Different for Boys

THE LIST
 
All right then, if we’re starting out honest, here’s pretty much everything I’ve done (it’s not as bad as it sounds):
 
I’ve __________ , of course. Everyone _________. They’re lying if they say they don’t, but ___________ doesn’t count, obviously. You can’t lose your virginity to yourself.
And leading on from that, I’ve been ______ by someone else, but who’s been to a freshman year party and not gone home without doing that in the coat pile? It’s only someone’s hands.
Getting a bit heavier, I’ve ____ and ____. Still not really a shocker.
A bit more strangely, I’ve ________________________________________________________________________________________________________. (Okay, I’m not
allowed to even hint at the strange stuff. Not that kind of story. Fine.)
And of course we wouldn’t be talking about this if I hadn’t actually _____. You know, actually ______________________________  , which is pretty much the definition of losing your virginity if you’re a boy.
 
And just so we’re clear, it’s not like I’ve done #5 once or twice either. I’m not one of those chess club virgins who goes into a closet and wonders if the real thing’s happened. It has. Trust me. Although it doesn’t really matter how many times you do it: you think it’s going to make your life less lonely, but it never does.
   I suppose my question, though, is where exactly on that list did I stop being a virgin?
   Is it obviously #5? Or can it happen sooner, like on #3? Or even #2?
   Are there degrees of virginity? Is there a points    system? A league table?
   And who gets to say?
   Because maybe it’s not as clear as all that, maybe there’s more to it. Maybe there are people who’d still say I’m a virgin, even after doing numbers 1 through 5.
   In fact, I might be one of those people.
 
 
WHERE IT STARTS
 
There are lots of places this story could start, but it might as well start on the first day of junior year, when Charlie and me are sitting in AP history, waiting for Mr. Bacon to get his seating plan finished.
   “Well, this is taking ______ forever,” Charlie says, then he blinks, surprised. “What the ____ just happened? What are these _______ black boxes?”
   I shrug. “It’s that kind of story. Certain words are necessary because this is real life, but you can’t actually show ’em because we’re too young to read about the stuff we actually do, right?”
   “Teens swear in stories these days.”
   “Not anything like we do in reality,” I say. “It’s the difference between shooting a bullet and throwing it.”
   Charlie nods solemnly at the truth of this. Then he gets a smirk.
   “ _______________________ ,” he says. His smile gets bigger. “ ________________________________ __________.” He nods again. “Cool.”
And just as he says, “Cool,” that’s when Josh Smith walks in, which is where this all really starts.
   “No ________ way,” Charlie says.
   We watch Josh check in with Mr. Bacon, who finds his name on the list and points him toward me and Charlie. Mr. Bacon’s great new idea for this year has us sitting in “quads” rather than just boring rows. Four desks pushed together in little islands around the room. Says it’s supposed to make learning “collaborative,” but any fool could see he won’t be able to control us like this.
   The quads are alphabetical, so I – being Ant Stevenson – am sitting with Charlie Shepton, who I’ve sat by alphabetically since elementary school. And now here’s Josh Smith, who Charlie and I were also alphabetical friends with from way back, too, before he left after fifth grade to move to Spokane with his dad.
   “Charlie Shepton and Ant Stevenson,” Josh Smith says, coming over to us, grinning. 
   “Josh _______ Smith!” Charlie says, standing up and punching Josh on the shoulder, even though Josh is now twice his size. Josh, in fact, is even bigger than me, not in any fat way, but like he just stepped off the Super Bowl plane to buy a pack of cigarettes. “Where the ____ have you been keeping yourself?” Charlie asks. “It’s been _______ ages.”
   “Watch your language, Charlie,” says Mr. Bacon from the front. “That’s your first warning. Now, sit.”
   “But it’s blacked out, sir,” Charlie says. “It’s like I’m not swearing at all. ____. See?”
   “Sit,” Mr. Bacon says.
   “Mom and Dad got back together,” Josh explains as we all sit down. “After seven years, if you can believe it.” His eyes stray across the crowded classroom. “Hey, don’t tell me the fourth is going to be little Jack Taylor.”
   “Aw, ____ ,” Charlie says, as we see Jack Taylor already being directed over to our quad by Mr. Bacon.
   “What?” Josh says to me, confused. “It’ll be just like old times.”
   Because the thing you need to know is that the four of us, me and Charlie and Josh Smith and Jack Taylor, used to be inseparable. All through elementary, anyway. Besides always sitting next to each other because of our names, we lived on the same few streets, and for a while there, we were always together. Birthday parties and Little League teams and just plain old stupid hanging around.
   Then Josh left and a few years later puberty hit and I suddenly got way bigger than everybody, like linebacker big, and Charlie got a foot taller without gaining any weight, and Jack, well, Jack didn’t grow all that much, and though me and Charlie stayed friends, Jack kinda went his own way when we all went on to high school. And while Charlie and me just did the usual – soccer, skipping class, more soccer – Jack, well . . .
   Jack got a little . . . dramatic, if I’m honest.
   He joined drama club. And choir. And wrote opera reviews for the school newspaper. And he always picked Mark Ruffalo as best out of the Avengers, when, I mean, come on. Hemsworth is standing right there.
   I don’t mean any of that in a bad way, though.
   Because you don’t really notice when it happens over time, do you? Jack’s your friend. You like him because you’ve always liked him. And maybe one day you think, yeah, okay, he’s gone a bit pink, but so what? He’s Jack. And most of the time, you don’t even notice.
   Unless you’re Charlie, and one day, you start noticing. Even in this day and age. When we’re all supposed to be beyond all that.
   From about last Christmas, Charlie’s started noticing. And he isn’t handling it well.
   “Jack’s a little _______ homo now,” he says as we watch Jack come over. “Hey, you can say homo without the box. That doesn’t seem right.”
   Josh raises his eyebrows. “Jack turned out gay?”
   “No,” I say. “He went out with Georgina Harcourt all last year. He’s just kinda flamboyant.”
   “He’s _______ gay,” Charlie says. “He was caught aivina head to a bunch of seniors last year.”
   “No, he wasn’t,” I say. “Claudia Templeton spread that
story to stop people from talking about how her boyfriend texted around all those pictures of her _____.”
   “Oh, yeah.” Charlie laughs. “That was cool.”
   “If it isn’t Josh Smith,” Jack says, dropping his bag on the fourth desk in our quad.
   “Hey, Jack,” Josh says. “Heard you’ve gone all Neil Patrick Harris on us.”
   Jack shoots a glare at Charlie. “I see you’ve been talking to ______ here.”
   “Hey!” Charlie says. “What was behind the box?”
   “Hey, Jack,” I say, nodding a greeting.
   “Hey, Ant.” He nods back, a little carefully.
   “Neil Patrick Harris is a rich man, Jack,” Josh says, still smiling. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”
   “Please,” Jack says. “He’s shaped like a scarecrow. Plus, his face makes me angry.” He gives Josh a look up and down. “And where’ve you been? Eating your way through eastern Washington?”
   “Aw, hell, don’t even start,” Josh says. “I wasn’t on school grounds five minutes this morning before the football coach grabbed me.” He nods my way. “You’ve gotten pretty big yourself, Ant. You should try out for the team with me. Be nice to have an old friend around.”
   “We play soccer,” Charlie says, before I can even answer.
   “Quiet in the back,” Mr. Bacon calls over to us, finally ready to start class.
   “So who’s this guy?” Josh says, lowering his voice.
   I shrug. “Just Mr. Bacon.”
   Josh frowns. “He looks familiar.”
   “Nah,” Jack says. “He just looks like if Eddie Redmayne was a serial killer.”
   “God, Jack,” Josh says. “That’s it exactly.”
   Despite ourselves, we all see it. You could totally picture your sister dating Mr. Bacon, but then you could totally see him strangling her, too. I’m about to say so, but then Charlie sneers, “You want to date him, Jack? You want him to ____ you right there on his desk?”
   Jack looks fake surprised. “Are you flirting with me, Shepton?”
   Josh snorts under his breath. I laugh a little, too.
   And then I see Charlie giving me a look that could poison a whole tank of fish.