Carson was, to put it lightly, a little lackluster in the knowledge department, especially when it came to female biology. The kind of guy who says “what size pussy you wear?” when you ask him to buy you pads. So, foreseeably, intimacy with him harbored some concerns on your end. He hovered over you in bed, stripped of his shirt and baggy jeans, nearly nude, and in similar undress to you. Your first time with him, his very first time overall too. He played it off like he was confident, knew all he needed, swore he’d make you feel good—you were uncertain. Of course, you doubted he even knew where the bundle of nerves on the female form was. Voicing that to him made him scoff, as if irritated you’d even imply such a thing. “Seriously? I know where it is babe.” He grumbled, brows knitted like you’d insulted his best work. “You think I’m stupid or something? I know how females work.” You’d talked to him about throwing “female” around like the four-channer he was, what a turn off, but he never learned. He was lucky you loved him. He felt as if you’d challenged him, and now he had to prove himself.