Tonight, I’m driving to the bar because my brother plans on getting shit-faced. Me? I don’t need to do any drinking. My internship is the next day and I have the alcohol tolerance of a baby so with me behind the wheel, it’s best if I stick to my one can of Red Bull. Let the caffeine work its magic on me. We get to the bar, see my brother’s friends, and he immediately goes into everyone’s-best-friend mode at the bar, buying shots for anyone who so much as smiles at him. I’m playing my position, quietly scoping out the scene, sitting on a stool with a glass of Red Bull in my hand when out of nowhere, a girl walks up to me. I don’t know anyone in Queens, besides my brother, but I can tell by the way this girl is looking at me, I’m about to know her. “Hi,” she says. “Hi,” I say back. She then introduces herself, and I can’t remember her name, but I think Ms. Leading is proper. So Ms. Leading and I strike up the type of conversation two people have for the sake of feeling better about what they’re going to do later. Meanwhile, my brother is doing a great job of getting drunk. Actually, he’s doing a superb job, mixing his clear liquors with the dark ones, accepting drinks from other people and not caring in the least bit what’s in them. He has, on his hands, the perfect storm brewing.

As I float back and forth between Ms. Leading and other random people at the bar, I hear a loud thud outside on the back patio. I run outside. My brother is passed out on the cold concrete of the patio, done for the night. Time to get out of dodge and get him home. Ms. Leading follows me outside. I turn to her and say, “Looks like it’s time for me to go. Want to come with me to get my car?” “Sure,” she says. I tell my brother’s friends to get him to the front door while I go get the car. Ms. Leading walks lock-step with me to the car, which is about two blocks away from the bar. On our way, Ms. Leading and I say little, because we know what’s about to happen when we get to the car, and sure enough, before I can even turn the keys into the ignition, Ms. Leading leaps onto me, and starts tonguing me down. Ten minutes go by, windows fogged, but because my brother is inebriated to the point where he actually might get arrested, I pump the brakes. “We have to stop,” I tell her as she’s biting my bottom lip. “But look, just come back to my place.” “I can’t ” she says. “I’m here with my best friend and the rest of our girls celebrating a birthday.” “So,” I say. “You’re not here with your mom, I’m sure they’ll let you go.” “Yeah, but they talk, and I don’t want to hear it from them.”

Frustrated and annoyed, I stop Ms. Leading from unbuckling my belt. “I need to go get my brother,” I say. I pull out of my parking space and drive over to the front of the bar where my brother is standing on a wall outside, near the entrance, with his head down. Is he taking a piss in public? No. Okay, he’s letting the wall hold him up. Ms. Leading gives me her number, which I toss in the ashtray soon as she walks back inside, and I get out of the car to help my brother, who I throw in the back of my car. About to pull off, when I hear Ms. Leading yell, “Wait!” I roll down my passenger side window and she leans in with a smile. “Hey,” she says. “I can’t find my friends, so is your offer still good?” “Get in,” I say. Ms. Leading gets into the seat and we’re off to my brother’s apartment. My brother passed out in the back, and Ms. Leading in the front, this time, free to unbuckle my belt for the short drive back to our destination. When we pull up to the apartment, I need Ms. Leading’s help carrying my brother up to the apartment, which is on the third floor of a walk-up. Once inside, I throw my brother on his bed and go into the living room to set up the fold-out bed. With the bed set, I toss Ms. Leading one of the big rap t-shirts I got for free at my internship. “This is for you,” I say. “Thanks,” she says. “You wanna help me change?” At this point, I know exactly what’s about to happen, so I turn out the light, close the door behind me, and climb right on top of Ms. Leading. Everything is going exactly as planned. The kissing is intense, the grinding is even more intense, and my goodness, her moans. I remember those like the last song I listened to on my iPod. They were loud, real loud, to the point where I was actually concerned my brother, passed out from numerous shots of 151, would actually wake up. Nowhere else we can go but all the way, so I pull out the condom I slid in the pocket of my basketball shorts. “Wait,” she says. “I can’t.” “What’s wrong?” I ask. “We can’t go there,” she says. I go back to kissing her. On her neck. On her shoulders. On her breasts. The kisses being planted on her body like if I applied just the right amount of pressure in just the right spot, I’d unlock her legs. I’m kissing. I’m hoping and now…I’m stopping. “I’m a virgin,” she says. Now, I’ve heard some reasons from women. Some good. Some not so good and this one was neither of those. This was either a bold-faced lie or the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. “Hey,” I say. “You know, nothing is going to happen that you don’t want to happen. We can stop right now, but don’t lie. Why would you say that?” “No, really, I am,” she says. “I’ve never even done this much. But I really am.” Now I’m disgusted. “Okay, first, I don’t believe you.” I tell her. “Second, even if what you are saying is the truth why the hell would you come to the apartment with two guys you don’t even know if you weren’t planning on losing your virginity tonight?”

Ms. Leading looks at me like I just asked her what’s the meaning to life. “I don’t know,” she says shrugging shoulders. “Well, I’m sorry, I still don’t believe you,” I say to her. “But like I said, that’s just dumb and I’m just going to go to sleep, you should too. It’s late.” The next morning, I hear my brother in the kitchen and with Ms. Leading still asleep, I get out of bed and see him cooking up a storm. There’s sliced apples, cinnamon sticks, and a bowl of pancake batter. My brother, who has an uncanny ability to recover from drinking binges like Wolverine recovers from injuries, is making apple-cinnamon pancakes from scratch and wearing a toothy grin. “Well, look who it is?” my brother says as he reached out his fist to give me some dap. I knock it away. My brother stops mixing his batter and says, “No, what happened?” “Nothing,” I say, leaning against the counter. “Bro, get out of here. Nothing?” “Nothing. She’s a virgin!” I whisper. Just as I say this, the door is opening. My brother, with the reflexes of a cat throws the apples and cinammon sticks in the refrigerator and the bowl of pancake batter in the oven then runs back into his room. Ms. Leading comes out, changed into the same clothes she was wearing last night. “You ready to go?” I ask. Ms. Leading smiling, kisses me and says, “Yeah, let’s go.” On our way out the door, she asks me, “Is somebody cooking breakfast?” “Not here,” I say. “Must be the neighbors.” On the way to her place, she’s at it again, this time, grabbing at the elastic of my basketball shorts. “Stop,” I say.When we pull up to her complex, she kisses me again, on my cheek, and says, “Call me.” Ms. Leading’s number never left the ashtray and I drove back home to eat my brother’s apple-cinnamon pancakes.