I was 18 when it happened. After high school I had scored a great summer job at my dad's big office on an internship program they had for employees' children. At least it was supposed to be great. Actually I found life under florescent lights as boring as would any 18-year-old.

I had been a shy kid all through school and, in consequence, I was still a virgin. I thought I should be out trying to "get girls" (even though I still didn't really know how) rather than being cooped up in this stupid office.

Another minor detail about my virginity: I had a secret. It was a secret I had never revealed to anyone for fear of shame, humiliation, or disgust. This was back before the internet if I did have the web back then I quickly would have found that I was not alone. But as it was, I to this day think I have some inkling what it might be like to grow up gay and in the closet, so great was my sexual desire, trumped only by my need to keep my preference secret. What was my deep dark secret? I liked fat chicks.

There was a woman in my dad's office that summer in who I took a strong interest in. Her name was Linda. She was a Hispanic woman, not older than 40, she had long black hair that was something between curly and wavy, she was about 5'5" and weighed about 200 pounds. And what pounds they were. I would guess, looking back, that she had a 44 inch bust and something above an F-cup. Her waist was probably 40 inches, a big, bountiful belly and generous love handles. She was 50 inches at the hips with a heavy teardrop shaped bottom. In short, she was a triple threat: a generally pear shaped woman with acres of ass and a bulging belly, but still managing to stack a well-proportioned bust on that oh-so-lovely pedestal.

When she would sit down at my desk next to me to give me instructions in the spreadsheet software it would make me absolutely insane. Her trace of Spanish accent was musical, her perfume intoxicating, and periodically when she really had to explain a particular entry she had a habit of physically tapping that line-item on the screen. This meant reaching past me to the monitor. Her shoulder would graze mine and she would be close enough that I could often feel strands of her hair graze against my face.

"Jou're listening, right?" she would sometimes ask, and even that couldn't snap me out of it because all I could think about was her enchanting accent. She had the faintest hint of that dialect of Spanish that I couldn't figure out where it was from. Her accent seemed to turn 'y' into 'j': "Jou sure jou're getting all this?" I didn't grow up listening to many accents her accent felt foreign, faraway, exotic.

When she would leave my desk I would be faced with an awful paradox. The boner she would leave me with was mystical, full, rock hard, tingling, and itching to come. It was a boner I could never seem to reproduce at home at night in my bed, eyes closed trying to recreate the moment so I could jerk off. At home I almost always got a different boner: respectable, but lacking in the painful urgency that I so desperately wanted to relieve when Linda would depart from my presence at the office. The paradox? Before I could get up and go to the restroom I would have to let enough of the moment pass that I could at least get down to half-mast. I even thought about trying to stroke one off in my pants at my desk once but got cold feet. I wasn't sure how big of a mess it would make but it didn't seem worth the risk that it might seep visibly through my pants.

Then something strange started to happen. Linda started making extremely bold sexual advances at me. Or so it seemed. I recall clearly the first time it happened. It was a spreadsheet day, therefore also a boner day, and when she had finished showing me what was wrong with my entries she didn't stand up but instead remained seated beside me making small talk, asking about school, future plans, etc. But then we got to the subject of girls.

"Jou mean jou've never had a girlfrien?"

"Not really."

"Not really, what is that 'not really'? Jou've been on dates."

I shook my head.

"So jou've never... ?"

She let the question hang there while my mind applied Occam's Razor. It didn't seem possible that this 40-ish female full-time employee was really inquiring about a male summer intern's virginity. But then there just didn't seem to be anything else the question could mean. What little ambiguity lay in her silent trailing off didn't leave me with much wiggle room. If she was talking about what I thought she was talking about and I lied, claimed to be fully fledged as it were, she might need a story, a background, a who, what, when, where, and why. I wasn't prepared to make up a story on the spot so I shook my head "no" and felt my face redden.

What she said next floored me, and still does to this day when I think about it. I was half-expecting some advice on how to be confident with girls but, instead, all she said was, "Too bad. One of deese days me and jou should go make whoopee in the ladies room." I'm sure my eyes widened in shock as I gaped across at her, stunned speechless. There was a twinkle in her eyes and a wry, knowing smile as she enjoyed my surprised confusion. She let the overture hang in the air exactly two beats before, back to business, "Here let me show jou one last thing," pointing again at the screen. In her tone it was as though she'd said "just kidding."

But, as I was thinking about it later, I realized she never actually said "just kidding." That's what was bothering me. Was she serious? Or was it so obviously a joke that she didn't even feel the need to say "just kidding" because it was implied. Over time I became more and more convinced it was the latter. Even the word she used, "whoopee," helped confirm it was a joke. Not seriously anyway. It was a way of sanitizing it; she made a dirty joke without using a dirty word. That was all.

But then it happened again. Maybe a week or two had passed and she checked on my status. "Still nothing?"

"Still nothing," I confirmed exasperatedly.

"Don't jou worry, one day we'll do the wild thing in an empty conference room." Here she put her hand on my knee, but only fleetingly, no squeeze, no suggestive move up the thigh. It was more like a friendly tap than anything else, and it occurred just as she got up to leave me riveted by the waggle of her gigantic heart-shaped ass as she strode across the office and out of sight, helpless to relieve my adamantine boner.

But I was still perplexed. "Wild thing" was about as tame and sanitary as "whoopee," and equally rare in the vernacular. It was as though Linda was going out of her way not to use an overtly sexual term. But why? Was this some elaborate cover your ass mechanism to defend against a sexual harassment lawsuit? I was more confused than ever. But on the upside, my nighttime boners were getting better. I was taking home great material.

Then one Friday the boss asked me to work the Monday of the would be three day 4th of July weekend: The IT department was pushing some kind of software patch and they wanted a skeleton crew, "just two or three people in each department," my boss said just in case IT needed someone on the user end to run some tests. "Hate to do it to a summer intern but that's just how it worked out," my boss said. "Linda will be here too." He walked away.

Linda came by my desk almost immediately and, all business, not a trace of flirt, asked me if actually I wouldn't mind coming in an hour early that day, she had some things to go over with me.

Boy did she ever.

She was dressed to kill that morning in a simple white front-buttoning blouse and nice high-waist, thigh-hugging charcoal pinstripe skirt that flattered her faint hourglass shape. It didn't occur to me at the time how unusual it was for her to be dressed to the nines on a day the office wasn't open for business. I was too busy fantasizing. My pulse quickened as I tried to imagine what her boobs, belly, and big butt would look like, let alone feel like against my naked skin. Again, this was before the internet so I literally had no idea what a nude fat woman would look like but I was eager to find out.

It was more of the same again, her seated beside me, more maddeningly enchanting than ever, fresh from her morning shower when the perfume is the strongest and it mingles with the fainter scent of shampoo. As usual, she was pointing at the screen, I was nodding while not hearing a thing, and my boner was in rarest form.

After she finished explaining about the software patch, she settled back in her seat and said, "I hope you finally got some fireworks for the 4th." And again, the "finally," and the brief hesitation before, and euphemistic vocal inflection on, the word "fireworks" were all I had to distinguish this comment from friendly but entirely sexless office chit-chat.

"No." I said, and then, absented-mindedly, added, "Not that kind."

"Well don't worry. Today is jour lucky day. This big mamacíta's gonna take you in the bathroom and pop your cherry."

All I could think to say or, rather, what I said without really thinking was, "Are you serious?"

Whereupon she rose from her seat without a word and extended her hand. I took it and she started moving briskly toward the hall with me in tow. I was concerned lest we encounter anyone in the hall; at this point I could not possibly conceal my boner, which was making a comical tent of my pleat-fronted Dockers. But we made it undetected.

She pushed open the door to the ladies room which still bore the fresh disinfectant scent of the Sunday night cleaning crew's efforts. It was obviously empty the light was governed by a motion detector, and flickered to life as we came in. We went to one of the middle stalls and she put her hands on my shoulders and positioned me with my back to the toilet.