He's interesting. He's funny. He's smart. He's witty. He's handsome. And he's never going to fuck me.
Why? He's still got his V-card, that's why! That means we can go to dinner, drink wine, discuss politics and religion and laugh and laugh, but dear god, my dashing prince turns into a fumbling, frightened, inaccessible idiot at the idea of a roll in the hay.
"This could be good for you," my friend tells me. "At least you won't have to worry about being pregnant."
Indeed, one might think that a boo who won't do it would be perfect for a girl who's probs. pregs. 24/7.
Yet, behold our awkward conversation of several nights hence:
Ginger: I want to be the one to pop your cherry.
Virgin: It won't work. You'd only be frustrated.
Ginger: I'm already frustrated!
Virgin: Let's just talk about poetry and enjoy this imported cigar.
Ginger: Please hold me.
Virgin: I've got to go.
Alas, there's just no romance without the risk of getting fertilized out of wedlock.
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