At a coffee shop somewhere in Cambridge, I sit between a nerdy math whiz filling up piles of graph paper with hieroglyphics alla Good Will Hunting, and a society of three overweight girls who are knitting. I text “towards the back, red shirt” and kizmet56 takes a seat across from me. He looks barely 20, is rosy-cheeked and smooth-skinned and dressed like a Harvard asshole in a Polo dress shirt. He is so nervous he can’t train his sloe-eyed blue eyes on me, and it seems to me he might have Tourette’s. Ten minutes into the conversation, I think God, this dude might be a virgin.

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