how about now?

I will refuse to apologize for attending college in Kearney, Nebraska… After growing up in a suburb of Denver, and wanting to get away from the insipid high school drama, I was eager to start college in a new place. It just so happened that I didn’t want to get too far from home, hence, a small town in Nebraska.

However, my first college boyfriend hailed from yet another suburb of Denver, about 20 minutes south of where I grew up. Ironic, no? It was my second semester of college, when “Dave” decided to take a semester off and stay home, that I discovered my love of flirting with the small-town boys that populated his fraternity.

I figured it was safe; I was dating a brother, so they knew that the gratuitous looks of my boobs after a rousing game of (insert name of drinking game here) was just a tease. As was my promises of oral sex if they beat me at quarters.

Damn. I was slutty. But I digress.

While the joking was fun, none of the frat boys knew how to give it just as good as they got it, until an interloper joined the scene. We’ll call him Mark…because that was his name. Mark was an anomaly in the fraternity world; he belonged to a totally different frat, but was welcome in this particular house, because he was friends with most of the guys there. Better yet, he was from the big city of Omaha, so we had something in common—we were starting to miss the city.

I met Mark and I felt like I was home. He was funny, adorable, sexy, a great dresser, and sarcastic to boot. I think it would be fair to say that we fell in lust with one another—if for only the shared love of double entendre and the thrill of the “what if?”

Our flirting never reached a point that would be considered “crossing the line”; he had too much respect for Dave to do that, however, he made it known, in no uncertain terms, that if I ever found myself single, and with an itch that needed to be scratched, he was my man.

Fast forward a year…Dave unceremoniously dumped me (but our saga, was far from over, but that is a completely different story), I had my 36 DD boobs reduced to a much more manageable and perky C cup, and Mark’s and my flirting was about to be taken to the next level.

After a long night of drinking and innuendo, we found ourselves back at my place, just a mere block from the frat house. We were equally excited and nervous; anxious to relieve over a year’s worth of sexual tension with as little awkwardness as possible.

He spent much of the previous evening complementing me on my new boobs—I was pretty proud of them, so I showed them off as often as possible. I did, however, mention that one downfall to the reduction surgery, was a complete loss of nipple sensation. It didn’t bother me that much—their former size lead to a decrease in sensitivity anyway.

We made our way to the bedroom; clothes off, hands groping, pelvises grinding, lips drunkenly pressed together. We were learning each other’s bodies with abandon. He reached for the condom that we set out before we got naked, put it on, and there he was, poised and ready to enter me in the culmination of our yearlong flirt.

He stared down at me; his eyes gazing into mine, then his eyes traveled downwards, feasting upon breasts…and then poked my left nipple as hard as he could.

“Can you feel that?”

“What?”

“You said you can’t feel anything on your nipples. Could you feel that?”

Yes, before we could do the deed, he prods my boob like he’s trying to deflate a balloon, effectively killing the mood and any desire I had to have sex with him. Ever.

Mark and I remained friends; the kind that will chat when they run into each other, or buy each other a drink when we saw each other at the bar. However, the sex was never had, which was fine, because last I heard, he was way more into boys than girls, so I bet he would have sucked in bed anyway.