"First love is only a little foolishness and a lot of curiosity."

-George Bernard Shaw

Chapter One

It's Friday. 9:36 in the evening, last time I looked up from my 1975 hardcover edition of 'Jane Eyre'. Pieces of popcorn litter the carpeted floor, occasionally flying out of some laughing neanderthal's mouth, along with the inevitable spray of carbonated beverage from the nostrils, which I know from experience is pretty painful, but when it's cascading down someone else's face is just gross and annoying.

This, my friends, is Movie Night.

If you were ever seriously considering suicide, I think bitterly, now would be the time to commit it.

We're supposed to be 'bonding'. Getting to know one another better while simultaneously wallowing in our shame and-for a lack of a better word-loserdom, on the Island of Misfit Toys, when most of us just want to go home and forget this whole freaking experience ever happened.

"I think that chick's gonna take her top off!" Geoff yells, which is followed by elated howls and monkey grunts and a few eyes rolls so dramatic I can practically hear them.

So maybe not most of us...but me. I, for one, want to go home.

I was really trying here. But god, you can only take so much of Mr. Rochester in one sitting before you start to read the same sentence over and over again, and the mildly judgmental phrase 'what a drip' starts to form in your mind, and you know you're going to have to put the book down pretty soon before you start biting at your own flesh like a motherless baby chimp. But in the same breath, putting the book down would mean having to focus my attention on the movie, which as far as I can tell, is nothing more than a glamorized lesbian porno.

"Gosh, this is so cliche." Harold huffs, and while continuing to eye my book, I can hear the noises of what sounds like the beginning of an intense and possibly bloody mugging.

"Go for the throat." I deadpan. "Take the purse and the french baguette and run."

People snicker, and my over-inflated ego initially thinks it's because I'm so funny. But when I look up, the screen is not, as I had imagined, lit up with a greasy-looking man playing tug-of-war with the supposedly now topless woman's shopping bags, but rather, a graphic and completely unromantic make out scene.

"What a virgin." Somebody giggles.

I can feel myself begin to blush, much to my annoyance. So I couldn't identify a janitor's closest groping session-without using my eyes, mind you. So what. It's not like I'm experienced on the subject or anything. Ask anyone who knows me—hell, just take the time to look at me. However, I would personally recommend contacting your friendly neighborhood computer hacker, one with the ability to tap into my Google searches, to fully explain to you the depths of my virgin-minded haplessness.

Yes, I am an adolescent male, and yes, porn is a part of said lifestyle.

But anyone 'getting it', and even if their not getting 'it', per se, but rather only getting 'some', doesn't need to rely on the types of seedy websites that I do.

Excuse me—I have just been informed via Urban Dictionary that getting 'it' and getting 'some' are used synonymously.

Unfortunately, this only furthers my point.

"You can't really be a 'Noah-it-all' without first exploring the smooth crevices of the female body, dude." Geoff exclaims.

"That's true!" Lindsay agrees. I give her a look, although in her defense she probably doesn't even know what she's agreeing to.

"Quantum Mechanics or prepubescent groping. Which will better prepare me for life?" I ask dryly. Before any idiot can attempt to answer, I stand up and make my way to my room, book in hand and mouth curled into a scowl.

I need a shower. Half-assed dips in the pool aren't cutting it anymore, evidently, and even those have been lacking recently due to Izzy's 'pee' incident.

Frankly, I smell like shit.

You're really helping the whole 'stay a virgin forever' plan move along nicely, I think to myself.

The door to my room is already open when I get there but the lights are turned off, making me come to the rational conclusion that Izzy is hiding somewhere inside, waiting to jump out when I'm in my underwear or in the bathroom or something else to thoroughly degrade me. The girl's a master of humiliation.

So in I go, stomping like a madman to let her know I'm there, making sure to look behind the doors and even punch ferociously at a suspiciously tall pile of dirty laundry. Still, the wackjob remains hidden.

I do, however, uncover someone else.