That night, Catherine lay in bed, unable to sleep.
How old are you, Miss Alexander?
Nineteen.
Have you ever had sexual intercourse with a man?
Never.
Do you like men?
Doesn’t everyone?
Have you ever wanted to make love to a woman?
Catherine thought about it long and hard. She had had crushes on other girls, on
women teachers but that had been part of growing up. Now she thought about making love
to a woman, their bodies intertwining, her lips on another woman’s lips, her body being
caressed by soft, feminine hands. She shuddered. No! Aloud, she said, “I’m normal.” But
if she was normal, why was she lying here like this? Why wasn’t she out somewhere
getting laid like everyone else in the world? Perhaps she was frigid. She might need some
kind of operation. A lobotomy, probably.
When the Eastern sky began to lighten outside the dormitory window, Catherine’s
eyes were still open, but she had made a decision. She was going to lose her virginity. And
the lucky man was going to be every maiden’s bedside companion, Ron Peterson.