“We’re going to fuck, right?”

“April” was my first hookup. She was the girlfriend of a fellow student at divinity school. She’s outgoing, tall, athletic and incredibly pretty. We had gathered one Saturday night with a few classmates at a local watering hole. I don’t socialize easily, but I had acceded to their invitation that night. I was admittedly smitten with April, but I was too shy to approach her. Besides, she had a boyfriend.

But her boyfriend wasn’t there that night. (He was out of town.) April had quaffed a considerable amount of beer, and she started to flirt with me at the bar. I erased any consideration about her boyfriend from my mind and became totally engrossed with her. In high school, I was the shy, somewhat nerdy, repressed Lutheran kid who couldn’t imagine being with the pretty, popular girl, and here I was with her.

“Want to share a drink at my place?” she asked. I immediately took her up on her offer.

I drove us to her apartment (I had imbibed less). Once there, we starting making out on the couch. She soon made her intentions known. April pulled off her shirt, unbuttoned her jeans, then blurted out, “We’re going to fuck, right?”

I answered affirmatively. We went to her bedroom.

I nervously tore open the condom wrapper and sheathed myself. She climbed on top and rode me cowgirl, her tight, athletic body undulating on top of me.

We woke up the next morning in her bed. It was awkward. “Please don’t tell anyone about this!” she beseeched me.

I just did.