Before heading out for another night of drinking, Tom sat cross legged on the floor showing a group of girls how to roll the perfect joint. I was sitting in my room when I heard him shout down the hallway, “Hey, Roberts! Jane wants to know how come you never tell any stories?” I closed my textbook and leaned my head into his room, which was thick with the smell of pot. Four girls were sitting on the floor, red eyes, the Beatles on the stereo. I thought about telling the story of cleaning up Jimmy’s poop at summer camp, but after a month of listening across the hall, I knew they liked stories that ended with someone blacked out or getting laid, preferably both. “I don’t know, Tom. I guess I don’t have a wealth of experiences to draw from.” I shrugged and turned to walk back to my room. “Wait a second. Wait a second!” Tom shouted back at me. “Are you telling me you have never had sex?” I turned around to the wide-eyed stares of everyone in the room. A brunette from Stanford asked, “How is that even possible?” Jane took her lips off the bong. “Yeah, seriously. What the hell, Nate?” I stared back at them. By this time they had come to realize that every cultural abnormality about me was related to my faith. I had stopped explaining why I did what I did. Any serious attempt on my part to explain my religious convictions fell on deaf, or worse, resentful ears. Tom raised his glass towards me. “Ladies, ladies,” he shouted. “We have to do something about this,” as if a crime had just been committed. “I propose that the first woman to deflower this wholesome, STD-free young man wins an all-you-can-drink trip to the bar.” Tom’s proposal was confirmed with a round of cheers. I blushed and walked back to my room, shut the door and hoped no one would remember his call to arms in the morning. I called Brad. We hadn’t spoken since I left for Athens. “Hello?” He yawned. I remembered it was morning in Wisconsin. I told him about Tom and the bet. Brad was silent on the other end. After I finished, he laughed. “That’s it? Your big problem is that girls are trying to sleep with you?” “Well, yeah, I guess.” I was a little irritated he wasn’t taking me seriously. “You gotta lighten up, bro. You are wound way too tight, probably because of your sexual frustration,” he said, trailing off. “But seriously, Jesus is not gonna strike you with lighting if you screw a hot drunk girl. Hell, you could screw a couple. Jesus has better things to worry about, like war and famine and shit like that. Listen, I gotta get some more sleep, but seriously don’t freak out about this. Okay?” “Okay,” I said. “I love you, man.” Click. “I love you too,” I said to the dial tone. The girls didn’t forget Tom’s challenge. And much to my chagrin they took it on with the fervor of a reality TV show cast.