Chapter 5: Mark Discovers The Truth
Winter, 1997, Boston University, Boston, Massachusetts
"Is it OK if I touch your breast?" I bleated as my fingers hovered at the edge of Cara's Kurt Cobain T-shirt. It was 1997 and we were crammed like hormonal sardines in her long and narrow dorm room bed. We were whispering and making out and pretending we cared that her oboe-virtuoso roommate was trying to sleep 5 feet away.
Cara was hot in the way only slightly-broken and falsely-defiant college girls could be. She was a 5'7" (plus an inch or two for her big, black Doc Marten boots) Half Puerto Rican / Half Philly girl. Her hair was short, asymmetrical and dyed deep, deep black so half her head seemed to disappear at night. She had a small silver hoop of a nose ring in her right nostril, a Latina ass that filled out her professionally-ripped jeans and piercing blue eyes that made my balls contract whenever I looked at her.
She was beautiful and soft and smelled like sweat and bad decisions and I was finally going to fu . . . I was going to make love with her . . . If she agreed. If she wanted to. If she just told me it was OK.
"What the fuck did you just say?" she spat from her full Angelina-Jolie-Back-When-She- Was-Hot lips and I felt a rush of shame down my spine that I'd spend the next couple decades mistaking for affection and love.
I looked into her eyes and saw a mix of frustrated lust and annoyed pity.
"Is it OK if I touch your breast?" I asked again. She was on top of me. My . . . penis was achingly hard in my jeans. I held my hips down and back like a duck to keep my hard on from touching her. I didn't want her to think I was one of "those" guys who just wanted sex.
"I don't know, dude, can you?" she asked with a mocking giggle as she pulled off her T- shirt and tossed Kurt's sad face on the chair next to the bed. I felt her fingers on my wrist, strong and insistent. She pulled my hand towards her, brought it to her belly, guided my fingers higher to the edge of her shear black bra. I could see her nipples through the thin material. Her lips were parted like one of those girls from Maxim flirting with 14-year-old boners around the world.
Cara shifted her hips and smiled as my hard cock pushed against the gusset of her jeans. I felt my ass clench involuntarily. I felt myself salivate. I imagined her screaming and thrashing and coming so hard the whole building would think we were having a fire drill. I imagined the feel of her. I imagined finally know what it felt like to . . .
"Can you, Mark?" she said again coy and mocking with a sparkle in her eye as she unfastened her bra fast and easy with one hand and pulled it off revealing her beautiful, beautiful breasts dangling towards me.
My mouth was dry. My cock was aching. Even through two sets of thick denim I could feel the heat of her . . . of her . . . pussy as she twisted her hips so subtly against me.
"I need you to say 'yes," I gasped and heard a shiver in my voice. A weakness.
She let go of my wrist. She made a V with her arms so her breasts were pushed together like a bikini model. Time stopped as I imagined fucking those beautiful tits, twisting and pinching her nipples, holding her down until I came on her face and neck like the porn stars from my dad's secret stash of VHS tapes.
She licked her fingers and then flicked and teased her own nipples until they were taught and firm and wanting.
"And what if I don't?" she asked as she dry humped me on the small, squeaking bed writhing and breathing heavy and playing the teenaged-boy's wet dream.
"Then we need to stop," I said with all the willpower left in the world. "If you don't consent we need to stop. I'm not one of those guys who uses my male privilege to take advantage of women and you need to know I respect you and your right to have control of your body . . ."
She put a hand over my mouth and looked at me like a little girl who woke up on Christmas morning thinking she was getting a pony (or maybe a Clydsdale stallion?) and got a slightly used Teddy Ruxpin who only spoke German instead.
I stared at her and felt her body slither against mine and felt the urges humming through my mind and thought of my women's studies class where I saw stats on date rape on college campuses. The same women's studies class I'd met Cara at in the first place. Where she sat in the back looking bored and haughty like she was the only one who understood life because she'd fucking lived and we hadn't. She'd introduced herself by saying "Hey man, you've got a nice ass. Perfect for thrusting."
We'd ended up working on a paper together on the long battle for Women's Suffrage and tonight at the library she'd put a hand on my thigh, looked me in the eye, licked her lips suggestively and said "Hey, Nice Ass, you want to come back to my room tonight?"
"Uhh . . . Uhh . . . For what?" I'd asked with an impressive level of forced cluelessness.
"Uhh . . . I donno, man. 'See my etchings?' 'Borrow some CD's?' Whatever. Pick your fucking euphemism already. Do you want to come back to my room or are you going to be an asshole and make me go to some fucking 80's club and let frat boys grind up on my ass until I find one who doesn't make me vomit in other people's mouths?"
"Don't you have a roommate?" I asked as I felt a nervous excitement build in my stomach.
"That little cunt? Don't worry, she's so fucking uptight she'd rather suffocate herself in her own pillow than actually have a fucking confrontation."
And so here we were.
"I have control of my body, Mark," she spat at me and I heard a shift of the covers as her roommate pushed her pillow over her ears. "Do you? Do I have to get your consent Mark?"
Her fingers traced their way down my chest as she drew agonizing circles with her hips and tortured the eternal erection only available to 18-year-old boys.
"Do I have to get your consent before I touch your cock?" she mocked as she unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans.
"Lift your hips," she commanded and pulled my pants and underwear off so my cock was hard and throbbing against my belly, curving so slightly to the left.
