Sandra
had never done ecstasy before.
She'd never done a lot of things she did that night. After all, she had grown up a sweet shy girl with a bed time. She played the violin like her sister was forced to. She had never been allowed to have a boyfriend. Her father would have pummeled any boy who laid an eye on her for more than three seconds.
Now she had a crowd of boys around her. And they had been staring at her like boys staring at coveted Christmas presents. And a lot longer than three seconds.
She was happy. Her brain told her she was happy. The chemicals in her brain told her she was happy. They shouldn't have lied to her like that.
Stockings. Fishnet stockings.
That was the first thing on the forbidden items list that she bought. She wanted to choose a wardrobe for the evening. Something sexy. The evening was long-gone. This was near morning. It might have been three AM. Time stood still just then.
She was on her knees.
She had reconciled that fact a while ago.
She was handcuffed to a pole. Wrists and ankles. This part didn't bother her either.
Her body was half naked and on display like a bag of oranges at a farmers' market. This seemed totally fine with her.
She was chewing on her gag and enjoying a light show. She definitely liked that. At least her eyes looked like they did when they lolled about in her skull.
It all seemed like typical college girl fun. It'd probably make a good story one day.
Then when the come hit her in the cheek, she felt scared.
She was still rolling.
Happy-scared.
Girls are emotional creatures. This is one emotion she'd never experienced before. That was what college was all about, wasn't it? New experiences? New emotions? Happy-scared.
The world was a collage of smiling pictures only seconds ago. Then it sort of snapped into a nightmare. A hellish realization. A deception. A seduction. A realization of the truth.
Sandra.
She was cuffed to a stripper pole. In fishnet apparel and sweating like an athlete. And looking nothing like an athlete. Unless you count the athletes who get horribly defeated. She was on her knees, locked to the pole.
She saw faces. They were boys, mostly. The girls of the group looked like they were glad they weren't her.
The thought in her head was "let me go." But what came out was - well who knows what it was because the techno bass would have drowned it out anyway. Even if it hadn't, the ballgag that was in her mouth would have.
Sandra struggled. She had blue eyes in the daytime but they definitely weren't blue anymore. They were red. Then they were purple. Or whatever other color happened to flash next.
She wanted to clench her jaw. It would have felt so good to do so. She wa-
She felt a smack on her ass. A boy, he looked gruff and surferish, he might have been a Senior. Surferish Boy. He grabbed her hair and held her head in his hands. Her eyes gave him pleading looks.
Let me go, they said.
The message was lost in translation.
Because he didn't let her go.
Instead he placed his other hand on her pussy. The touch was soft at first. No other guy seemed to think that it was wrong. Or no other guy was brave enough to do anything about it.
She couldn't remember how she got herself into this situation.
She wanted out of it.
She wanted to go back to being a sweet girl.
She wanted the violin lessons.
She wanted the Godiva chocolates.
Manga comics.
Daydreaming about boys. Harmless little daydreams.
She wanted to get out.
Sandra was living life. Sandra realized something.
Life is a series of mistakes.
This was the first one that she had made. Sandra started living life.
The boy muttered a guttural nothing in her left ear. She thought she heard the word "pussy" thrown in there.
Maybe the word "control" too.
His hands ran all along her body without restriction. Every inch of her was fair game. She wasn't a piece of meat. She was an object. She thought about the definition of the word.
Object.
She didn't have a dictionary handy. But in her SATs she scored 1578. So she had a pretty good idea of what the word meant.
Object.
She felt a lot like one. An object has one specific use. An object doesn't have feelings. Or emotions. You don't tell your remote control what a good job it's doing at changing channels. You don't give it batteries as Christmas presents. Damn that word. Now it was in her mind and she couldn't get it out.
Object.
You use it to please yourself. Or to accomplish something. You definitely don't give a shit about it if it's damaged or broken. You just throw it away and get a new one.
Object.
Now it was repeating over and over again in her mind like the techno track that was playing. It might have been kind of hypnotic if she wasn't on her knees being fondled like a toy.
Surferish Boy's head went to her breasts and she could do nothing to stop it.
She regretted everything. She regretted going to Santa Barbara now. She should have went with Berkeley. Oh well, too late, now. Her mind became clearer and she recognized Jim from Geology.
Jim.
Jim.
They met in Geology. He invited her to their group when they were doing a presentation on subduction zones. Jim was his name. And Jim's face didn't look happy.
He pushed Surferish Boy with an aggressive arm thrust. He toppled off the stage. When he got up, the two of them stared each other down with intensity.
Jim threw the first punch. Surferish Boy landed on the side of the stage and the horny onlookers took two steps back in horror when they saw the blood that gushed from his eye.
Words were probably exchanged but they were drowned by rhythmic bass rumblings. Sandra watched it all, helpless and cuffed. No one did anything to help her.
No one except Jim.
In the flashing lights, she'd make out bits and pieces of the carnage. Jim's reddish curly hair grabbed by Surferish Boy's hands. Then Jim's t-shirt coming off when Surferish Boy grabbed him. The tussle continued.
Jim at one point picked him up and body slammed him to the ground. That killed the music. The lights went on.
The smoke machine choked on the last bits of fumes.
A circle formed around them.
Sandra watched it all from her stripper pole. Her head buzzed like cinnamon on fire.
No more sounds. Just gasps. Then, Jim spoke up. "You lay a finger on her. I collect your organs and I donate them to the science building."
The threat wasn't registering, apparently, because Surferish Boy tackled him and had his hands around his throat.
"You little Irish faggot." Neither derogatory term was true, nor was it particularly offensive. Finally, Jim threw him sideways on the floor. The crowd was stunned and couldn't do anything but watch.
Jim punched him in the head he was on the ground in a hapless puddle. He was breathing deep.
Sandra never noticed his leanness when his shirt was on. But now in the harsh white overhead lights, he looked like a Brad Pitt stunt double. With lots of blood on his chest.
"Why don't you people fuck off?" Jim said at last. He finally went to Sandra and took her gag off.
