Impossible. A woman does not look like that, move like that, get the attention she gets, and blow out 26 candles on her birthday cake having not yet given a piece to somebody. I’d happily have a slice!

Bail, short for Bailina Tania Duffy.

But she wasn’t lying about it, either. I don’t think 21st-century women are bashful about that outside of ultra-conservative purity cultures. And Bail was raised in an open-minded household. Her parents were no sex maniacs, but they were on the sex-positive end of the spectrum. I know because I met her parents in their driveway. They mistook me for being her new boyfriend, half-teasingly. When she corrected them, her mom shrugged at me. “Well, excuse me! I was on guy number 30-something at your age. Forgive me for thinking she might’ve just maybe crossed the starting line.”

Her dad overheard that from the garage. “Bail didn’t get it from me, either. I was a hound dog.”

Was her mom in heat? “Woof woof.”

He growled. “Gr-r-r!”

Bail reappeared with her bag, wearing the most disgusted, embarrassed expression. “Stop it. Please.” She hopped back into my car, having retrieved her bag. “I’m sorry.”

I pulled out, waving and smiling to her parents. “It’s cool. They still got their spark.”

She would sternly set anybody straight on the question when it did come up. And her friend, my sister, told me between just the two of us, “Bail is actually a virgin. She’s had two boyfriends, and she had a hard line.”

“None? Not once?”

“That’s what she says. Both her exes, too.”

“Not even other stuff?”

“She’s gotten and given lip-to-lip kisses, but she won’t let a man put a finger under her clothes.”

“What’s her deal?”

“She says not until her wedding night, and that’s it.”

“She’s not going to know what she’s looking at on her wedding night.”

“Maybe that’ll make it more fun. To each their own.”

I knew what I wanted to own: Bail’s cherry.

Bail came over pretty often for a while because my sister told her to cancel her gym membership and just use the home gym we had. It had a treadmill, bench press, dumbbells, yoga mat, pull-up bar, parallel bars, ab wheel, a big TV, and a huge oscillating fan. Importantly, it was free.

I used it too. Bail came over to use it when my sister and parents were at work. I had a night shift, so I was at home working out when she arrived. She asked if she was disturbing me by using it, and I told her, of course not; it was big enough for the two of us.

We got to chatting in the gym each time she came over. We talked about all kinds of stuff, mostly about the topics that came up on the podcasts we played: politics, movies, culture wars, comedy bits, celeb gossip, tourist destinations, and just stuff. But sometimes dating came up, and on dating’s heels, sex.

This one podcast was interviewing a guest panel of virgin incels. These guys were each a different flavor of virgin incel. One was quite old and otherwise normal; they kept referring to him as a “wizard.” Another was a campus creep who seemed to have been scraped off the bottom of the internet. Then the third guest was a woman who explained that she was just too physically unattractive to land the kind of virtually nonexistent man a lifetime of devouring fantasy romance novels (smut) had spoiled her to expect.

Bail walked the treadmill, I did my sets, and we commented to one another between listening to these incels being interviewed.

Bail and I had laughed several times listening to it, so when I heard her begin to cry, I assumed she was just laughing a little tearfully.

“Shit’s silly, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re crying?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“OK.”

It took me a nanosecond to understand that the topic of the podcast and the vulnerable answers of the incel guests had gotten to her. I dropped my barbell to jab my phone and turn it off.

“Sorry, Bail.”

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah. Do tell.”

“Well, what do you think about their answers? I mean, their reasons for why they’re still virgins.”

I shrugged. “I’m mixed on it. I suppose they’re a bit confused about themselves and the opposite sex. I think the college boy is maybe gay, and he’s just trying to cover up that he’s not into pussy.”

Bail laughed, actually. “Yeah! Like he’s bullshitting everyone.”

“Sadly, that’s what I’m picking up.”

Bail turned the treadmill off and stood there quietly for a minute. I got sorta worried, but then she broke her silence and balled her fists up.

“I’m more full of shit than him!”

“Marriage isn’t the issue, you mean?”

“I’ve had nightmares that it’s my wedding night, and it’s time to do it, and I run away by escaping into the sewers or ducts.”

“That’s kinda funny. Does your groom chase you through the sewers with a boner?”

“I get stuck.”

“Oh, that’s nuts.”

“I know!” She began laughing so hard she choked on her tears and had to stop.

“Then… no bullshit, Bail. What is it about sex itself that you’re against? Is it gross? Afraid of pregnancy?”

“No! I love checking out men, I love kissing, I fantasize all the time. And I want to be a mom, too.”

“So narrow it down for us.”

“I’ll give you a clue. Do you see what I’m wearing?”

“A big-ass hoodie and sweatpants.”

“Right. I’m sweating a puddle on a treadmill.”

“Uh-huh. Oooh… wait.” It was coming together for me.

“Why do you think I never go swimming with you and Victor and Helen or anybody?”

“You’re afraid… of bodies of water? You can’t swim, that’s what you said. You’re telling me?”

“I don’t want anybody to see me too exposed.”

My head exploded. “Are you serious? That’s what it is?”

“Yes. That’s it.”

“But Bail, you’re really, really fine. A knockout. Look at you…”

She squinted and clapped her hands over her ears. “Stop, stop!”

We left it at that.

I didn’t bring it up again. I figured she had already told me something she had spent years trying not to tell anybody, and the last thing she needed was me poking at it every time we were alone.

Then, sometime after three in the morning a couple of weeks later, my phone buzzed.

It was Bail.

“You awake?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I ask you something weird?”

It started like that. At first, she could barely talk about it even through text. Everything was a hypothetical. Suppose a woman was OK with kissing but nothing else. Suppose she wanted to have sex but couldn’t stand being looked at. Suppose she wasn’t ashamed of her body exactly, but still couldn’t let anybody see it. Suppose she trusted somebody and still couldn’t make herself get undressed in front of him.

We started talking about it every few nights. Little chunks at first, then bigger. It escalated; Bail would send me walls of text so long.

I learned why she was like that. I’m not telling. She made me swear I'd never tell anybody where it came from.

What I'll tell you is that we talked through a couple hundred hypotheticals.

Could she be naked if the room was completely dark? Maybe.

Could she let somebody touch her if she couldn’t see him looking at her? Probably not.

Could she have sex if she stayed mostly covered? Maybe.

What if the man couldn’t see her at all? That point got her excited.

What if he couldn’t use his hands either? That, together with the last one, really got her going.

Bail worked out this odd little list of requirements under which she was sure she would be able to do it.

The man would have to be blindfolded, and his hands would have to be restrained.

He couldn’t have the opportunity to look at her. He couldn’t have the option to reach out and touch her if he wanted. Only Bail would decide what happened and when.

Then, one night, my phone buzzed.

“Would you do that for me?”

My heart jumped out of my chest.

Before I could answer, the message disappeared.

Bail had deleted it.

I stared at that for a second.

“I saw it.”

“I know. Forget I asked.”

“I can do it.”

There was a long pause.

The typing bubble appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Disappeared again.

Nothing came through for almost five minutes.

“Are you serious? Don’t joke.”

“I’ll do it.”

Another pause, and then she replied, “Okay. Let’s do it.”

That was all.

The next day, I went to a sex shop alone and bought a blindfold and a couple of pairs of cuffs.

We didn’t do anything immediately. Bail needed to work up the nerve, and I wasn’t about to rush her after she’d spent years with this knot.

But, for sure, she picked the big night.

I picked her up.

We drove out of town to a motel where neither of us knew anybody and nobody knew us.

Bail talked the whole drive. She was… nervous, happy, hesitant, laughing, and so innocent about the whole thing.

The blindfold and cuffs were in a bag behind my seat. She asked where they were and turned into a gushing, hands-over-face tomato when I told her, “Back seat.”

Before I knew it, Bail and I had a room. She watched me undress. As I stood in my briefs, she said, “How?”

“How what?”

“How can you let someone see you totally naked?”

“Because it’s you, Bail.” And I readied myself to drop the last item.

“Stop.”

I froze.

“I want to take them off.”

I obliged. I sat back on the bed and cuffed my wrists to the frame.

It was more comfortable than I had expected it to be. If she left me like that, I could’ve slept like a log.

But no.

Without moving and keeping my eyes on the ceiling, I felt something happening down below. Bail was doing her best to pull open my briefs and look at my material.

Holy.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t want to startle her. She slipped her fingers through the seams of my briefs.

Then she started nervously touching her fingertip to my dick. Just one cautious fingertip. I felt the almost ticklish stroke of her finger pressing against the head, like she was interested in how plush-but-firm it felt.

Still, I remained motionless.

What had been purely flaccid hardened almost instantly. Hands off, she watched as my member stood up and ready. She took such a long moment to look and wonder that, counterintuitively, her hesitance and reverence for my exposed parts aroused me to my maximum.

Her reluctance must’ve melted a bit. I felt a little tapping at the tip of my dick. Maybe she had caught sight of my precum and wanted to check the stickiness.

Without looking, I could tell my dick had become beyond erect, that degree of hardness where you can actually feel the thing being stretched from within by the blood filling it.

And, unbelievably, I felt her breath on it and around my thighs as she bent in for the closest view.

She paused. Just as I thought she might leave me there like that for a second, overwhelmed by embarrassment maybe, I felt her fingertip trace the ridge around the head from one side to the other. With two very gentle pinches, she tested how hard that part was too.

I almost couldn’t take it at that point, but I endured, motionless.

Like calipers, she took my shaft between the tips of her index finger and thumb and slowly pulled it downward, feeling the resistance as it tried to spring back up, apparently curious about how far it could be angled at the base.

I wanted so badly to be stroked, I began to throb. I wanted to seize her right then and fuck, but I refrained. She must’ve thought I was as inanimate as a mannequin.

Her slight weight on the bed shifted so subtly that if I’d been asleep, it wouldn’t have woken me.

Was she going to straddle me?

Was she going to mouth me?

If she did, I wouldn’t last a minute. Not that I was a minute man normally, but she had aroused me so much so quickly, I couldn’t hold it if she were to bite off more.

Between my thighs, I felt a finger slide up beneath my balls, and she lifted them slightly, testing their weight. Above, her other hand softly kneaded one of them. She began petting my sack. She paused again and then returned to her study of my rod. I felt her light grip around my middle as she took it into an OK hand sign; I was ringed in her palm.

She held it as if relishing the moment, as if she were committing the sensation of a cock in her hand to memory. She hadn’t stroked me, but the weight, warmth, and texture of her grip on me were paradise.

“Can I put the blindfold on you now?” she asked in a murmur.

“Yeah.”

She brought it bedside and slipped it over my head.

I saw nothing. I heard the sound of her undressing. And then, oh my God... I felt her lie beside me, bare skin-to-skin... a little cold, but then sooo nice. Her hair fell over my shoulder; a little brushed my face. She smelled sooo wonderful. And she embraced me tight, putting as much of her body against mine as she could. My unit went hard like granite.

"I'm completely naked."

"I can tell."

"You can see?" she said, a little alarmed.

"I can't see a thing. Blackness."

"Good." Then she rested her head on my chest, rolled her face over me, inhaled, and kissed around my neck. Being restrained and blindfolded, I couldn't get an eyeful of her or a handful of her like I wanted so badly to, but somehow that made it ten times as arousing.
"Does that hurt?" she asked.

"Does what hurt?" I had no idea what she was talking about; nothing hurt. It was great!

"OK." And she put her leg over me, her bare, hairy, hot, wet crotch meeting mine. I wanted badly to take hold of her and fuck like I would fuck, but the cuffs kept me from breaking form.

She gyrated her hips atop me, rubbing her clit over my pubic area, my lower abs, my genitals. I felt the air cooling the moist slicks she left across me, and then I felt her lips frantically sucking here and there across my chest. I felt her hair flicking and brushing over me, and heard her breathing. "Don't come out of the cuffs," she commanded.

I nodded; she must've seen me straining in them, tight around my wrists, pulling the chain-links taut.

She took hold of my shaft, and I felt her stirring my dickhead in her opening. She ran it around and around. I thrust upward because I just couldn't help myself, and I penetrated her with about a thumb's length of my meat. Heaven! But then she adjusted also, and continued working me around her entrance. I wanted to tell her she was squeezing and bending me a bit too aggressively, but she must have seen the look on my face and eased up. And then, she lowered onto it. I relished the sensation of entering her, or of her entering me into her. She lifted a tiny bit, and then lowered herself again, then lower, and lower until she was sitting flat on me, my full length planted within.

"Bail."

"Yes?"

"Can you take off my blindfold?"

"No. No."

"OK. Forget I asked."

And forget she did. She began rolling on me, clawing me, grasping my face between her hands and messing my hair. She kissed me on the lips briefly but then not again. And then she began to bounce. I felt her adjust her position, placing her feet under her on the bed, on either side of me. She was crouched on me then, and she bounced harder! Oooh, that was nice! The slap of her ass cheeks against me, her soaked groin pounding into mine, my cock strumming the walnut-texture of her G-Spot... I didn't want to cum, and damn, I tried, but it was tough not to. I held it back, but then she reached beneath her bottom and took hold of my nuts. I thought I was done for sure, and if I could see her naked, tits and all rocking, then I knew I would have burst. But I managed to delay my climax.

Bail went faster and faster; I heard her begin to whimper; she panted; she caught herself in half-swears, "Shhhi" and "Fuuuh," and the bed was creaky-squeaking madly.

And she hit it. "Rrrmmm!" and "Hmmmph!" and "Oouuuh!"

She lay over on me. I felt her heart thumping against my chest, her breasts mashed between us, and her breath against my face. I wasn't done, though. So I thrust and thrust. She whispered, her voice angelic in the total dark, "I'll stay here forever until you're happy."

I imagined what Bail looked like there on top of me, no clothes, fresh off her orgasm. I thought how fortunate I was to be grinding into her pussy, her legs spread, promising she would remain there until however long it took me. And so it didn't take long; I spurted hard. I felt like that bed was flying away with us on it.

I felt Bail get out of the bed. She took a moment, and then she undid my cuffs.

"Can I take off the blindfold?"

"Yes. But don't say anything. Not one word."

And there, pulling off the blindfold, I saw Bail standing at the foot of the bed, covering her eyes, naked from head to toe. "Don't say anything," she reminded me.

I took a moment to regard her. And then, unable to bear it another second, she turned and sped off to the bathroom with her clothes in hand.

I never saw Bail naked again. We never had sex again. I told nobody. But at her wedding, a couple of years later, I smiled to think the groom had no idea. If he knew, would he thank me? Bail did.