Jake, 18, who would never dare approach a female in real life

I had to lie to my mom, of course--tell her I was going over to Steve's house to hang out. Steve's a good pal; he'll cover for me. There's no way in a thousand years I would ever confess my true destination, the Bureau of Sexual Services headquarters on the outskirts of town.

I like girls. I like them a lot. It just sucks that I can't talk to one my own age without collapsing into an embarrassing puddle of incoherent nonsense. This curse ensured a lonely celibate existence all the way through high school. Now that I've graduated, the chances of landing a girlfriend seem more remote than ever. But BoSS... I've seen their ads. They promise sexual fulfillment. I'm not stupid. I doubt the government's going to be able to give me the lasting emotional connection I dream about. Still, maybe I get to fuck my first real pussy. Hell, just getting to see a pussy in real life and not in a porn video would be terrific.

When I park my e-bike outside the massive marble building and enter through the nondescript door, I pout a little at the normalcy of the space within--a large echoey lobby area with lots of people moving about, but not a single naked chick in sight. Not a good start. Still, I move forward to the nearest open desk I see and take a seat in front of it.

"Do you have an ID?" asks the woman behind the desk in a bored tone. She's pretty young--not more than a decade older than me--and she'd be super hot if she didn't look so severe, with her brown hair wrapped in a tight bun. She regards me with barely-veiled indifference. That said, she kind of looks like the teacher at the start of one of those porn videos--you know the ones I mean--and we're all aware of how those turn out.

"Here you go." I hand over my license.

"Alright, Mr. Carlson. I'm Simone, and I'll be your assessor while we work to craft the perfect sexual experience for you." She pulls some papers out of her desk and begins to go over them with a pen. "Now, let me just verify your age, height, weight, and other physical details..."

The assessment goes on for nearly twenty minutes. Some of the questions are weird. Approximately how much semen do I produce per orgasm? Do I have a preference for right-handed or left-handed girls? Others seem downright irrelevant. Have I ever had braces? Do I remember my sixteenth birthday party? I answer as honestly as I can, stammering over my sentences when Simone shoots a glance my way. Even in this situation, my curse manifests itself at the worst times.

At last, Simone puts her pen down and leans back in her chair. "Let me get this turned in," she says. "If you want to wait around to hear the result of your assessment, feel free to do so. It shouldn't take more than fifteen to thirty minutes." With that, she picks up the papers and walks through a door in the back wall of the lobby.