Carrie Minberg, Female, 21

	- Narrator, Bitterwood graduate

	- Beige, freckled skin, 5'6, 140lbs, curly back-length dark-red or blue hair

Julens, Female, 21

	- Junior at Harvard, Bitterwood graduate, French

	- Light olive skin, 5'8, 140lbs, long silky black hair

Donnie, Male, 23

	- Senior at Harvard

	- Beige skin, 5'10, 180lbs, short blonde hair

When I woke up again, I instinctively reached for whatever bottle or cup of alcohol I'd left half-full on the bedside table. Instead of pulling back a delicious first sip of liquor, I knocked over a lamp and sent it to shatter its bulb on the tile floor. Not a pleasant sound when so hungover.

I tried to open my eyes, was able to see that no one slept in the other bed. I didn't know if Julens had been there earlier or not. I didn't care. I wanted a drink.

I crept into the kitchen, seeing no one, and searched for alcohol. Nothing obvious, I checked where I thought I'd had wine the night before. Nothing there.

Julens came out of the bathroom wearing a towel. “No booze. Not today.”

I grunted and kept pawing through various cabinets.

“You won't find any, Carrie. I mean it, no booze!”

I turned to her, pain on my face, tried to will her to show me a bottle.

“Take these, better than booze.”

“What is it.”

“Tylenol. Take them both. With water.”

She handed me the pills and I downed them when she also offered the water.

I sat heavily on the couch and tried to figure out what the fuck I was doing in Julens' apartment. I remembered a bit about the night before, crying on the sidewalk, drinking wine, showering. My eyes continued to search for the wine while I worked up the energy to give a fuck about anything at all.

“Its Saturday, Carrie. No classes for me, today. I'm going to keep an eye on you. Someone... asked me to... someone who loves you...”

“Someone? Who?”

She didn't say it, but I knew she meant Elise. “She shouldn't love me. I don't deserve it.”

“You may be right.” Ouch. “But she loves you even if... even if things aren't ok. She's called me six times since I found you yesterday. She wants you to be ok, you know.”

I grunted and sat back, my head pounding. “If I can't have booze, got any weed?”

“No, though... I could probably get some... better than liquor for you right now... I'll see...”

I nodded, kept looking for the wine. “So... now what.”

“Now we talk.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“I'm serious.”

“Me too.” I was a sarcastic bitch to her, I know it. Hungover, no booze, no pot, no Elise... It's amazing I could construct sentences without a blazing 'fuck you!' attached to each one.

Julens grabbed a towel, wet it in the sink, and stuck it to my head. “There, that will help the headache. Keep it on until it's no longer cool.”

It stayed on my forehead quite well without my help, so I didn't need to give a fuck about whether I would hold it or just let it fall on my lap.

I slept at some point, remember waking up to Julens talking on the phone. She was speaking in a low voice, but I made out her end of the conversation.

“I know, Elise... Yeah, I know... I know... She's... doing better. Not had a drink yet today... Yeah, I know... Please, come see her... I think it would help... I know... not even... yeah, I know... She made a bad mistake, Elise, no one blames you... well, no, I don't think so. Carrie blamed herself, when I said you still loved her, she said she didn't deserve it... pretty sure she blames herself... right... I know... I know...”

And on like that for some time. I had a hard time following the one-side of the conversation I could hear, but I knew it was Elise, that she wasn't coming to visit me, and she thought I blamed her. After half a day without alcohol, the day wasn't getting any better. Julens hung up, and sat next to me.

I grumbled, “that went well.”

“I'm trying, Carrie, I'm trying to help. This is hard. I'm friends with both of you, I'm hurting for you, Carrie. I'm hurting for Elise.”

For the first time in days, I think some of my reality sank in and settled, stopped kicking around in my gut. A few hours without alcohol didn't hurt, but a few strands of coherent thoughts made me look again at what I'd done to my life.

I hated what I saw.

What I'd done to Elise, the days I'd spent drinking and spending Mom's money, the lack of sleep and showers and courtesy.

I hated myself.

And I cried. I let it go, I let it out, Julens pulled me to her and hugged me. I cried hard, held Julens tight, wished I could run back to Elise and hold her, even just one more time. I hurt, everywhere and nowhere, every bit of me feeling the misery of my stupid sexual mistake.

- - -

For two weeks, I crashed with Julens and Khepri, mostly on their couch. The Egyptian girl stayed with her boyfriend a couple of times, let me use her bed. I stayed numb, moped. They kept me fed, calm, sober. I mostly sat with the television on something I didn't care to watch, but couldn't bother to turn off.

They put no serious pressures on me, and didn't mention Elise at all. At some point, one of them retrieved the rest of my things from Elise's apartment, including my mail. One letter told me I'd been suspended from school due to missing classes. The next made it clear I'd been expelled. It had been about a month since I'd last gone, so it was not a surprise. It really just closed the door on anything left for me at Harvard, and to some extent, Boston itself.

I took a job in a bookstore. Julens had become friends with a woman who worked there on weekends and when a position opened up, Julens stuck her neck out for me. It was only a few hours a week, but I started going to work on Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays, and it got me out of the rut I was in.

I started jogging with Julens and Khepri. Mostly, I hated it. But it did relieve stress and made me feel much better about things.

I knew I was overstaying my welcome after a month living with them. They didn't outright say I needed to move out, but the longer I was there, the more I got asked if I'd found an apartment or was planning to return to Texas. I hadn't done much toward either end, but as things turned around, with the job, with the exercise and sobriety and the slow, miserable distance I was gaining on my relationship with Elise, I tried to find something.

The semester ended and Julens and Khepri went home to France and Egypt, respectively, leaving me all alone over the holidays. Mom, who I'd only barely kept updated on my status, was traveling to Thailand with her boyfriend, talking of marrying the man. I had no one to go home to, so I stayed in Boston.

My work schedule had picked up over the last month of the year, holiday time was a bit of a rush in the bookstore. I started getting a lot of hours, and when one of the full-timers was fired, I was offered the opportunity to step into the role. I did, and slowly, I was able to save some cash and looked seriously for my own place.

By that point, I was doing ok, compared to where things had been for a couple of months. I was sober, showed up for work on time, jogged, and had even paid Julens a bit to cover some rent and some of the food I was eating. Sober, and chaste, over that time. Except for Evan, I'd been with no one else since Elise. I had very little sex drive, and I knew that was my reaction to fucking Evan and to fucking up my relationship with my blonde lover. I had scarred that part of my life for a while, and for once, I felt no urges to get laid. I rarely masturbated, and even then, it wasn't fantasy or even particularly sexual, just a quick rub once or twice a month to release a little pressure.

I met Donnie on New Years Eve. I'd worked all day at the bookstore, and toward the end of the night, a guy walked in, smiled at me behind the counter, and moved off to the section where we kept the classic fiction. I checked out a customer or two, then he walked up and slapped a stack of great novels down. I eyed him, smiling, said, “great taste. Dickens... Shelly... Lawrence... nice.”

“Bit of light reading. One more semester and they tell me I'll graduate and actually have to do something other than read and write for a living. Can you imagine? Guess I better take advantage of it while I can.”

I chuckled and rang him up, told him that I'd read all of the books he was buying and suggested a couple of others. He leaned on the counter as I counted his change, said, “reader, are you? What's your major?”

I shook my head, said, “was Lit. I'm not in classes right now.”

“Ah.” He grabbed the bag of books, paused, said, “hey... shot in the dark. You doing anything tonight? I'm supposed to go to a New Years party but I'd actually prefer to sit and read. But... you know... if you wanted to go with me, maybe we could talk about how Dickens healed his family and friends by mesmerizing them...”

“You mean, how he failed to heal them with magic tricks?”

He smiled broadly, said, “Yes, exactly.”

I pursed my lips and thought a moment, hesitated, but it had been a long time since I'd gone out to do anything fun, and I finally nodded, “sure. Yeah, ok.”

He looked pleased. “Donnie,” he said, extending his hand.

“Carrie.”

“I know, it's on your tag.”

“Oh. Right.”

He jotted down the address and it wasn't too far from Julens' apartment, so I agreed to meet Donnie there around 10 that night. He thanked me and headed out of the store. I took stock of him then. He was reasonably tall, though it was always hard to judge height from the raised checkout area. Donnie seemed to be in shape, a few extra pounds, tan beige skin, dirty blonde hair that was just long enough to fall over in arcs.

I don't think I was sexually attracted to him. The old 'fuck anybody' hormones were still far down the chain of things controlling my emotions at that point. He was a good looking guy, was obviously a senior or grad student. I'm not sure I'd just accepted a date, either. Just a friendly offer to talk books and spend a few hours with someone new.

It had been a long time since I'd done that. Other than Julens and Khepri, I rarely talked to anyone outside of work, and never enough to get to know them. It was a protective shell I wore carefully, and I wasn't interested in letting anyone break through it yet.

But New Years Eve is always a time for trying new things, for looking forward to the future, putting the past in perspective. My past still hung around, and I knew that one night, a few hours at a party with a nice guy, wasn't going to wash away all my demons. But, for the first time in months, I felt a spark of happiness start to ignite, an anticipation for just getting out of the apartment and doing something. Anything. The old me finally started to fight back that night.

- - -

I was actually nervous as I walked slowly in the cold breeze. The apartment was all mine, so I tried on a couple of different perfumes before settling on the one I liked, even put on a simple blue dress that I thought might still look good on me. I'd lost weight since Elise, not too much, but I knew it showed, and the dress that used to be tight on me hung easily from my sides.

Wrapped in a coat and trying not to freeze as the snow started, I wondered what kind of party I'd arrive to find. The only person I was certain to know was Donnie, 'know' used very loosely there, and otherwise, I didn't know if it would be students or family or drunken frat boys looking for quickies and shots.

I didn't think about sex consciously, but I'd prepared for it nonetheless. I'd put on makeup, perfume, and specifically, I'd shaved my pubes, left a thin happy trail a few inches long, removed the rest. I'd always been pretty fortunate when it came to shaving my puss. My skin was sensitive to touches and licks, but not to the razor. I'd run my hand over myself a couple of times and enjoyed the smooth skin I found there, my clit even rising and saying 'hello.'

I found the tall, thin house easily, could hear music pumping inside, the distinctive sounds of muffled, excited chatter mixed with a base line that vibrated the windows. I climbed the steps and debated whether I should ring the doorbell or just go inside.

“Nasty habit, I know. I'd hoped to finish before you arrived” Donnie was leaning near the far corner of the porch in shadow, smoking a cigarette.

I turned toward him and he took another drag, spotted an ashtray and reached to put it out. I snagged the lit cigarette and puffed. “I like the taste and smell of it sometimes, not a habit, just sometimes.” I took another drag, passed it back to him. “Besides, I'd have smelled it on you. No hiding that smell once it soaks into your clothes.”

“Too true. Hey, I'm really glad you came, I... I'm not really much for these types of things, but one of my close buds invited me and once you agreed to join me, I figured, what the hell.”

“This his place?”

“Nah, his parents. They're off to some other party, left him a well-stocked bar if you're interested.”

I hesitated, “Uh... I...”

“Don't drink? That's ok. I'm a lightweight, myself. Still sipping a bit of rum and pineapple, probably last me all night.”

“Ah. I drink, just... not in a few months.” I considered my options. “I'd take a rum and pineapple. Light on the rum, show me where?”

“Gladly.”

- - -

I was at the party a couple of hours before I started feel really warm around Donnie. He was polite, didn't pressure me to drink more than the one, barely alcoholic concoction he made me. We talked about his upcoming graduation from Harvard and why I wasn't in school. The latter issue I glossed over, lied and told him it was a medical condition and that I might start up classes again in January.

He didn't push me or probe me for too many details. Donnie was heading to California in January, doing his senior thesis work at Cal-Berkeley before returning to walk and get his diploma. He already had grad school lined up at Berkeley, and was looking forward to working toward a PhD in Literature.

We talked about authors, the leading journals, I told him about my time at Bitterwood and he wanted all the details. I told him a few, but not the juicy ones. Sex, sexuality, partners, lovers, none of it came up, and looking back that might have been another reason I felt so comfortable with Donnie. I'm sure he looked at my body and had a thought or two about what he'd like to do with me, but he never let on that sex was on his mind, never made me feel like it was a possibility, really.

The countdown happened out of nowhere, and as we ushered in the new year, Donnie and I stood next to each other, watching the television screen. As the clock turned over, I leaned up and kissed his cheek lightly, laughing. He smiled, didn't kiss me back, and we went outside to share another cigarette.

“Had about enough of people for the night,” Donnie said as he exhaled and handed me the burning stick.

I felt a little deflated, and I guess it showed on my face. “Not you, no, you've been great company, Carrie. Just the crowd of drunks who get louder as the night goes on, talking about nothing of interest. Never was my thing.”

“Yeah, same, really.” I thought a moment, nothing but a friendly gesture crossing my mind. “Feel like some coffee? My place is just a few minutes away by foot.”

He smiled warmly, said, “I'd like that, sure.”

We walked back talking about his plans again, how he'd lived most of his life in California. He asked me more about my time in Russia, and I spoke aloud the name I'd avoided for so long. “Didn't see much of it really. After the Soviet Union fell, the country is in pretty rough shape. We stayed in a very small town, could have been any town, really, but a bit shabby outside of the lodge.”

“'We'?”

“Elise and I. She was my g-... friend. From Bitterwood, the one I told you made the Norwegian Olympic team.”

“Ah yes. Very nice. You've been to so many places, I'd love to hear about all of them. I've only made it to Jamaica for vacation, and once to Mexico for a summer course on regional authors there. You, you've been to what, ten or so countries already?”

“Something like that.” I really liked the interest in the travel, and I was surprised how easily I talked about it considering how central Elise was to the plot. I started to feel like maybe Elise was in my past and perhaps, perhaps, I'd started to forgive myself and let myself come out of that hell.

- - -

We drank coffee, Donnie settled on the couch, me in a chair. There was no sexual tension, though looking back, there should have been. Me, alone with an attractive guy who was interested in me, late at night, talking about interesting topics. It had all the markings of an oncoming sexual encounter, but I never felt it coming on.

Donnie was relaxed, easy to talk to. He had so many interests in literature and I picked his brain to catch up on what I'd missed since leaving the tight, academic circle at Bitterwood. We got on the subject of semantics, don't ask how.

We stepped out to the small porch which hung off the back of the apartment, sharing a cigarette. Donnie exhaled, said, “like... 'good.' When someone says something is 'good,' what does that mean? Good for whom? Good for what? Less bad than some other option? Something more than 'mediocre', worse than 'great?'”

I nodded, replied, “yeah, agreed. I catch myself using words like 'good' and I try to come up with something more specific. But it's just easier to fall back to general, subjective terms to convey a lot of different things.”

He paused a moment, said, “can I be blunt, Carrie? I'm curious about your reaction to what might seem like an odd question.”

“Ok...”

“I'll explain why I ask, maybe another time... When someone tells you they 'made love' with someone, do you get a different impression than if they'd said 'had sex with' or 'fucked?'”

I actually giggled for the first time in months. “That is an odd question.”

“I'm fascinated by the way people use words, as I'm sure you can tell. Each one of those phrases conveys a very different set of characteristics despite the fact that they all describe intimate experiences. I'm fascinated that people choose one or two over another.”

“I can see that. Sure, I get a different perspective on the encounter depending on the choice of words. Do you think people consciously pick the right one to describe what happened, or is it just a cultural, social-conventional decision. “'Fucked'” may not be ok to use in some circles, I suppose, so do you think people are being specific with their choice, or just convenient?”

“I'm not sure it's a dichotomy, but I tend to think the latter. Which leaves the person listening with a less-accurate description. I hear 'made love' and I think soft, gentle touches, lots of kissing, and a close, bonding relationship. 'Have sex' takes away the close bonding and becomes less of a personal experience. 'Fucked'... well, that just plays as banging, banging, banging in my imagination.”

I laughed, enjoyed the intermix of sexuality and semantics with Donnie. “I dunno, I've said I was 'fucked' when it was love, said 'made love' when it wasn't. I dunno, I don't think about the difference when I'm telling it.”

“Yes, exactly! Language is different depending on which end you're on. The speaker intends a certain description, the listener must interpret the words through her own filters. It's a mess, really. Hard to believe miscommunications don't happen more often.”

I was softening to Donnie. I knew it, felt myself warmly attracted to him. His intelligence, his articulate, thoughtful conversation, his handsome, bright face. I wanted that man to feel good. For the first time in months, I thought about having sex again.

He looked at me a moment, softness there, too. He lit another cigarette and exhaled while we stood in silence, huddled in our coats. “Carrie, can I ask you something direct? No games?”

“Of course.”

“I like you. I've had a fantastic evening, one of the best conversations I've had in a long time. For tonight, maybe just tonight, would you like to make love with me?”

I felt giddy. “'Make love' or 'fuck?', did you choose that term or was it convenience?” I flashed my smile, tilted my head.

“I picked my words carefully.”

I mewled, stepped closer, felt confidence again. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“I'd love to make love with you.”

Our lips joined and for a moment, our bodies stayed apart. We finally pressed together, layers of coats making it less intimate than it wanted to be. He flicked the butt and followed me back inside where we sat on the couch, removed our coats, and kissed for an hour or so.

Donnie started making love with his lips. Every time he moved, he seemed to moan into me. It was a wonderful sensation, and I found myself doing it back. When his hands finally moved over my breasts, I was already wet, wanting to feel him touching my puss. But his hands on my tits were so soft and kind, just enough pressure, just enough gentleness to keep me on edge.

I stroked him through his pants, felt his hardness pressing against the fabric. My hand slid into his open zipper and pulled him out. Donnie's cock was probably about five-and-a-half inches, nice thickness, a bit curved. He was also uncut, the first I'd seen in my life. Well, the first I took into my mouth, anyway, I'd seen some of the Bitterwood boys with uncut penises, I just never experienced them.

Donnie moaned as I pulled back the foreskin and took him inside. He tasted a bit sweaty, but also meaty and wonderful. Precum slid onto my tongue and I loved how sweet it tasted.

His hands ran through my hair, just enough desire showing through. I raised up and stroked him, stared into his eyes, said, “will you eat me?”

Donnie smiled, pulled me up and led me down on the couch. “Eat is such a funny word...” was what I heard before his lips and tongue slid over my vulva and I stopped listening for language that didn't come throbbing from Donnie's body.

I came at least three times that I remember, little ones, fast, intense. Not the long-rolling ones I often had, or the building, building, exploding ones that I'd known a few times. These were tight, right in a row, Donnie's tongue excellent at driving me quickly for a fast climax.

I needed a break from the cunnilingus, and Donnie sensed it. He pulled his pants off completely, and stroked himself. When he didn't move I said, “got a condom?”

He hesitated, said, 'no,' and for a moment, I tried to decide if I'd take him inside me bareback, knowing the risks. I'm not proud that I hadn't completely decided on 'no' when I remembered Julens mentioning that she always had a box in the apartment, “just in case.”

I leaned into Donnie for a kiss, told him, “one sec.” Condom in hand, I rolled it on him slowly, then stroked him a few times. I kissed his ear, whispered, “so, Donnie, language guru, what position does one use when one... makes love?”

He laughed, said, “all of them, my dear, all of them...”

And we did. Maybe not all of them, but several. He laid me back on the couch, and he licked me a moment, ensured I was wet, and rose over me. I felt his penis touch my labia, and then he slid inside slowly, kissing me deeply as he penetrated my vagina. It felt so good that for several minutes, I just laid there, letting Donnie fuck me, not trying to orgasm, not caring about his, just enjoying being fucked for the first time in many months.

My climax came from nowhere. He humped my puss, and slid a hand between us, found my clit. It only took four, five slow, long, full-contact circles of my hard clit for me to cum on his cock. I moaned and clawed at his back, his shirt still on. In the middle of my orgasm, body spasming, I ripped his shirt off and pulled his skin onto mine, flaring my hips, legs squeezing his thighs, started to fuck him back.

Donnie rode me like that a while, then we moved to the bed where he took me standing, bent over the mattress. He held my ass, sometimes caressed it as he stroked in and out of me steadily. I rode him next, after sucking his cock and putting on a fresh condom. I rode him forward and reverse, back to forward again. He rolled me onto my back, his penis never leaving my vagina, fucked me while he sat on his ass, legs to my sides.

Donnie was an excellent lover. I think he made love to me and fucked me at the same time. I enjoyed it, was aroused throughout, and even when I got sore after an hour or so of his cock inside me, I still found myself wanting more.

We did doggy again, then he fucked me on my back, my knees bent, feet on the mattress. He started to pick up speed, his penis sliding out of my raw, swollen wet cunt. He whispered into my ear, “tell me, 'Donnie, cum in me.' Tell me, Carrie...”

He fucked me harder and I pulled his ear to my mouth, said sensually, “Donnie, cum in me... cum in my puss... fill me...”

He grunted, grunted, shuddered, I told him 'cum in me' over and over until he strained, held against me, and ejaculated into the condom.

Donnie sank into me and I held him with my arms and legs and labia while he washed over with euphoria and release. We kissed a bit, then slid under the covers.

I broke the heavy breathing to ask, “so... did we make love or fuck?”

He grinned. “Yes.”

I liked his answer and told him that if he wasn't going away, I'd want to date him. It was a huge and surprising step for me. I hadn't thought about dating anyone for month, didn't think I ever wanted that commitment again, and after a very fulfilling night of conversation and sex, I'd just said I wanted to date Donnie!

He thought a moment said, “yeah... timing, huh? Same, Carrie. Really like you... not just that you're great in bed... really smart, you are. I really like smart. Too bad we didn't meet each other earlier. But I'm glad we had tonight.”

I sighed and relaxed against him, said, “me too, Donnie. I really needed this. Thank you...”

We were silent a moment, then he asked, “so, you staying at Harvard then? Once you get back in?”

“I dunno... Not sure that I'll get back in... it's complicated...”

“So what's holding you in Boston?”

“My job. Pretty much it right now.”

“Job's a crappy reason to stay somewhere. Ever think about California?”

“California?”

“Well... yeah, that's where I'll be for five months, hoping to move there permanently this summer. Berkeley, Bay Area. Lovely out there.”

“California... No, I'd never considered it, not really.”

“If you're looking for something new, need a new start maybe... Come out to California, Carrie. Look, I'll make it as pressure free as I can. My sister lives in Boulder Creek, has a spare room. It's far enough away from me that if things don't work out... you'll have some space.”

“What about your sister,” I asked, “she gets no say in this? Whether I'm invited to live with her? And if... things don't work out... what then?” I was caught up in the rush of the moment, but concerns were the first things firing from my mouth. “What if I can't find a job or get into a University there? I don't know anybody.”

Donnie kissed my forehead, “just an idea, Carrie, just an idea. No pressure. Just an idea.”

An idea that rooted in my imagination fast, and by morning, I was already making plans to move to California.