My girlfriend, Mara, and her best friend, Krystin, are going river rafting with me, early in the morning, on my buddy John’s boat. John is kind of a douche bag, but his raft is huge and he has all the fun accoutrements—floaties and paddleboards and inner tubes and life jackets—and he is nothing if not a very capable river guide.

I should be getting some sleep, but I know at any second, my phone’s—

Goddammit.

“Hey, babe,” I half-whisper. Krystin drank an entire bottle of huckleberry prosecco at dinner tonight (Mara had popped an edible before dinner and didn’t care for the wine’s flavor, and I was driving), so this phone call shouldn’t disturb them. Krystin is in Mac’s bed (my dorm mate, Theodore Macgregor III, has gone home for the weekend) and Mara and I are cooped up in my bed. But like I said, Krystin is stinko and Mara sleeps deeply, which can be a blessing.

Linden, the girl on the phone, my girl on the side, says she’s lonely and wants badly to come over.

“I told you, M and her friend are sleeping here because we’re rafting tomorrow. Don’t you listen when I talk? Or are you completely stuck in your own head?”

She asks if I can find a way to sneak out of my room. Apparently, she’s contrived a fantasy of hardcore brain in stairwells. She’s a serious slurper and the acoustics, added to the fact that a random person at any moment could come toddling up or down the stairs, is, she says, a tremendous turn-on. And a stranger coming across us, she says, would not be an issue, because she can simply hide my cock in her throat as the person passes.

A smooth operator, this one.

Mac claims Linden’s hypersexuality stems from the fact that her dad didn’t give her adequate attention. Plugging a johnson into one of her holes, Mac theorizes, causes the hole in her heart to fill up.

I mean... jeez. What kind of bump would muck up this poor girl’s favorite method of self-medicating?

I close my eyes, analyzing the logistics of leaving and reentering my room. There are only so many hours in a day, and contrary to the belief of foremen and ski-patrol blowhards, these hours are not all the same size.

When it had been clear, earlier, that Krystin had passed out, Mara licked me hard and let me bury my furious prick in her sparkling little pussy, from behind, lying on her side, which allowed me to fuck her while staring at her cute friend’s face bathed in a combination of streetlight and moonlight and framed by a short new haircut. When I came, I imagined I was ejaculating inside of Krystin, and I wondered if she might be tighter than Mara. Krystin is smaller—shorter and slenderer—though my years of sexual research have taught me height and petiteness are a highly unreliable indicator of vaginal breadth.

It would be sexy as fuck to have Linden lap Mara’s fresh hum off my rod. But I should be a somewhat decent boyfriend, for once in my life, and not succumb to every single temptation. On the other hand, is it crazy to be afraid the stars may never give me another shot at this specific opportunity? When I’m old and grey, how intensely will I regret every spank-bankable chance I didn’t exploit?

“I had an aggravating morning,” I say, “and you’re not making it any easier, my little sapling.”

Linden apologizes and asks me about my day. She’s in all actuality an excellent listener.

“I went and met Lauren, my advisor, to talk to her about my foreign language requirements. We laughed when I walked in because we were both dressed to go to the gym. She was wearing yoga pants and a sports bra and I had on a t-shirt and light gym shorts. She’s been emotional lately, because she just had a baby, and when an extended silence befell us and she started to cry, I asked her if she wanted a—”

Mara rolled onto her side. I switched my phone to the other hand and drew the blanket over her face.

“I was rubbing her back, consoling her. I wasn’t wearing boxer briefs under my gym shorts, so my confident infiltré was tapping her new-mommy pussy with vigor. She held onto me with all her strength, smashing her mams into my chest. She sat me in an armless chair, reached into my shorts, and adjusted my cock. I was breathless. She straddled me and ground her nub on my shaft, like it was Sunday night and my penis was the handle of her favorite hairbrush.”

You’re probably asking yourself: Why is this narrator guy such an asshole? Well, first off, go fuck yourself. Second, I have a pretty good reason. Mara and I have been dating a while now and although she has a round perky ass and sturdy thighs and a flat tummy and she smells amazing and is beautiful and everything, I find my mind wandering during sex with her. But I realized when I am not being the “best boyfriend on the planet,” I get harder and last longer. It doesn’t escape my attention that the connection between my bad behavior and Mara’s yowling when we fuck might have to do with her wanting to make me feel more confident and as a result be nicer to her. But this is only a theory; I don’t want to mess with a system that’s giving me super-boners, even if it lessens my girlfriend’s anxiety. Struggle builds character. And if a girl as pretty as Mara builds enough character, she could rule the world someday.

Linden asks if she can go rafting with us tomorrow.

I say of course she can’t, and I ask her if she’s stupid.

I’m not being a dick for the fun of it. I won’t deny that “the fun of it” is a factor and an enjoyable fringe benefit. But what you don’t understand is Linden gets off on this dynamic. Our phone calls never last this long. In a minute, she jerks herself off and becomes sleepy. Imagine a cartoon bear wearing PJs and a night cap, carrying a candle into a bedroom. Yeah—that sleepy.

“I’m not worried about you and Mara being in the same boat. I could give a damn. However, I am concerned Krystin will be bashful around you and will not perform her favorite—and my favorite—mid-float activity—topless sun-bathing. On the off chance your presence hinders the presentation of those brazen, sun-kissed titties, I will have to beg you, kindly, to stay the fuck home.”

Linden asks me why Krystin isn’t shy about baring her chest around John.

“John is wallpaper. You, however, have physical gifts that would make any girl self-conscious. If you’re lonely tomorrow, you can blame your creator.”

There’s a protracted silence. Linden has walked across campus, during our conversation, and is sitting in the stairwell at the end of my hall.

“Christ. You win. I’ll be down in a minute.”

I end the call and pull the covers to my chin. My flannel sheets feel good against my skin. Mara’s body lets off a ton of heat. Linden and I are in the same fiction workshop, which means we hand in stories we’ve written and the class critiques them. Linden is a strong writer. Strong enough to write an interesting story about someone who sits in a stairwell, waiting for someone who may never come.