Page 64 of The Charlie Method

Two websites tell me condoms are 85–98 percent effective in preventing STI transmission. Another one says they’re 97 percent effective with perfect use and 86 percent effective with typical use. As an overachieving perfectionist, I assign myself to the first camp. Perfect use, baby.

But fine, let’s be pragmatic. I’ll call it 90 percent effective. Although…that stat is lower for STIs that don’t have full condom coverage. For those, the risk is reduced by about 70 percent. I also have a higher risk of oral herpes if I give a blowjob without a condom on. Which, let’s be real, I’m not going to use a condom for a blowjob. So…let’s lower that to a 30 percent risk during a condomless BJ.

My parents have no idea the kind of monster they created when they gave me access to the internet.

To the questionCan I live with this, I writeYES.

OUTCOME #2: People will find out and judge me.

This one bothers me a lot, and when I’m done assessing all the outcomes, it’s the only one I answerNOto about whether I can live with it.

Because yes, I consider that outcome worse than chlamydia. I don’t want people gossiping about me and my sex life. What if it snowballs into a college-wide rumor that eventually reaches the ears of a job recruiter? A professor whose recommendation I need for grad school?

I’m pacified by the reminder that when asked who they’ve hooked up with, Gigididsay they never name names.

Still, doing this would require a high level of trust in both guys. And I suddenly realize I’d feel better about giving out that trust if Lars and BwereWill and Beckett. Because they’re not complete strangers. They’re people I could hold accountable if the rumor mill started churning.

And if all else fails—lie, lie, and deny.

I assign it a medium probability that people might find out. Let’s say 50 percent. Can I live with that?

Maybe.

No.

Yes.

I think…yes.

My heart is pounding as I type a response to the invitation waiting on the app.

ME:

I won’t meet without face pics.

It’s nearly two in the morning, but I’m dealing with two college boys who are probably still out partying, so I’m not surprised to see someone typing.

LARS & B:

Fair enough.

There’s a long delay. More typing.

LARS & B:

Incoming.

When the photo appears on the screen, my heart jumps into my throat and renders my windpipe useless.

Confirmation received.

It’s them.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

WILL

I don’t believe in fate

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