Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Because honestly, that sounds like the premise of a cold case documentary about the gruesome murder of a college girl.
There are ways to ensure my safety, though. I can ask for face pics to verify that it’s them. Request a public place for our first meetup and make sure Faith knows where I’ll be.
The logistics are manageable. It’s the consequences that I fear.
Luckily, I have a tool that can help me decide.
Wide awake now despite the late hour, I hop out of bed to grab my laptop. Then I crawl back under the covers and open a new document.
ACTION: Meet up with the Swedes.
The pros include trying new things, college is meant for experimentation, and endless pleasure.
On the flipside: maybe it won’t be at all pleasurable.
Really, I could be in store for a major disappointment, because we all know fantasies never live up to reality. A threesome sounds great on paper, but then you put it into practice, and suddenly you’re drowning in a sea of awkward questions. Like where do all the body parts go? And what happens when one of them is fucking me? Is the other one just sitting there playing a video game, waiting for his turn? Please, miss, may I penetrate you now?
I choke down my laughter. Yeah…I suspect the mechanics might not be as smooth and effortless as the fantasy suggests.
But is that a reason not to do it?
I hit the return key and get started on the outcome analysis. The heart of the Method.
What is the worst thing that could happen if I do this?
OUTCOME #1: I get an STI.
Possible. But I feel like as long as we’re using protection, I should be okay, right?
I pull up a web browser to look up some trusted statistics.
Two websites tell me condoms are 85–98 percent effective in preventing STI transmission. Another one says they’re 97 percent effective with perfect use and 86 percent effective with typical use. As an overachieving perfectionist, I assign myself to the first camp. Perfect use, baby.
But fine, let’s be pragmatic. I’ll call it 90 percent effective. Although…that stat is lower for STIs that don’t have full condom coverage. For those, the risk is reduced by about 70 percent. I also have a higher risk of oral herpes if I give a blowjob without a condom on. Which, let’s be real, I’m not going to use a condom for a blowjob. So…let’s lower that to a 30 percent risk during a condomless BJ.
My parents have no idea the kind of monster they created when they gave me access to the internet.
To the question Can I live with this, I write YES.
OUTCOME #2: People will find out and judge me.
This one bothers me a lot, and when I’m done assessing all the outcomes, it’s the only one I answer NO to about whether I can live with it.
Because yes, I consider that outcome worse than chlamydia. I don’t want people gossiping about me and my sex life. What if it snowballs into a college-wide rumor that eventually reaches the ears of a job recruiter? A professor whose recommendation I need for grad school?
I’m pacified by the reminder that when asked who they’ve hooked up with, Gigi did say they never name names.
Still, doing this would require a high level of trust in both guys. And I suddenly realize I’d feel better about giving out that trust if Lars and B were Will and Beckett. Because they’re not complete strangers. They’re people I could hold accountable if the rumor mill started churning.
And if all else fails—lie, lie, and deny.
I assign it a medium probability that people might find out. Let’s say 50 percent. Can I live with that?
Maybe.
No.
Yes.
I think…yes.
My heart is pounding as I type a response to the invitation waiting on the app.
ME:
I won’t meet without face pics.
It’s nearly two in the morning, but I’m dealing with two college boys who are probably still out partying, so I’m not surprised to see someone typing.
LARS & B:
Fair enough.
There’s a long delay. More typing.
LARS & B:
Incoming.
When the photo appears on the screen, my heart jumps into my throat and renders my windpipe useless.
Confirmation received.
It’s them.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WILL
I don’t believe in fate
CHARLOTTE HAS FORGOTTEN HOW TO DO SCIENCE.
No joke. This woman, who for the last couple of weeks has taken the lead on every project, now stares at me like she doesn’t understand the difference between green and red.
We’ve been monitoring cell proliferation in our hydrogel matrix experiment. It’s Day 3, and I’m using a fluorescence microscope to examine the stained cells from today’s sample. Live cells are a shiny green, dead ones red.
Yet as I recite the results that Charlotte is supposed to be jotting down in her notebook, I notice she’s clearly writing down the wrong shit.
“Put down the pencil,” I command.
“Huh?”
“You’re not even listening to me. That’s not the right cell distribution.”