Friday Night at the Frat House

You should have stayed at the bar with your girlfriends instead of running to the frat house by yourself. Yeah, he’s cute, but running at his beck and call makes you look desperate. Since you’ve already had a couple of drinks, your inhibitions are down. No telling what you’ll agree to.

At least your sorority sisters made you share your location with them before you left. You’ll be perfectly safe. You’re not really even off campus.

It looks like they’re partying down. Maybe someone will have some weed. Maybe show a little more cleavage, make yourself more enticing. The ankle strap on your strappy sandals is cutting into your flesh. Not sexy. That’s it, take them off and leave them by the door.

There he is. He sees you, no need to rush over to him like an attention-starved puppy. Let him come to you.

Here he comes, along with that dude you don’t trust. Wait, they’re both checking you out. Of course you’d rather go upstairs to get into their private stash instead of drinking warm keg beer and rotgut PJ.

The runner on the stairs is worn on the edges, and the bannister needs polishing. It’s quieter up here. Oh, his suite is occupied. What a gentleman, throwing them out for you.

Wait, what? Both of them? You’re not sure. He wants to feel you and see you? Really? He thinks you’re that sexy? You never really thought of yourself that way.

His friend (you forget his name) turns the overhead light off then turns on one of those ceiling projectors that make it seem like you’re underwater. The second shot of tequila goes down smoother than the first. Sure, one more.

You pick up the bong on the table and consider the bodyshots request. Maybe if they smoke a bowl with you, you might consider it. That’s better. Finally, he kisses you.

You thought it would be romantic, your first kiss with him, but his tongue darts in and out of your mouth like a snake, and his friend’s hand is traveling up your leg. He wants to kiss you, too. Maybe he’s a better kisser. And he’s kind of cute. What the hell.

His mouth practically suffocates you. Wait, how did they get your top off so fast? And why do their voices sound so far away? You tell them you think you need to lie down.

The sheets are dirty, with a slight stale alcohol smell, like someone sweated out a hangover in them. What are they saying? You try to shake your head, but you nod instead, and then they’re both on you, hands and mouths where your clothes were a minute ago. Is that cocaine? You feel the powder on your body, a little hill on each nipple. Then they’re snorting it off you, tongues of wet sandpaper licking the remnants off your skin.

No, you never agreed to oral, but he’s pushing his uncircumcised dick into your mouth. You want to scream, but you can’t with him shoving his cock down your throat.

No, you didn’t want his friend to fuck you, but that’s what’s happening while he pumps into your mouth. You don’t so much hear the door open as you feel the draft.

The room fills up. You close your eyes to block out the faces gawking at you. Your crush pulls out of your mouth and pumps jism on your face, then asks if anyone wants sloppy seconds. Someone says to let the rest of the guys know. Brothers don’t hold out on each other. You want your phone, but it’s all the way across the room, and you can’t move your limbs.

Some stranger is in your mouth now, and someone else you don’t know pulls your body to the edge of the bed. He says something about going where no man has gone before, and then the pain makes you scream. You hear your crush tell someone to “put your dick in her mouth to shut her up.”

Everything gets fuzzier and fuzzier. You feel them take you into another room where they put you on a desk. Someone tells you to open your mouth, then forces it open. They’re holding you down, and every time you think it’s over, someone else mounts you.

You let consciousness slip away. When you wake up, finding your clothes among the passed out fraternity brothers is a challenging scavenger hunt. Your phone is lighting up like Vegas. You slip it into your pocket and creep down the stairs. Your shoes are still by the door. You pick them up and open the door. Sunlight slices down like a machete for your walk of shame back to your dorm, remembering the last thing you heard: “Who’s going to believe her?”