By COURTNEY WEAVER

Kristine wasn't outside waiting, as agreed upon. Instead, she was waving frantically at me from her window. Behind her was her roommate, Andy, shielding his eyes from the bright Saturday eight A.M. sunshine. "Come in here, Courtney," she called. "We'll go to the gym later. You've got to hear this."

I followed them into their huge kitchen, which I'm always shocked to see is as sanitary as a hospital wing. These housemates are a fanatical bunch of clean freaks. There was orange juice, muffins, toast. Clearly a confession session, although the third housemate, Dan, was still sleeping.

I noticed Andy had a little smile on his face. "OK, who was she?" I asked, seating myself.

"No one you know," he said, yawning, scratching his chest in that monkey fashion. "In fact, my career as a celibate single male is still sadly, sadly thriving." Andy looked tired and a tad confused, though strangely smug. "Tell her," Kristine commanded.

"OK. There I was, last night, out with the guys. Dan, Jake, Alex, the same old bunch of losers. It was one a.m., and we're drinking away at the Toronado. Talking about the same old stuff: sex, no sex, who's not getting any, who says they're getting any and isn't."

Andy and I had just had a discussion last week about looking for love in all the wrong places. "Never mind that you supposedly want to find Ms. Right," I said. "Go on."

"We moved onto the Bongo Bar. Now it's 1:15. In other words, the clock is ticking. The bar is starting to clear out. But there's this bartender. She keeps giving me free shots. And all of a sudden, I notice she's smiling at me in that way."

"Yes, yes," I said impatiently. I've heard these stories before. "Get to the point."

"Not so fast," Andy said. He relaxed in his chair and took a slug of orange juice. "So, there she is -- Monica, she's called. Jet black hair. Blue eyes. Snow White look.

"The bar's getting emptier and emptier. Tick, tock, tick, tock. The guys are doing that shark thing, getting that desperate look in their eyes, that oh-no-I'm-going-home-alone-again face. They're circling the remaining women, trying to talk to them. Meanwhile, Monica is practically shoving drinks down my throat."

"Is she smart?" I asked.

"OK. Not a brain surgeon."

"Pretty?" asked Kristine.

"Uh, nice body. Her face isn't her strong point."

"Go on," I prod.

"It's ten to two. The bartenders are yelling at us to drink up, go home, yadda yadda yadda. Finally, I ask her what she's doing after work. She invites me back to her place. She gives me her address, tells me she'll meet me there in half an hour. I have to drive all the guys home, you see."

"Always the dad," Kristine said.

"In the car," continued Andy, pointedly ignoring her, "the guys are slapping the back of my head, yelling, 'You're going to get laid! You asshole!' I get rid of all of them and speed over to Monica's house, way out in the Richmond. She's waiting for me at the window. Lets me in really quietly, she's got roommates. We go up the stairs to her room, and she's got a bottle of wine open, blanket on the floor. We start kissing. Kind of touching each other's skin. You know, sniffing around each other.

"She's kind of a Gothic chick. Lots of velvet around the room, crucifixes, candles. At one point, she introduces me to her ferret named Tarquin. That was a little creepy, but so what, obviously we were going to have sex. I'm happy. But then..." He paused dramatically. "We didn't."

"Guess why they didn't," said Kristine. "She was willing. He was willing. They were two horny individuals. You'll never guess."

"Five guesses," said Andy. "If you guess, I'll give you a hundred bucks."

I paused. "She was a he."

"Ah, 'The Crying Game' scenario! No, sorry."

"She had a sexually transmitted disease...You didn't have any condoms."

"No and no. I always have condoms."

I looked around the kitchen. "She had a bad smell."

"Nope. You've two more. Think about the ferret. The ferret's a clue."

I widened my eyes. "Please don't tell me she was into bestial threesomes."

"No."

"She had on a chastity belt and lost the key?"

"No -- but close. OK, I'll tell you." Andy leaned back and put his hands behind his head. "She'd just gotten her clitoris pierced."

"Oh, come on," I said. I once went to the Mitchell Brothers flesh emporium on O'Farrell Street, and all the women had labia piercings. I wondered about it ever since. "You mean her labia. Not her clit."

"I think I know the difference between a labia and a clitoris," said Andy, huffily. "No, it was her clit. On the little hood part. She'd just had it done a couple days ago. She was still sore. She couldn't have sex for the next two weeks."

"So what did you do?"

"Oh, just kind of groped. All our clothes were off. I was kissing her tits, making my way down her stomach. Then I went and did the gynecological exam. I was a little curious, after all."

"Naturally," said Kristine. She looked at me and we did a little sympathy shudder. "Now, when it heals, is it supposed to make her come harder, or more often? Does it rub against her while she's walking down the street?"

"Yes, I'd like to know that," I agreed. "Does she keep having multiple orgasms as she shops in the grocery store, comparing lettuce prices?"

Andy said he didn't know. "I think it has to do with where the little ball is on the hoop," he said. "If you girls are so curious, why don't you find someone who does it for you and check it out? I'll come with you."

I gazed out the huge picture window that overlooked an expanse of magnolia trees in their garden. "So, are you going to see her again? Do you have any interest?"

He stood up. "Nah, I don't think so. Not that way. There wasn't really that... feeling about it. It was more of a sex thing."

"What if she calls you?"

"I don't think she will," he said. He looked vaguely annoyed, like a cat that's suddenly been dumped off a warm lap for no apparent reason. "I think we were pretty clear on that, in an unspoken way."