantic, jerky energy. She didn’t bother with her shirt, just clutched it to her chest.
“Becca, please don’t go like this.”
The pleading only made it worse. Becca yanked open the apartment door, the cool hallway air hitting her bare skin like a slap. She didn’t look back. Sobs broke from her throat in harsh, ugly gasps as she stumbled toward the stairwell, the sound of Elise calling her name fading behind the heavy door’s slam. She ran down the concrete steps, the vow she’d made in her vanilla-scented room now ashes in her mouth, carried away on the taste of salt and failure.
The city lights bled into streaks through the tears she wouldn’t wipe away. Becca walked for blocks, her shirt still unbuttoned, the night air chilling the damp spot on her jeans. Each step echoed the word. Lacking.
Her phone buzzed relentlessly in her pocket. The screen, when she finally dared look, was a constellation of notifications from the group chat. CHLOE: Status report? MAYA: We’re dying over here. ZOE: Thinking of you!! She thumbed the power button, plunging it into black silence. The walk home was a long, slow submersion.
She found them in her bedroom, just as she knew she would. The vanilla candle was lit again, its cheerful scent a lie. Chloe was propped against the headboard, her pajama bottoms pushed down, her fingers moving in a slow, circular rhythm over her smooth, tiny nub. Maya was on her stomach on the floor, hips pressing into the carpet in a steady, grinding pulse. Zoe sat in the beanbag chair, her head back, one hand kneading her breast through her thin tank top, the other cupped loosely between her legs.
They weren’t moaning. They were focused, breathing through parted lips, their faces etched with a concentration that was almost spiritual. It was maintenance. A reminder of a connection that still faintly flickered.
“Well?” Chloe’s voice was strained, her eyes still closed, her fingers not stopping. “Don’t leave us in suspense, proxy. Did you plant the flag?”
Becca stood in the doorway, the image of their shared, futile effort carving itself into her. She said nothing. She just unzipped her jeans and let them fall, then stepped out of them, standing in the soft light in just her shirt and underwear. The damp patch was visible.
Maya stopped grinding. Zoe’s hands fell away. Chloe’s circling fingers stilled, resting on the inert flesh.
“Oh, Becca,” Zoe whispered, the excitement draining from her voice.
“What happened?” Maya asked, rolling onto her side, her voice flat. “You’re back too early for a victory lap.”
The story spilled out in fractured pieces. The board game cafe, the vinyl records, the kiss. Becca kept her eyes on the swirling smoke of the candle. She described the touch, the laugh. She imitated the tone. “It’s so cute. Like a little button.” Her own voice sounded hollow, reciting lines from a bad play.
She told them about the attempt, the mechanical positioning. The catastrophic, immediate finish. “It just… happened. Like a sneeze. Before anything even started.” She finally looked at them, her hazel eyes wide with shame. “She said I was ‘lacking in the dick department.’”
A violent, choked sound came from the bed. Chloe’s face had contorted, not in sympathy, but in a rage so pure it shook her slender frame. Her hand, still between her legs, clenched into a fist. “That basic bitch,” she spat. “That normal, boring, whole bitch.”
“But she liked you,” Zoe offered weakly, still trying to salvage a fragment of a romance narrative. “She said you were sweet.”
“She was apologizing for laughing at a defective toy,” Maya corrected, her voice a dull blade. She sat up, hugging her knees. “So that’s it. The grand experiment. The functional one isn’t functional enough. We’re not just virgins. We’re jokes.”
The silence pooled back in, thicker now, poisoned. Chloe resumed moving her hand, her strokes harder, angrier. “It still feels good, you know,” she said, not looking at any of them, talking to the ceiling. “The nerves are still there. Right at the base. If I press hard, and think really hard, I can almost remember what it was supposed to be for.”