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offensive line: number 65. He had recently broken up with his girlfriend, a cheerleader. Typical. They never had sex. She wanted to wait until marriage. Stupid. Even if I had the luxury of marriage—fuck you, Proposition 8—we’re only this young for so long. “Nineteen happens once,” I told him. “Twenty happens once. Eventually you regret what didn’t happen, rather than what did.” His arms pulled me tight against his chest and his lips came to the side of my face at those words. I turned to meet his lips and we kissed. I loved the feel of my spine against his muscle. I said I’d go to his games even if I didn’t know a damn thing about football. I didn’t want to tell him that I loathed football. He promised special seats.
     
    When we were done and he dried me, I found my clothes in the mess of his room and we went to explore outside the bedroom door.
     
    In the living room, the survivors of the night were strewn about the trashed house. It was a disaster. My Viking’s hands, Jake’s hands, rested on my shoulders. We were surveying a devastated land. “Rock” appeared from behind the kitchen counter looking like shit. His eyes were red and puffy. He slapped his face. We helped gather the bottles and red cups. I tried to pull one plastic cup off the counter; the top half ripped off and the bottom half stayed stuck—bonded to the surface, no doubt, by the nasty trash-can punch that had spilled everywhere. Rock came over and slapped my ass.
     
    Jake looked at him and smirked. “He’s had enough of that.”
     
    “I bet,” Rock said. I tried to suppress a smile, stealing glances at Jake, reassured by his apathy to Rock’s response. I couldn’t tell if this was joking or serious.
     
    We continued to clean house. The last of the partiers finally left, and soon after Jake gave me a ride back to campus. As we neared the main entrance, I told Jake he wouldn’t be allowed to drive me to my dorm: the parking Nazis would turn us around. But the attendant recognized him. She smiled, said “Go Tech,” and waved us through. I was astonished. I was figuring out just whose arms I was getting into.
     
    We approached the shit hole that was Branch Hall. Home. In the parking lot, I wasn’t sure what to do. Kiss him? Give him the man pat? He grabbed my face and neck and answered for me. He kissed me hard, tongue and all. He ran his hands through the hair under my beanie until I was out of breath. Then he moved to my neck. Kissing, sucking, biting. I groaned and snuck my hand up his shirt, pressing against his hard abs, pushing my fingers down to the brim of his jeans. I wanted to leap over and straddle him, pull my pants and boxers down, let him fuck me right there again. His aggressive nature inspired me.
     
    We eased up and he held me by my goatee and said, “We’re having a second-week-of-classes party next weekend. You’re coming.”
     
    “I would hope so,” I said. He looked at my lips like he wanted to kiss again, but I hid my eyes and reached for the door handle, coy and tired. I belonged to the Viking and I liked it. Number 65 had me. I shut the door. He stared at me. I walked to my keycard entrance, achy, sore, hungover. Happy. The West Texas sun hurt my eyes. I turned back and watched his jacked-up truck speed out of the parking lot. My heart pumped. I turned and kept walking. Until it hit me, everything that had just happened.
     
    Holy fucking shit.
     

SUNDELIN
     
    Alana Noël Voth
     
     
     
     
     
     
    S undelin Ross weighed one hundred fifty pounds wet. He was five foot nine. I know that now from his driver’s license, by the way, because I looked once. Behind his back, I grabbed his wallet and looked.
     
    Sometimes I stared into the bottom of the coffee cup he served me and saw myself as one of the grounds floating in a sparse pool of liquid leather. His coffee was dark and strong. His eyes were blue. He worked in a coffee shop, one of those cute guys who took your order. His hair