I awoke as sore as if I had worked out all night long. Every joint ached. Extra time in the shower was called for. I noticed with chagrin that there were faint red rope burns around my wrists and ankles. It wasn't until I emerged from the shower and saw my neck in the mirror that I seriously considered calling in sick. Hickeys? Really! How very high school. It was too warm for any of my turtlenecks, but in the back of my closet I did find a blouse with a stand-up mandarin collar and long sleeves. Some judicious application of makeup helped, too. I had Chinese and Tylenol for breakfast and ran for work. Late again.
When I slunk past Blondie's cubicle, she reached out and grabbed my hand. "What's up with you?" she demanded. She was squinting at me. She needed glasses, but refused to admit it.
"What do you mean?" I asked innocently.
"You're never late, except when you've been screwing all night." Suddenly her eyes went wide. "Ohmygod, you saw him again, didn't you?" I rolled my eyes, but she jumped up and peered at my neck myopically. My makeup job must not have sufficed. Then she grabbed the collar of my blouse and pulled it aside. That had the effect of also revealing the bruised, tooth-marked shadow at the base of my neck.
"Hey!" I objected, but too late.
"Ohmygod, ohmygod! Was it just as good? How many times did you come?"
"Jeez, give me a break!" I exclaimed, disentangling her hands from their grip on me. "I gotta get to my desk before the boss sees." When I went to back away from her, I saw Office Cut-up, who'd been standing behind us listening.
"Did you get his name this time?" he asked.
Let me just explain that my brain does not work fast, and especially in the morning before coffee. The snappiest comeback I could come up with was "Shit!" I turned for my cubicle, but he was hard on my heels. "There's no story here," I called over my shoulder.
"When are you going to see him again? Does he do threesomes, because I'm free on Thursday?"
I slid into my chair and buried my head in my hands. "Would you please just go away," I said in a whiny begging tone. He chuckled, but moved on. I typed in my password on the keyboard, then put my purse away as the computer logged me in. My fingers rested on the keys to call up the data entry screen, but paused. I glanced furtively around the office. Boss's door was closed. Nobody was roaming randomly about the cubicle farm.
Tap - internet window opened. Mouse click - Google screen popped up. Another furtive glance, then my fingers, of their own will, typed in "orgasm denial." I was holding my breath as I looked down the list Google had thoughtfully provided. I was pretty sure our prudish network watchdog wouldn't let any of them open. I was also pretty sure it wasn't anywhere I wanted to go. Been nice knowing you, Tom or Tim or whatever your name is. When he left last night - after untying me, thankfully - he had said when we met next, he would mete out my punishment for coming without permission. Kinky sex was one thing, but kinky non-orgasmic sex didn't sound like any fun at all.
I spent the next couple of days dodging an imaginary stalker, leaving through a rear door in the office building, even taking a different bus home so I could scope things out as I neared my apartment. I had no special reason to think he was stalking me. I mean, the Chinese restaurant was near the bar where we first met. He could have been there in a very coincidental way, but he had come equipped with the rope he had used to tie me to the bed, which he had also left in place, like he was daring me to remove it. Which I hadn't. But, you know, housework day was on Saturdays, so...
Unfortunately, I had agreed to go out with the girls on Wednesday night and there was no way they were going to let me out of that commitment. They were dying to know my latest adventures with 'him' and I could only hold them at arm's length so long. They did agree to go to our second favorite bar (rather than the one I met him in,) and because they wanted to hear the juicy gossip, we took a far corner booth. Once again, I told them the barest minimum that they would let me get away with, but it still had them drooling and snickering through the appetizers we'd ordered. I didn't get it. They all had way more active sex lives than I did. Why were they so anxious to hear mine, like they were living vicariously off the bones I threw them? Exotic, my drop-dead gorgeous, mixed race friend said it was because all of their hookups were way too vanilla. I had to admit that Tom or Tim or whatever his name was, in no way resembled vanilla anything. I also picked their brains on my paranoia du jour concerning his - just maybe - stalking me somehow. They gave me tons of feedback, none of which was useful.
In fact, even as Blondie was pooh-poohing my fears, he walked in the bar. I sank as far back in the booth as I could. "He's here," I whispered, because I was pretty sure he would be able to hear me from 80 feet away.
"What, who?" they said in unison, which gives you some idea of their attention span.
"I going to pretend that I'm going to the can, then sneak out the alley door," I explained, speaking slowly so they could process. "I'll leave my coat and my drink. If he comes over here, just tell him I'm in the can."
At this point only Blondie was still lost, but Brunette and Exotic hushed her and gave me the thumbs up. They had totally bought into all the cloak and dagger. I figured they'd stand firm on my story just as long as he didn't kiss them. Or touch them anywhere. Or speak to them with that late night radio voice. Damn. I didn't stand a chance. But I made a dash for the bathrooms, then hung a left and out the alley door. I all but ran home, made it in one piece, not even stopping for my mail, and used locks on my door I'd never bothered with before. Still, it took a couple of hours to fall asleep that night.
Come Friday, it all bubbled up again. We had, had, had to go out again. I stood firm and said I wasn't going out to any bars for the rest of my life, or at least until next month. So then they wanted to go to a club. Exotic knew a bouncer at Jamocha and could get us in without waiting on line. (I was pretty sure she could get us into any club in town with a wink of her eye but I didn't say so.) Clubs weren't really my scene, but I was doubly sure they wouldn't be 'his.' I figured I could endure it for an hour or two then sneak off as soon as they started hooking up. What else were friends for? Clubs also weren't a place for street wear and certainly not office wear, so that bought me an extra day. We agreed to meet up on Saturday night near Jamocha.
On Saturday, I tore half of my hole-in-the-wall closet apart looking for something to wear. It wasn't that I was looking to dress to the nines; I just didn't want to endure their teasing for the rest of the year if I showed up in anything that didn't reveal more of some portion of my body than I wanted. I finally settled on a stretchy knit number after I cut four inches off the bottom and rehemmed it. I knew damn well I was going to spend most of the night tugging the hem down, but small price to pay, right?
Come ten o'clock, I walked the six blocks to the club in my modest heels. (I don't allow anything over three inches in my closet.) Blondie almost bowled me over when I was within half a block. "Ohmygod ohmygod, this is going to be so fun! You're going to dance all night," she assured me. That wasn't exactly at the top of my bucket list, but I let it go. Exotic was there already, looking like someone who should be out with the Kardashians, in a sparkly silver thing that was almost blinding. Brunette slunk up a few minutes later, trying to look like Mata Hari - dark and devious. Okay, maybe that was just my take, but I have to admit I was kinda getting into things. True to her word, Exotic got us straight into the club. The music was pounding, and the bass shot right to my groin and refused to leave. I was trying to remember why we didn't do this more often. When we got some drinks and I heard the prices, I remembered. To add insult to injury, the minute our drinks arrived at a standing-only tiny, high table, Blondie and Exotic were dragging me onto the dance floor. There was no way I was going to drink from that glass after leaving it sit on that table, even if Brunette swore she'd stand guard.
The girls sandwiched me between them, and we gyrated to the music. Their hands were on the sides of my body, then holding on to each other with me trapped in between. My hands were in the air, when they probably should have been tugging my hem down, but I really was enjoying myself and feeling free of worry in the crowded, pleasure-seeking club. What could go wrong? Blondie and Exotic eventually drifted off, and I found myself bumping and grinding against anonymous bodies until thirst took over. I made my way to the bar to get a glass of water - at five bucks, no refills allowed. I muttered something about highway robbery, but the bartender acted like he'd heard it all before.
With the safe, sturdy bar at my back, I turned to watch the crowd. It really was a fun night and I was glad I'd let my friends talk me into it, even if it wasn't my 'scene.' I caught glimpses of them and they seemed happily in their element. About the time I finished my expensive water, Blondie showed up and pulled me back to the dance floor. There was more bumping and grinding, some a little too close for comfort or hands a little too low, but I found I could swirl away through the crowd, having the advantage of greater sobriety than most of the people on the dance floor. At one point, a man close to my age (as opposed to barely legal) came up and actually leaned toward my ear and asked to dance with me. I was flattered and agreed; he put his hands loosely at my back, as opposed to on my ass, and we danced through several songs.
I finally shook my head at him and explained I needed to hit the can. He laughed at my euphemism and offered to take me to an office restroom that wouldn't have a long line. Since my bladder was sending rather frantic signals, that seemed like a good idea at the time. He led me down a dark hall, around a corner, then opened a door and hit a light switch. It was a generic bathroom perfectly suited to my needs and I thanked him profusely, half expecting him to have disappeared by the time that I emerged. But he hadn't. He was there, waiting patiently for me.
I started back in the direction we had come but he reached out and pulled me against him, not tight or in a threatening way. More like a, 'let's take advantage of this moment alone.' I bought into it, and when he moved to kiss me, I responded. He'd been so polite and thoughtful, like what I'd been taught to expect from men. But then, I'd been brought up in rural Wisconsin, not in the big city. When he said "I want to show you something," I figured it was something as innocuous as a generic bathroom. I followed as he moved to the next door in the hall. He hit a light switch, and I saw a supply closet. My brain was just going to the "oh, oh" phase as he yanked me inside and shoved me up against the wall.
He had one hand over my mouth and another tight on my throat. My hands were pushing against his chest but he was built like a Green Bay linebacker. I couldn't move him, I couldn't knee him in the balls because he was pushing his legs between my thighs. I couldn't slam my heel down on his instep. All the things that my daddy had taught me weren't going to work, so I went with what my little brother had taught me. I bit. I clamped down as hard as I could on the fingers that were covering my mouth. That might not have been the best idea, because he swore and slapped me with the bitten hand, leaving a trail of blood as he bruised my cheek.
His other hand tightened around my throat. Blackness was flooding into my field of vision. I was floating somewhere, lost between consciousness that was demanding I struggle for survival, and unconsciousness from the hard slap and lack of oxygen. Consciousness won, and I wasn't entirely thrilled about it. It brought pain with it, and fear, and guilt for putting myself in a position of such vulnerability. Consciousness had a lot of baggage. His hand suddenly disappeared from my throat. There was a wall at my back and I slid down it. I was searching for that fetal position, but something was preventing me from fully embracing my helplessness. Someone was calling my name, my full name - Skylar, not the nickname I gave everybody. I never liked that name. Then, when they began to shake me, I got really pissed. I tried to strike out but my wrists were taken captive and I was being pulled to my feet.
Finally, reluctantly, I gave up on sweet escape. I blinked hard trying to clear my vision. 'He' was there in front of me. I kicked out until he pinned me against the wall in self defense. "Let go of me," I spat at him. "Don't touch me." The bitterness in my voice could not be mistaken, but still he held on, preventing me from hurting him but also from escaping. I looked around for my original assailant. I could see him scrambling to his feet out in the hall. Had my mystery man thrown him out there? I mean, come on! That was like a quarterback taking on a defensive lineman. When I saw the asshole take off, I sucked in a deep breath and tried to get control of myself.
"You can let go of me, now. I am fine," I said as calmly as I could.
He lifted my chin and glanced my cheek. "No, you are not. I will take you to the hospital."
"I said I'm fine. Thank you for coming to my rescue but you can leave now."
"Then I will take you to the police to file a report."
"And tell them what? Some asshole didn't rape me tonight?"
