I glare at my laptop, fingers hovering over the keys. The word document in front of me is forty eight pages of emotional and lust-filled buildup to the first time Joanne and Marcus are going to have sex. It’s the product of months of work. I’ve agonized over every paragraph, sentence, and word, trying to make it all feel real.

And there’s the kicker. I can make the conversations and emotions feel real since I’ve experienced most of them. The one part I have definitely not experienced though is the sex. And that’s why I keep getting stuck at the same spot; it’s the moment my hero is about to claim his heroine in the most basic of ways and the words won’t come. I try to think of a way to continue the scene for the thousandth time. My fingers hover over the keys and I punch out one, sometimes two words, and delete them, knowing they aren’t right. The longer I stare at the page, the more hopeless it feels.

I massage my temples, trying to push back the growing pulse of pain there.

I read what I have so far:

He grips her with powerful hands, pressing her into the wall. She hears the jingle of his belt and his zipper being lowered. She feels something hard between her legs.

“You’re going to feel this all week,” he whispers in her ear before thrusting deep inside her.

She cries out. His cock feels--

That’s it. His cock feels… What? I don’t know what his cock feels like inside her because I’m a virgin. Probably the only virgin on the entire college campus. I’m sure I could guess what sex feels like. I mean, it probably feels good, or else people wouldn’t make such a big deal out of it. But it’s not just about what it feels like physically that I’m lacking. I don’t know what kind of emotions are involved in giving that piece of yourself to a man. I’m petrified that readers will call me out on it, that I’ll get some fundamental detail wrong and out myself to the whole world as a virgin.

Worse, I’m worried I’ll write something worthless and forgettable.

Lacey leans over my shoulder and sighs. “Stuck here again, Bri?”

I close my laptop quickly, turning to give her the evil eye. “Can you please not read over my shoulder? It freaks me out.”

She grins. “Reading over your shoulder freaks me out too.” Lacey leans close to my ear, whispering, “It’s going to creep me out all week, you sexy, dirty girl.”

I laugh. “This is exactly why I don’t want you reading my stuff. You just make fun of it.”

“I’m just teasing, Bri. I know your stuff is good, and I know it’s important to you. I just don’t get why you keep getting stuck at the same spot. I’ve been watching you all semester. You start from the beginning, you read through every page, make some changes, and then you get here. Rinse and repeat. The sex scenes should be the easy part, right? Just dim the lights, kick on the music, bow chicka bow wow. Scene finished.”

“If only,” I say, sighing. “I’m just having trouble getting inside their heads. It’s like I hit a wall, you know?”

Lacey hoists her bookbag and shrugs, turning toward the door. “Just write about the last time you had sex or something,” she says over her shoulder as she leaves for class. “I mean, because you totally had sex with that foreign exchange student in high school. Right?” she asks with more than a touch of sarcasm.

I lean back and sigh, talking to myself. “And Brianne Hartley sat back, dejected, because no one knew she was just a sad, pathetic, twenty-year-old virgin. Except maybe her roommate. Addendum: her roommate has definitely seen through Brianne’s thin veil of lies. Now Brianne has to think of a way to dispose of her before the truth gets out.”

Well, at least if the writing thing doesn’t pan out I can just start narrating my own life out loud. That way I can at least protect my virginity indefinitely.

I seriously need to do something about this, though. I always felt like I had plenty of time to find the right guy. He’d show up and the certainty of it would strike me directly in the chest, like electricity. Like one of the characters in the Harlequins I read as a kid. That’s what I thought, at least. Now I’m not so sure. I’m not even sure there is a right guy out there.

I grab my notebook for class and get up lethargically, looking at my reflection in the full length mirror by the door. I see a woman--no, a girl--as unremarkable as the book she’s writing. My dirty blonde hair is damaged from lack of care. My skin is a little too pale from all the time I spend indoors on my laptop, writing a book that will never be. Basically, if I was writing my story, it would be a very boring and depressing tale. A tale of love not lost, but never found. Of passion not dimmed, but never ignited. Yeah. That’s me.

I take one last, angry look at my laptop and head across campus for creative writing class with Professor Barlow. It’s a workshop style class, each student has to write two pieces per semester, and then the class is assigned to read and critique them on a rotating schedule. This week, a chapter from my story is up for critiques. To say I’m on edge would be an understatement.

We have to read an excerpt from our piece, and then sit quietly while the class has a round table discussion about our work. If someone says they didn’t get why the hero gave up so easily, it doesn’t matter that you could tell them to be a better reader because you totally explained that. If they say you never explained what happened to the mom, you can’t point them to page fourteen where it clearly says she went into remission. Nope. You still have to sit and listen respectfully because, as Professor Barlow says, once we’ve published our stories, we won’t be there to explain ourselves to readers. The writing has to speak for itself.

I’m a little late, and take my seat near the back while Professor Barlow discusses plotting and how to build tension in a scene. I barely listen, because I know soon he’ll be asking everyone to take out their copy of my chapter and share their thoughts.

“Okay,” says Professor Barlow, “let’s go ahead and get to our critiques for today. Brianne Hartley, if you would, start us off with an excerpt from your work so we can hear it in your voice.”

“Okay,” I say sheepishly, holding up my copy and finding the highlighted section I spent forever picking out. My hands tremble, making the words on the page jump and jitter. My throat is tight with the knowledge that the passage isn’t ready. Sometimes it feels like it’ll never be ready.

“She’s like no woman he has ever seen. Her hair is gold spun thread, every strand a precious treasure. Her eyes are sapphires, bright, full of promise and hope. And her hands… of all her features, none grip at his attention more than her soft, delicate hands. In his world of hard lines and edges sharp enough to cut, her hands are like a beacon. A promise. An escape.”

I clear my throat, setting down the pages and carefully avoiding everyone’s eyes. My cheeks are burning hot with embarrassment.

“I liked it,” says James. “It moved a little slow, maybe, but the chapter as a whole seems heartfelt.”

“Was it though?” asks Professor Barlow. “Would a man think like this? Just look at the excerpt Miss Hartley read for us. Does a man compare a woman’s hair to threads of gold? Does he compare her eyes to precious stones? I mean, let’s be realistic folks. If you’re writing dialogue, maybe. Maybe the character wants to impress the woman. But if we’re supposed to buy these as real thoughts, frankly, I don’t.”

I hastily write down as much of what is said as I can, trying to fight back tears of embarrassment. No one is saying it explicitly, but each comment that follows the Professor seems dangerously close to the point that I have no idea how guys think, which is painfully clear. I’ve been on exactly two dates in my life and had exactly one and a half boyfriends--it’s a long story.

When the critiques have finished thirty minutes later, I just want to go back to my room and take a sledgehammer to my laptop. They’re all right. Of course they are. My male character does sound like a woman, because I have almost no experience with guys, especially romantically. I don’t meet anyone’s eyes as they hand me their copies of my chapter before leaving, each one marked in red, black, or blue ink with corrections and comments.

“Have a good weekend, everyone,” Professor Barlow calls over the commotion as everyone gets up to leave. “Don’t forget I need to see your letters from Pierce Publishing by next week at the latest. And Donna, remember you need to make copies of your short for next week.”

His reminder is the last thing I need right now. I actually still have the letter from the publisher in my backpack, unopened, waiting. We were supposed to send in a chapter of our work and his fancy publisher friend was going to give us the kind of feedback we’d get if we had submitted it for real. I never would have gone through with it, but my grade depends on having the letter.

My grade, and my future. I’m running out of time to declare a major, and I can only use so many elective credits for creative writing before I can commit. I thought I’d be finished with a book by my freshman year. I thought at worst I’d still be waiting on acceptance letters from publishers by this time sophomore year. Instead, I’m still sixty pages into the book. I’ve lost count of how many times I re-wrote those first chapters, hoping maybe a different start would give me the momentum to tackle the rest. I just don’t have the personal experience. Forget the sex scenes, I don’t even know what it feels like to love a guy or be loved. I might as well be writing fantasy for all I know about love.

I have to read the letter from Pierce Publishing sooner or later, because we’re supposed to write a reflection on how we can use it to improve as an author. I only had to send in one chapter, so I was able to pick the chapter I was most confident in. It’s a small comfort though.

I plop down on a bench outside the building. The weather is nice enough for sitting outside, even though winter doesn’t seem ready to make way for spring, and I really don’t feel like going back to my dorm right now. I know my laptop is sitting there, on my desk, waiting for me. While my spirits are already low, I pluck the letter out of my backpack and look at the unassuming envelope. All around me students are leaving their classes, excitedly talking about their plans for the weekend or what parties they’re going to go to. Parties where there will probably be lots and lots of sex.

I mean, I’ve never exactly been the type of person who gets invited to them, but that’s what I imagine. I’ve seen the movies too. Every door you open at a party leads to a bedroom where people are humping like rabbits. Every stairwell is littered with naked couples going at it. Something like that, at least. I’m not saying I want to get humped like a rabbit or anything, I’m just tired of being on the outside looking in.

I’ve spent my whole life finding reasons not to talk to the guy, to go to the party, to accept the invitation. I’ve made an art of saying no, and I can hardly be surprised where it has left me. My only friend is Lacey, and I can’t help wondering if it’s too late. Too late for my writing, my social life, maybe even my career--whatever that ends up being.

The letter in my hands looks innocent and harmless. There’s a single, folded sheet of paper inside and when I hold it up to the light, I can see there is barely any ink printed on the page. What could the editor say about my sample in so few words?

Best thing I’ve ever read. Let’s sign a contract tomorrow!

Probably not.

Amazing! I can tell you are an individual with extensive life experience, especially in the romantic sense.

Definitely not.

I decide to stop being a baby. I run my thumb under the crease and crack open the envelope, carefully pulling the paper free. I unfold it and let it rest on my thighs as I read the contents.

Author,

Your work was prudish and unmemorable. Consider another career.

Chief and Executive Officer of Pierce Publishing,

Jackson Pierce