I give it some thought-what it would mean to allow the blemish on my reputation. In exchange, for the next few weeks, I’ll dote when we’re around your uptight, intellectual elitist sorority sisters. It’s just something we’ll let people think so I get the points. “What would you like me to call it? My vaginal membrane? My cherry? My flower of purity? The winner’s ribbon for my hump-day race?” “But do I want it badly enough to let everyone think you’ve taken my pristine chariot out for its maiden voyage?” “I need a much cheaper place to live and you want to get into the Tri-Kapps.” “We’d be helping each other,” he explains. It’s like I can’t resist rescuing the stray puppy who’s bitten me a thousand times. Especially since I feel like a complete moron for actually wanting to help him. “Give me one good reason why I should help you?” Because I really, really need one. I look at my pink low-top Converse, then at him, and back to the shoes.
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