“You know how people exaggerate.”
“And you’re damned pretty.”
“Thank you.” She tried to make her voice sound like Katherine Hepburn in Alice
Adams and looked meaningfully into his eyes. She was no longer Catherine Alexander.
She was a sex machine. She was about to join Mae West, Marlene Dietrich, Cleopatra.
They were all going to be sisters under the foreskin.
The waiter brought the drink and she finished it in one quick nervous gulp. Ron
watched her in surprise.
“Easy,” he warned. “That’s pretty potent stuff.”
“I can handle it,” Catherine assured him, confidently.
“Another round,” he told the waiter. Ron reached across the table and caressed her
hand. “It’s funny. Everybody at school had you wrong.”
“Wrong. No one at school’s had me.”
He stared at her. Careful, don’t be clever. Men preferred to bed girls who had
excessively large mammary glands and gluteus maximus muscles and exceedingly small
cerebrums.
“I’ve had a—thing for you for a long time,” she said, hurriedly.
“You sure kept it a secret.” Ron pulled out the note she had written and smoothed it
out. “Try our Cashier,” he read aloud, and laughed. “So far I like it better than the Banana
Split.” He ran his hands up and down Catherine’s arm and his touch sent tiny ripples down
her spine, just like the books said it would. Perhaps after tonight she would write a manual
on sex to instruct all the poor, dumb virgins who didn’t know what life was all about.
After the second drink Catherine was beginning to feel sorry for them.
“It’s a pity.”
“What’s a pity?”
She had spoken aloud again. She decided to be bold. “I was feeling sorry for all the
virgins in the world,” she said.
Ron grinned at Catherine. “I’ll drink to that.” He lifted his glass. She looked at him
sitting across from her obviously enjoying her company. She had nothing to worry about.
Everything was going beautifully. He asked if she would like another drink, but Catherine
declined. She did not intend to be in an alcoholic stupor when she was deflowered.
Deflowered? Did people still use words like deflowered? Anyway, she wanted to
remember every moment, every sensation. Oh, my God! She wasn’t wearing anything!
Would he? Surely a man as experienced as Ron Peterson would have something to put on,
some protection so she wouldn’t get pregnant. What if he was expecting the same thing?
What if he was thinking that a girl as experienced as Catherine Alexander would surely
have some protection? Could she come right out and ask him? She decided that she would
rather die first, right at the table. They could carry her body away and give her a