One by one they fell, until finally, at the age of twenty, my friend Jeff and I were the only virgins left. I was in my second year of college and lived in a run-down five-bedroom house in Pacific Beach, San Diego, with Jeff and three other close friends. The morning after a party we threw celebrating the end of the first semester, I stumbled out of my bedroom and found my roommates hanging out in the grease-stained kitchen.“Any milk left?” I asked, hoping to drown my hangover with Cinnamon Toast Crunch.“Jeff had sex last night,” my friend Dan said.I froze.Maybe he’s joking, I thought. I looked at Jeff, who was standing in the corner of the room sipping a Gatorade with the swagger of someone who had won seven Super Bowls, and knew it was no joke.“Jeff had sex? Jeff?” I said, in disbelief.“Well, fuck you too, dude,” Jeff replied.“Sorry, I’m just surprised. I’m happy for you,” I said.I was not happy for him. Imagine you and a friend have been stranded on a desert island for the last five years.
