Impact 25: of Vesseling

For those reading in real time: I've made changes to the previous chapter (i24) after receiving some helpful comments about the opening of that installment. The changes aren't huge or radical but they are material. I am posting this chapter now that those revisions have been published. I am grateful for everyone's input. I believe the story has been improved by our exchanges.

Thanks to HaltWhoGoesThere for copy editing.

Impact of Vesseling

I jerked awake, my body rigid with fear. The nightmare was still gripping me.

It had all been so real. Stephanie's teeth had flashed and snapped dangerously close to my face. Flecks of her spit had sprayed my eyes as she barked and screamed in German. Danny had been swinging his arms wildly. I had felt his fists whipping past the side of my face fast enough to break bones.

My heart was beating so fast my chest ached, the sheet beneath me was stuck to my skin, soaked with sweat. Afterimages of the violence played in the dark, their swears rang in my ears. But I couldn't move, because even as the nightmare's spell faded, a new terror was taking its place.

My room was... wrong.

I could feel the space around me, feel it as it should be. I knew where everything was. I knew the narrow bed was pressed into the corner, against the wall. I knew it! Likewise, I knew where the window and door were... or, I knew where they should be, but my eyes were wide with new terror. What light there was, was coming from an impossible direction. There were too many shapes and too many shadows.

Paralyzed by fear, eyes frozen in my skull, I tried to desperately understand what I was seeing. I could see two doors rather than one... Nothing I saw made sense.

All around me unfamiliar things, where nothing should be. The unfamiliar things were cut by harsh streetlights where no streetlights should be and from windows where no windows could be.

A profile of streetlight I was staring at began to resolve itself as a pale gabled shape - strangely ribbed - like a bony roofline floating in the darkness. The sloping extrusion was framed by thick black lines that looked to be drawn in air... And then I finally saw it and felt my body unwind in relief.

I was looking at Claire's rolling rack!

The empty hangers were all pushed together, forming a single bony slope catching the low light. The blonde wood shoulders of the hangers seemed to glow, weightless in the dark. The black iron hanging rack was nothing more than flat lines - like a child's drawing in space.

'One hundred and two...'

I took a long juddering breath and listened to my heart's panicked drumming begin to slow. I had woken up from one nightmare directly into another. For awful seconds, that felt like an eternity, I had been back in Stephanie's apartment, in that bare box of a bedroom with its single window facing a narrow shaft. That thin wall next to my bed, with her on the other side.

The horror was having to face Stephanie's contempt, that I would have to apologize to Danny and my mother and his mother...

None of it was true. I was alone, in my own bed, there had been no fight. No one was angry at me. Stephanie and Danny were both behind me, long in my past and far away. They couldn't reach me anymore, it was all a dream. I could finally move. I pushed my face into my pillow, drawing a deep breath, trying to find Claire's reassuring scent. I was still shaking.

I reached out and turned the clock to face me, it was four in the morning.

My head throbbed but my pulse was slowing down. My heart was slowly relaxing. My chest no longer ached. I lay there in the dark looking at the time. I knew I'd regret it later if I didn't get back to sleep. The dream still felt very close, however - like if I just closed my eyes I would again be in that other room in that other bed, with all those other anxieties.

Thoughts and images - of Stephanie and snapping teeth, of Danny and swinging fists - were spinning around my head in obsessive loops. I turned on my light and looked around my bedroom, taking comfort from the bright familiarity - from my things, from their arrangement in my space - my doors and my windows.

The huge Shakespeare In The Park poster for The Public Theater's production of Julius Caesar covered most of one wall. Even in the dark, I could see the bloody fist, raised in defiance- or maybe one last agony. Paula gave me that poster. I was so excited to carry l back to my sublet. The oversized roll clutched in my arms. I was excited to hang it on my bedroom wall - to give myself something to look at in that vacant room. But Stephanie had seen what I was doing and warned me against making holes in the wall.

Rather than risk losing part of my deposit, I rolled the poster back up, leaving my bedroom's walls depressingly blank.

It had been years since Stephanie had a hold on me, but she could still haunt my thoughts. Even fully awake I could feel the limits of that depressing little room I rented from her like an invisible box all around me.

I sighed and pushed myself out of bed. My mind was already spinning at full speed, better to just start my day - to think about work. Better that I focused my energies on the fucking mess Ben and I walked away from in exhaustion the night before.

My steps were a little uneasy as I made my way to the kitchen, turning on lights.

My apartment wasn't ornate, but my fifth-floor walk-up was the Palace of Versailles compared to that little box of a room. Stephanie's building had been old, but her apartment had been freshly renovated. Everything had had the same hollow sheetrock anonymity of recent construction. The common spaces had been cheery with her furniture and things, well-lit and airy - so it didn't matter.

My old tenement's plaster and lath walls were wavy and cracked and imperfect, but intact and wonderful in their particularity. The stove and refrigerator were new-ish, but otherwise, my little studio was a time capsule.

It had modest ornamental flourishes that I absolutely loved! The deep picture rails that ringed the rooms below the ceilings and the high skirting boards that circled the floors both had fussy old-fashioned profiles. Likewise, the carved moldings around the doors and windows. Then there was the funny little stick-and-ball spandrel that decorated the overhead space separating the living room and the tiny kitchen...

I was distracting myself with nonsense.

My Starbucks wouldn't be open for another hour and a half... Jesus, why do I know that?

I loaded the espresso maker and set it on the stove. Leaning against the sink I can feel the last wisps of sleep and the nightmare lifting from me. Just the smell of the coffee helps. I've already lost the particulars of the dream. With a little effort, I can make myself forget the rest.

I pushed myself to picture Keith's whiteboard, the to-do list Ben and I had made before we left... we had listed a lot of tasks I knew I could get done by myself, fast.

Ben arrived before eight and was impressed when I showed him how much I'd gotten done.

"When did you get in?!"

"Hump day!" I cheered. I was on my second cup of coffee from the grab-and-go cafe on the third floor - the only one that had been open when I got in.

Ben looked at me suspiciously.

"What time did you get in?"

"Too early," I admitted, turning my monitor so he could see what I was working on. We weren't ready to go live, but the version I was running was no longer a garbled mess.

"Holy shit. Sarah!"

We went through my work. I was energized by Ben's reaction. He was blown away.

"You must have gotten in at five?!"

"Pretty much," I conceded. My first half hour reading through and answering condolences didn't count.

I should have just posted to Facebook the obituary I wrote with my mother at the same time we sent it to The Western New York Catholic and The Buffalo News... but instead, I'd put it off.

I had put it off the night before as well. I had been too tired when I got home to even open my email, much less to sort and read the condolences. The first thing I did when I arrived that morning was to open my email. I'd received more overnight, almost all the condolences were Brown connections, but there were some odd, non-Brown connections too.

There were also a lot of Facebook alerts, so I went there. And sure enough, my friends had been leaving condolence messages on my most recent post - which was a picture the waiter at Frankie's had taken. That dinner seemed like a million years ago, a whole different lifetime. Kwasi was in the center of the picture. Sitting at the head of the table looking very pleased with himself. And why not? He was surrounded by beautiful women. On either side of him, leaning in to be seen, we were all smiling. Rebekah and I were cheek to cheek. We looked ecstatic.

I quickly "liked" all the comments people had left, and then started a new post. I used the picture of me and my dad on the rocket slide and captioned it with a shortened version of the obit.

Before leaving Facebook, I clicked over to Claire's page. I had had to convince her to open an account.

"Everyone is on it!" I told her. She had laughed and teased me.

"Everyone?!?" she chided.

"Not old people," I'd conceded dryly.

"Little bitch!" she laughed in outrage, but she had joined!

She still wasn't very active, but I was excited to see she had posted pictures from Fire Island. I hadn't noticed before because she didn't tag me. There were pics of us eating ice cream, Claire and the Bobs playing monkey in the middle, Kip in the Pink Beast, me lying on my stomach, making eyes at the camera... topless. You couldn't see my nipples, but I was very topless. Maybe that's why she didn't tag me... Although it was more likely she just didn't know how.

The post had a lot more likes than I expected. I liked it too then clicked over to see her friends. She had connected to a bunch more people since the last time I checked. I recognized a couple of the girls from the gallery, Jessica, the bride-to-be, people I didn't recognize. Looking through the pics I was especially interested in the men, anxious I might find her ex, Bernard, but he wasn't there.

'I am being silly,' I realized. Claire had told me he was much older than her. 'Old people aren't on Facebook!' I reminded myself.

I found myself checking her relationship status. It said single... so was mine.

'I really do need to deal with the emails!' I told myself.

I closed Facebook and spent a few minutes composing a boilerplate reply - that my father would be missed and that it meant a great deal to me and my family to hear from everyone, how much I appreciated their kind words, blah blah blah...

For most of my replies, I just copied and pasted that generalized response, but a few required more attention.

I spent a longer time on my reply to Rebekah and Ali, who had both been emailing me in the aftermath of their visit and had been blindsided by the news. They had written to me separately to give their condolences but I replied to them together. I apologized for having not written sooner, letting them know that I loved reconnecting with them, that they both meant the world to me, that I was sorry they hadn't found the news out from me, and how grateful I was to them both for thinking of me now.

I didn't write to them as a couple - not exactly. Rebekah was married after all, but in my mind, they were linked... at least for now.

The other reply that I ended up spending the most time composing was Darci's.

She had been the very first to comment about my father's death on the Frankie's post. Some of the non-Brown emails I'd gotten were from people who had heard via Facebook, but most everyone who emailed me didn't mention Facebook, if they mentioned anything they mentioned Darci - like my professors but friends and faculty from The Round too... It was clear she was the one who had been spreading the word.

The comment Darci had left on Facebook was brief but eloquent. The email she sent was much longer. It was compassionate and even sentimental. She acknowledged that she and Kwasi had split, told me how much she loved me and valued our friendship, and how much she hoped we would "stay close". From anyone else, I might have cried. From Darci...

I was fucking seeing red.

Even after the heartbreak of Rebekah and the humiliation of Stephanie, when Darci began to show interest in me I had thrown myself at her, holding nothing back. Not for a second did I protect myself from her. Instead, I exposed myself totally. I told her things I hadn't told anyone else at Brown, anyone else at all. I must have been like a puppy the way I mooned over her. I remember friends accusing me of snubbing them because I spent all my time with her. I had been in love with her and she had known. How couldn't she?

And when she wanted Kwasi to watch me lick her pussy "like a bitch", I did it. I had been so happy doing it. I had wanted her to see how excited I was, how badly I wanted to please her. I didn't care that my best friend was watching. I would have done it in front of everyone. If, instead of kissing her, I had been dared to lick her pussy, I would have done it.

She used me that night, then just shut me out, like I was nothing.

I have no idea what she was up to with her flowery condolences, what she thought she was achieving by spreading the word; what any of it might mean to her. Maybe she just wanted to be a part of the drama? I didn't care, because I knew how she really felt about me. I knew that she had been talking about me behind my back for fucking years - all the time keeping me at arm's length, humiliated and lovesick. She had seethed with resentment and jealousy, but never to my face. She didn't even show me the courtesy of hating me openly. Whatever fucked up shit she was up to, her email smacked of self-aggrandizing passive-aggressive emotional manipulation.

'She's fucking love bombing me,' I realized.

I wrote and rewrote my reply to her a half dozen times. I accused, name-called, and vented years' worth of confusion and hurt, but in the end, my full reply read:

"Thanks for reaching out."

'The "BITCH" is silent,' I told myself.

I didn't even sign my name. The unsaid should, I felt, be more than clear enough. And if she didn't understand where it was coming from, let her take a turn being confused.

'Fuck you and your agenda very much, Darci, whatever it is.' I was crying as I pressed send. As it turned out, her reply was the only one that made me cry.

Keith arrived about an hour after Ben. He apologized for sleeping late even though it was still well before nine when he got in. He had kicked Ben and me out at eleven the night before, saying we all needed sleep.

We showed Keith what I'd done.

Ben had already combed through my code, cleaning it up and debugging it. Something I appreciated, Ben would never just fix the problems he found when he checked my code. Instead, he would go through, sometimes line by line, explaining what he saw and why he liked it or didn't like it. There was lots of grunting and grumbling. When he spoke it was usually to say "pretty" or "not pretty" - but when he changed anything he would explain the fix - usually pointing out how much more "pretty" or "elegant" or "less ugly" the fix was.

Rather than use my Zaha code as a template, Ben had decided to use a JavaScript library called D3. The substitution had made everything a little more difficult, because D3 was brand new to both of us, but after two days of banging on it together - and then the patching and trimming, and loading in data sets I'd done that morning - it had finally produced dynamic, interactive data visualizations that looked great across browsers. Working with Ben was like a master class in coding - taught by a rumbly brown bear.

Evidently, Keith had gone home the night before discouraged about our chances of finishing on time, but after we took him through the new work had changed his mind.

"We can do this!" he said, as much to himself as to Ben and I.

By mid-morning, I was flagging. I took orders from Ben and Keith, explaining that Starbucks wasn't open yet when I came in.

"Jesus, Sarah, what time did you get in?"

"Too early - luckily!" Ben laughed.

I smiled and bowed to him. It felt good to have impressed him.

Even though we were trapped inside, we all wanted various iced coffee drinks. The drink

run would clear my foggy head.

It was too hot out, and I had had too little sleep. I had had violent nightmares two nights in a row. Even if I couldn't remember, I knew what they were both about. Walking crosstown I remembered that fraught summer. How hard I had wanted to impress Stephanie, how shocked I'd been by Danny's rejection of the city, and how total the city's rejection of him had been.

"What kind of fucking animal SHITS IN A CAR?" he'd cried, blindly swinging his fists so fast and hard I was afraid he might hit his windshield or car door and break his hand.

"FUCK THIS FUCKING SHITHOLE!!!" he bellowed at the skyline, before finally turning on me.

"This is what you WANT? THIS?" he spat, gesturing with his fists at the turd, at me, and the city behind me. "You want to live LIKE THIS?!? In this fucking shithole? WITH THESE FUCKING ANIMALS?!?"

I had tried to convince him to drive the car back to my block. I'd offered to clean the shit and glass for him but he was done. He rolled down the remaining windows, wrapped his face in a t-shirt, and peeled out with the thief's stinking turd riding shotgun. I had had to jump out of the way of the fishtailing Charger, had been left crying in the street, choking in a dense cloud of burnt rubber.

He never did tell me when or where he finally stopped to clean the shit off his passenger seat, but he did admit regretting not accepting my offer of help. From what I could glean from his mother he had driven hours before he found a place to pull over and get rid of the turd, and then had to make a couple more stops to find cleaning supplies and deodorizer. As it was, he drove the whole way home with the windows down and his face wrapped in a t-shirt. His mom said nothing she did could get the smell out. He sold the Charger a few weeks later.

I get why he was mad, but no one should ever be left to cry themselves hoarse in the shadow of the FDR.

When I got back to the apartment, tear-streaked and red-eyed, Stephanie was awake and watching television.

She was drinking a tall glass of whole milk, her preferred hangover cure. But she was wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt over her translucent underpants - not her usual morning after gear, which left NOTHING to the imagination. She was sitting on the couch Indian style, but the shirt was long enough to cover her crotch. Perhaps this rare concession to modesty was a nod to the fact that I had a gentleman visitor. After all, for all she knew Danny was meant to have returned with me.

Either way, she hardly even glanced up at me, which I was thankful for, since I was a puffy mess. I hated the idea of her seeing me that way.

I faced away from her while I closed and locked the door, then ducked my head and turned my face away as much as I dared, making a beeline for the bathroom. I took a cold shower, letting the water wash away my tears, but I also hoped to chill any inflammation. I made a basin of my hands, and let the water cool my hot face. There was nothing to do if my eyes were bloodshot, but hopefully, they wouldn't be puffy and swollen.

What I really wished I could wash away was his furious howling from my memory. My whole body was shaking, but not from the cold water.

When I got out of the bathroom Stephanie was in the kitchen, smoking and making eggs. Pale and hollow eyed, she looked as hungover as I felt.

In general, I found her breakfast prep harrowing to watch because she usually cooked in nothing but her weird transparent underpants and bra. She seemed oblivious to the dangers of popping grease. Stephanie was made of sterner stuff, evidently. Her belly totally bare, her nipples and vulva clearly visible and protected by nothing but the rayon or viscose or whatever the fuck her extremely flammable looking Eastern European panties we're made of.

That morning, at least, her belly and cooch were protected by cotton. Her shirt was even long enough that it almost covered her butt. I was weirdly grateful for this show of modesty, even if Danny wasn't here to see it. The concession to the fact that I had had a visitor felt like maybe a peace offering? If it was, it was the only acknowledgment she made of the fact that she'd lost her temper with me or the fact that I'd had a guy stay for the weekend.

Still, Danny had stayed two nights, you'd think she'd be curious about him, about our relationship. But, as it turned out, you'd be wrong.

It was just as well, I felt so fragile, I probably would have burst into tears if she had asked me anything about Danny.

And whatever she heard or didn't hear through the wall went entirely unmentioned. There were no sly looks or smirks that afternoon, which was a little disappointing but didn't surprise me. Teasing seemed out of character for her.

There was nothing passive about Stephanie's aggressiveness.

I realized that as angry as Danny was at me, it was The Überfrau's anger that I was preoccupied with. I wondered if fucking Danny for her had helped dispel that or if it was just one more twisted and fucked up thing I did for myself. She wasn't being friendly, but she never was.

It didn't matter,

'I'm moving out in two days anyway.'

That thought gave me a stomach ache. So I got dressed and went back out, to shop for some lunch fixings, and to get some privacy to call my mom, but also just to get out.

Walking up Lexington I stumbled on Curry Hill. It was a funny short block crowded on both sides with Indian and Pakistani specialty shops. Saris, vintage shops, restaurants, and there, right in the middle of everything, Kalustyan's! The Armenian market was a magical kingdom of Indian and Asian spices, Middle Eastern specialty items, and teas, but also the biggest selection of exotic grains, dozens of rice varieties, and more pulses than I'd ever seen anywhere.

I all but forgot about Danny and Stephanie for an hour and a half. Wandering the aisles, I stopped to smell EVERYTHING and ended up buying WAY too much - especially considering I had no idea where I was going to be living in two days. Call it a burst of optimistic denial. Whatever it was, I needed it.

Kalustyan's was my very first happy place in NYC, and best of all, it was barely a ten-minute walk from Pentagram. I could come here for lunch!

When I was finally done exploring and shopping I sat on an iron stoop just outside the store. Everything I bought fit in one bag, but it was heavy and dense with cellophane envelopes of spices and bags of dried goods; everything was labeled with the store's yellow and orange sunset labels.

My bag at my feet, I called my mother. There were parked and double-parked taxi cabs as far as the eye could see. Cabbies were fueling up at the Indian restaurant next door and the Pakistani place across the street. Oblivious to them and ignored by all, I tearfully told my mom what had happened with Danny, and how upset he'd been.

She had been shocked when I told her what the thieves did, but not surprised that Danny had gotten so mad at me.

"He was just lashing out," she said, excusing the way he'd screamed at me. "I'm sure he feels terrible. I'll call Janet, and check in."

Danny's parents and my parents had become close friends over the years, although it was never as natural a friendship between the moms as it was for the dads. Part of it was Janet was almost ten years older than Amelia, while Danny's dad and my dad were the same age. The other part of it was Janet was Super Mom, and Amelia was just... Amelia.

When I got back from Little India, Stephanie was still on the couch watching TV. I kept to myself, working in the kitchen to make a week's worth of tabbouleh and couscous for my lunches. I was also quietly panicking about where I would live come Tuesday, and trying to work up the nerve to ask Stephanie if I could stay an extra night or two. I offered her a bowl of tabbouleh salad, but she just made a disgusted face.

That's when she surprised me.

"Phillip will stay in Germany until September," she said out of nowhere. Phillip was her absent roommate. "You can have the room if you want it."

"I, yeah!" I cried with comic desperation. Stephanie's eyes went a little wide with surprise. My exclamation hardly sounded like words. "No, I do... want it - to keep it!" I said a little more calmly - but not much.

Stephanie, clearly amused by all this stumbling and stuttering, laughed and smiled. iIt seemed to be a genuine friendly smile that reached all the way to her eyes, but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared.

"Cash in advance," she added, having reverted to her blank-faced mean.

"I can have it by Tuesday," I said nodding, having no idea how I might get the money I would need in cash by then. But I had already paid through Tuesday, so that was as far off as I dared push it. It seemed to satisfy her.

If I wasn't already surprised enough, she turned off the television, went into the bathroom, and started putting on lipstick and eyeliner.

'Was she going out?!?' I boggled. Her date the night before had ended in whiskey dick, but still!

I watched out of the corner of my eye as she crossed to her room in her beige transparent underpants, jet black hair pulled back, face made up. I was at the kitchen table, finishing my Momofuku leftovers when she came out a minute later in tight jeans and a little top.

She gave me a look that was challenging but not unfriendly as she was closing the door.

"Good night?" I said to the empty room, blinking at the closed door. My sorrow about being attacked by Danny was now officially, totally forgotten. I jumped around the room silently screaming in joy - afraid if I actually screamed she'd hear me from the stairwell and regret her offer, or make fun of me or charge me more or something...

But even after I calmed down from the news that I didn't have to move out on Tuesday, I was left with the thrill of knowing Stephanie was on the prowl. It was like a drug. But that night had a special intensity.

I wanted to wait up but I was too afraid.

Obviously, something had changed after Danny's visit, she had asked me to stay after all. We were both sluts now. But even so, I knew if she came home alone there might be another confrontation. I couldn't risk that. What if she withdrew her offer for me to stay...

These were the sorts of arguments I had with myself about masturbating in the feild house locker rooms, in Dr. Hendron's office, or in any other public place I might find myself in the company of women, but just alone enough...

I got ready for bed, and even though I needed to get to sleep, I found myself gravitating towards the couch. Again, this was the exact same way I struggled with myself before masturbating in public.

I stood in the living room for a long time, looking at my spot - farthest from the television, closest to the floor lamp. My face was still wet from washing it. I chewed my lip, knowing I really should just go to bed.

Just like masturbating in the women's locker room and Dr. Hedron's office, my whole body urged me to do what my mind was insisting I must not do. I was playing with fire. I knew I should back off, and give it a rest. I even went into my room, climbed into bed, and lay in the dark, my whole body thrilled at the knowledge of what Stephanie was doing.

I pictured her walking into a bar. It was Sunday night, there would be no rowdy crowds. Everyone would see her coming in, taking her seat, ordering her drink. Stephanie must have a reputation. Bartenders and bar regulars must have known her, seen her picking up men,

I couldn't sleep. I wasn't remotely tired.

I got back up and switched on the lights, tried reading. But even with a pillow to lean against, and my newly christened sheets and the pretty white quilt, the little room with its dingy bare walls and bare bulb was depressing and dim. I truly hated doing anything but sleeping in there - well, that and the other thing...

And the other thing was compulsive.

Before she had accused me of waiting up for her I could tell myself I just didn't want to be in that gloomy airless room. But that night, as I got up and padded into the living room I couldn't lie to myself about what I was doing or even why.

The part of me that wanted to see Stephanie with her date, also wanted Stephanie to see me waiting for her... that part of me finally won out.

'Why shouldn't I?' I asked myself. 'I'm paying rent, after all!'

I knew my justifications were just that, but I couldn't stop myself. I had lost the fight. I settled in on my end of the couch, my stomach in knots, my leg bouncing nervously.

'I have every right to use the common spaces!' I told myself, sounding petulant, even to me.

As I curled up my legs under me I was... agitated.

The tangle of fear and sexual thrill was so intense I couldn't even focus enough to read the dirty bits of a schlocky romance novel. So I grabbed one of Stephanie's photo magazines instead. I stared unseeing at page after page of ads for lenses, camera bags, and tripods. But I was interested to discover how many pictures of naked women the otherwise tech/gadget-focused glossy contained. Looking through the pile, it turned out each issue featured a spread.

A few were photojournalistic. Those tended to be violent and horribly graphic, pictures a war photographer might take but no credible news magazine or paper would run. The first of those I found showed the aftermath of a riot or a revolution in Haiti. Bodies lying in the streets in pools of blood, mutilated by machetes, skin horribly cracked by fire, burning tires around their necks. I avoided those spreads, and focused on the naked ladies instead.

The nudes were straight out of Playboy - except, less porny and better photography... maybe? I didn't really know. The few opportunities I had to see an actual Playboy, I'd been too guilty and ashamed to really look.

I had found Danny's stash once. I'd peeked, curious to know what he was masturbating to - girls like me it turned out, but in lewd poses I was afraid to even imagine taking. But my mortification had outweighed my curiosity, so I only glanced at those girls. Stephanie's magazines were different. They were technical, and they belonged to a professional woman - and the poses were less lewd, more... artistic. I felt much less guilty looking at Stephanie's girls than I had looking at Danny's. I allowed myself to study the pictures, even enjoy them. They were all so beautiful.

Flipping through the magazines, searching for these spreads also distracted me from the terrible risk I was taking.

I lost myself in page after page of smooth flesh. The models were all so young and wonderfully sensual; swollen-looking breasts and erect nipples, long thick waves of glossy hair - black, brown, and golden blonde. I told myself I was just admiring them, that I was getting turned on because Stephanie would be home soon, and it was exciting to imagine posing for a photographer the way they were...

Danny had wanted to take pictures of me. I never let him. He said I had the perfect body. I knew what he meant, that with my breasts and ass made me look like one of the girls in his magazines. I wasn't fat, just the opposite, but I had a soft body. Danny often made a point of grabbing and holding me by my belly while he fucked me. I knew he thought I looked like a stripper or a porn star. I didn't like to think of myself that way. I liked to think I had a generous body, that it was just that the models in Playboy had generous bodies too. So did the girls in Stephanie's magazines.

Like me, none of the them were fit, but also like me, they weren't overweight either. All the models had soft curves and were skinny-fat - like me. They were all much sexier than me. They had watery gazes, languid poses... parted lips. But they all looked weak like me. Like they would give in, the way I always did...

Thinking about that made me sad. To distract myself from this realization I thought instead about what the models weren't.

None of them had hard sharp tits, like Stephanie, or looked strong or strict like she did. Stephanie's body wasn't generous or soft. She wasn't languid, or watery. Her mouth was wide and she had full lips, but she kept them sealed in an expression of perpetual disapproval. She was tall and lean, even her curves were sharp. She was almost fat-less. Her ass was muscular and tight, there was nothing weak about her. Her beauty was feline and predatory, like a half-starved cheetah.

Stephanie was skinny-hard.

Her hips were too big for her flat belly, her pelvis stretched her skin like sharp horns covered in hide. Her bones poked out everywhere; at her shoulders, elbows, knees, and hips, stretching her skin. I imagined she must have left bruises on the men she fucked; dueling scares.

Her knuckles always looked a little chapped and raw. Her palms were tough and hard. Her nails weren't short, but they were usually unpainted or badly chipped and almost always dirty.

Until I met Stephanie I had never imagined filmmaking or photography as hard work, but I'd watched her easily handling big black nylon equipment bags and plastic "pelican" cases that I knew were too heavy for me to even lift. She was as strong as most men. And I had grown to admire her mercurial work ethic. I never knew when she was going to work or not work, how early or late she would get home. She kept strange hours. But it was clear that, whenever she did work, she worked very hard.

I reached for the remote. Turning on the television and muting the volume, I began searching through the cable channels looking for the channel I knew was there.

My family hadn't had cable since we moved out of the big house on the cul-de-sac. Even if we could have afforded cable when I was growing up - which we couldn't - Dad was against it on principle. So I didn't really know what I was looking for. But I knew that what I wanted was there somewhere. And finally, after searching through public access and foreign language stations I found it, but what I found was as unlike Stephanie as could be.

The big flat screen was flooded by surging flesh.

At first, I wasn't even sure what I was seeing. But quickly an obscene horizon line resolved itself. Pale smooth female flesh, round and soft was above. Darker male flesh, hairy and thickly veined, was rising up from below. It was a huge cock, shiny and engorged, sliding in and out of a woman's pink, perfectly hairless asshole. Hands gripped her buttocks, holding her cheeks wide. His hands, big and hard looking, black hair dusting his knuckles, squeezed with bruising force. Her hands were narrow, with thin fingers and long manicured nails, clawed at her own soft flesh.

I had assumed I'd find softcore, the late-night fare girlfriends whispered and laughed about watching on sleepovers. I never had. This was my first glimpse of porn and it was anything but softcore.

The camera cut to show her face. With the volume muted it was impossible to tell if she was screaming in agony or ecstasy. Her neck was stretched and the arteries in her neck stood out. Her face and chest were flush scarlet. Her lips were pulled back exposing her teeth, jaw open. She looked animal. Her eyes rolled sightlessly in her head.

I had hoped to find a woman like Stephanie to watch, but this woman was like the girls in the photo magazines... and me. She had big breasts and soft weak muscles. Her skin was fair and flush - she wasn't faking. Whatever she was feeling, agony or ecstasy, I was convinced.

I stabbed at the power button and stared at the dark screen, thankful I'd thought to mute the volume. I was breathing like I'd been running.

That's how Stephanie found me - flush and out of breath, not because I was still watching porn, but because when I heard her coming up the steps I jumped out of my seat and ran on tip toes to the kitchen, pretending like I was looking for something in the cabinet.

As she pushed the door open she took a look around the apartment, a quizzical expression as her eyes searched the empty living room. Maybe she expected to see Danny was back. When her attention settled on me - stretching to rummage innocently through the mugs - she almost looked... amused? Whatever it was, she didn't look angry to find me awake, however.

Most importantly she wasn't alone.

"This is..." she started, then faltered, looking back at the skinny boy-man she was leading in.

"Mike," he offered helpfully, with a little wave.

"Right," she agreed, giving me a disdaining smile as she led him past the kitchen. "Mike!" she echoed.

Mike was hardly as tall as Stephanie and smooth-cheeked. He looked young enough to be a high school boy. I found myself looking at his crotch. His tight jeans held a healthy-looking bulge. Glancing nervously back to Stephanie I saw she was watching me. She seemed to know what I was looking at. But rather than give me a look or make a comment she reached over and turned off my reading light. I felt myself blushing crimson, but she just laughed.

Everything was out in the open it seemed - between Stephanie and me anyway. Mike looked confused but happy as she led him to her room.

Stephanie looked back at me as she closed her door, a knowing smile on her face.

I switched off the kitchen light and, grabbing my wine glass, hurried to my room so I could listen to her stripping him while I undressed. I heard Mike laugh. He sounded nervous, but the laugh was cut off - if I had a guess, with a kiss, but maybe she just covered his mouth with her hand. The silence stretched as I climbed naked between my sheets. I started touching myself in anticipation of her moans. I didn't have to wait long. They both began to moan.

They were kissing.

Stephanie was definitely pleased with Mike. I listened to her coo encouragement as they fumbled with boots and belts. Her bed creaked as they mounted and positioned themselves on it.

Maybe because he was so young, she sounded especially cheerful and animated.

"Take this off!"

"Come over here!"

"Oh ya, very nice! Look how big!"

And then they began to fuck, hard and then harder - because that's what she wanted. She was not shy with her demands. There was no slow build with Mike.

"Fuck me hard!" she told him. And he did.

"Ah! Ya!" she called.

"Ya, ya, like this!"

"Faster!"

"AH! Yesss! Don't stop!"

"AH! AH! AAH!"

I suspected from the sounds she was making, that skinny little Mike was in fact quite big for his size. But I was far more impressed with Stephanie, who was being much more vocal with her pleasure than ever before. And unlike Kurt and John, the Hipless Wonder, or Whiskey Dick, she didn't seem to want Mike to fuck her for a long time. I could hear her urging Little Mike cum.

"In me!" she moaned. "I want this. I want you to cum in my pussy!"

I had never heard her say anything like that before.

"NOW!"

And he did. The crescendo was accompanied by the loudest creaking of her bed frame I'd ever heard and her headboard banging so loudly against the wall it shook my bed.

I imagined there would be a pause in the action and maybe Mike did too. But Stephanie had other ideas. It was hard to tell, but rather than a collapse into post-coital bliss, I heard her urging him up and out, and the two of them moving around on the bed, as they quickly repositioned themselves... for, I couldn't tell what.

Only then was there quiet. After a short time, I could barely hear her... she was moaning, but her moans were muddled and muffled.

"Fuck," Mike swore and her moans got louder. But again they sounded muffled and choked, like maybe she had his cock in her mouth.

"Mmmum! Mmmhum! MmHummm!

She was sucking him off, but she couldn't contain herself. Had I ever heard her this turned on?

And he, meanwhile, was gasping in disbelief.

"Ah! AH! Oh God!" he piped.

Seriously, I wanted to know how old this kid was. Where had she found him? There was no way Mike was 21.*

But then it was over. She wasn't sucking to make him cum, she was sucking to get him hard again. And as soon as she did, I could tell, because she ordered him to fuck her.

"Again!" I heard her bark. The bed creaked as they quickly repositioned themselves again. The effect was desperate and comical. I almost laughed out loud picturing the scene.

"Now!" she commanded. "Yes again! QUICKLY!"

And he obeyed.

And again she continued to spur him.

"Harder! Ya, harder!"

"Faster! Ya! AHHH, YA! YAA!"

"Deep!" she commanded. "Cum deep inside!"

And little Mike did as he was told, groaning loudly as he came a second time, and almost as fast as the first. But Stephanie didn't sound disappointed, just the opposite, she sounded ecstatic.

It was hard to know if she was faking her enthusiasm for Mike's benefit - in her effort to make him cum faster - or if her pleasure was from being fucked so hard and fast. But if it was sincere, it sounded like she had already cum at least three times.

I still hadn't cum at all. I could have. I didn't want to.

I was touching myself, but I was holding back, forcing my fingers to be gentle as coy; intentionally edging.

I had cum much too early with John and lay spent and jealous as Stephanie went on and on without me. I had learned my lesson. Stephanie, I had realized, had enormous capacity. She was like Claire. Kurt and John had taught me what to expect. I knew Stephanie could go again. She didn't disappoint, but I was surprised by how quickly my faith in her was rewarded.

After only the briefest of pauses, she started moaning again.

"yah... yah... do it..." she cooed. "aha... ahhhha... yahhh, so good..."

Danny, the Big Bunny, often fucked me three times in a row, but as I listened to Stephanie's building pleasure and idly touched myself, I noticed something strange. When Danny fucked me a third time in quick succession he was almost panicked. He would fuck me especially fast and hard - jackrabbitting into me until he came.

But there was no panicked slapping of flesh, no wild creaking or pounding at all. In fact, Stephanie's bed was uncharacteristically silent. All I could hear were her calm, easy moans.

"ahhhAaahhHHAAhhhhh..."

While slowly growing louder, her moans were a gentle, if building, sign wave; none of the grunts or gasps of deep thrusts. And no accompanying cries or calls from Mike.

At first, I pictured him above her, in control. I assumed he was fucking her soft, moving slowly. I was, at that moment, very impressed by skinny little Mike.

"You are doing good..." she cooed. "Mmm... ya, very good..."

But then I heard him make a series of muffled moans.

"MmmmMmMmm..."

But it was only then, as I realized where his voice was coming from, that I understood. I had heard Stephanie and her willow-waisted coworker in sixty-nine, but that's not what I was hearing with Little Mike.

"Let me see it on your tongue," she told him. "Show me your tongue. Yaaaa..."

I had gulped the last of my wine and was using the glass to hear better, so I could make her words out perfectly. There was no cock in Stephanie's mouth, or pushing in her face. She was watching Mike. Telling him what to do.

"Suck it," she urged. "Swallow, swallow it all."

I could tell her voice was coming from the head of the bed. I could see her in my mind's eye, up on her elbows, looking down on him.

"Mmuhhh, mmuhhh..."

His moans were closer to the foot of the bed.

"There, ya, right there... suck this!"

And from her tone, I could sense her building excitement... she also sounded a little detached, maybe even instructional? His moans sounded... stressed, maybe even miserable.

I felt lightheaded.

The one time I asked Danny to go down on me l, was more of a, "Do you want to try?" rather than a full-fledged request. Danny had given up without even trying, saying he didn't like it.

I would ask him again, after this, on a trip home that next winter, not long after my disastrous threesome with Darci and Kwasi, after Darci had licked my pussy. I had been so drunk and she hadn't finished, but the touch of her mouth to my sex had been so tantalizing. I had wanted to feel it again so badly. I had wanted to imagine it was her while Danny licked my pussy the way I had licked hers, like a bitch.

I did more than ask the second time, I begged. I wanted it so bad, I pleaded with him to please do it. But that second time he hardly even licked me before he quit in revulsion. He told me I tasted disgusting, that my pussy stank. I was mortified and never asked him again.

When I was with Darci, I was so drunk I hardly knew what was happening when she went down on me. But when William wanted to compensate for his micro penis by going down on me, I wasn't drunk, and I remembered clearly what Danny had said, and told him no.

But what was most terrible of all, was how Danny's rejection seemed to account for the way Darci treated me afterward our night together - how she wouldn't even speak to me, like I had disgusted her. I was convinced I'd stank, that she had found me revolting. That was why, when William pressed to go down on me I told him no.

"I'm good at it!" he promised. And I believed him, but I was still so desperate to impress him, still so desperate to convince myself I loved him... or maybe to convince myself I loved him, or could love him... or something. Either way, I was terrified he would find me revolting, that he would reject me the way Darci and Danny had.

And that was why I rejected Claire's attempts... she had to literally beg to go down on me. I made her plead and cajole, seduce, and finally explain how much she wanted to lick my pussy before I'd even let her try.

I was so terrified Claire would find me disgusting... I've never been able to admit that to her.

Stephanie had no such reservations. I didn't hear what she said to Mike, but I knew it wasn't "Would you like to?"

She was so confident, so strict, and demanding. I'm sure she couldn't have cared less what her pussy smelled like.

I had let go of the glass so I could masturbate with both hands. If I could no longer make out exactly what she was saying, I could tell from her tone she was telling him what to do; her voice was pitched low, and even her murmurs sounded commanding, but not impatient.

No part of me thought he was given a choice, however.

He made a couple of muffled cries that sounded like she was pulling his hair, disciplining or guiding him harshly. Maybe she was forcing him. I had thought about how strong she was, the skinny, beardless little Mike was no bigger than me. It wasn't much of a stretch to imagine Stephanie overpowering him.

As she got more excited she got louder and easier to understand. She was praising Mike like a child.

"Ya, like this! Mmm, yaaa, very good!" she crooned, encouraging him. And if he sounded stressed or unhappy at first, he sounded enthusiastic now.

"MM! mmmM! Mhhh..."

And finally, she came, crying "YES THIS!! THISS!!!"

I was still edging as Stephanie recovered from her orgasm. It was becoming hard to control myself but I wanted to hold out longer. She was so strong, I didn't think she was done, I was hoping she wasn't, counting on her to keep going. That's when she asked Mike something, loud enough to be heard clearly through the wall.

"Do you eat your semen before?" I thought she must be joking. It was too outrageous...

"M-mm..." Mike responded, obediently moaning his denial into her cunt.

"You like tasting your cum," she congratulated him loudly. Her tone was plain as if what she was saying was unremarkable.

This is what she meant when she urged him cum in her. They were having unprotected sex!

Danny wouldn't even kiss me on the cheek after I swallowed his cum, and she was making Mike eat his. I should have felt bad for poor little Mike, instead I was getting off on it. I pictured Mike licking her cunt, sticky with cum - semen all over his tongue, lips, and chin - Stephanie watching him, egging him on.

"I like to watch you swallow it. Show me again!"

I had been holding off my orgasm as long as I could, keeping my movements slow and gentle, but knowing what he was doing was too much, I couldn't hold back any longer.

"You like this a lot I think."

My hand began to jump and spasm, my fingers were almost clawing.

"Let me see you push your tongue inside... yahhh! Suck it all out!"

It wasn't just what she was saying - which was so perverse and so unimaginably shocking - it was that, while she was speaking to Mike, she was obviously speaking for me.

She knew exactly how thin the walls were and was making sure she was heard through the wall. She wanted me to know exactly what was happening on her side of the wall because she knew exactly what I was doing on mine.

"Show it to me on your tongue," she ordered Mike. "That's a lot! Let me see you swallow it."

Mike was still licking her pussy, because I could hear his muffled moan of agreement, but he must have lifted his head. Stopped for some reason, tried to say something maybe - whatever it was he did, it made her angry.

"Don't stop!" she snapped.

And he didn't stop, and neither could I.

"You cum so much," she congratulated, her voice still loud and clear. She could have been talking to me

Her bed was quiet but mine was shaking and creaking. I was biting down on the side of my free hand, desperately trying to stop myself from crying out. Still, I was sure she could hear me.

"Eat it all!" she demanded.

"Nnnnnn!" I cried, biting my hand as hard as I could.

I knew she was listening. I wanted her to.

My back arched and bowed as the orgasm crescendoed.

Panting and spent, I lay in the dark touching myself idly while Stephanie urged Mike on, insisting he keep licking her pussy, telling him how, and then became inarticulate as she climbed towards another orgasm. I was mystified and jealous of her power over men, but more jealous of her physical power, her endless endurance, her endless capacity, wishing I could cum again and again the way she could, that I could cum again and again with her.

"Your roommate sounds complicated," Paula told me the next day...

"You have no idea," I agreed, blushing.

She had asked me why a journalism major was interested in design. She was in a good mood and wanted to chat!

I answered that I thought journalism could be more visual. That a lot of complicated stories could be told more simply with visuals.

"Show don't tell," I explained.

I could tell she liked that answer because she asked if I'd ever seen Edward Tufte's work. I had not, Paula was the first person to tell me about his books. She then started telling me anecdotes about Tufte, who she called ET.

"He's a statistician, but has made a career teaching and writing about Information Visualization - I can't believe you've never heard of him - he's your guy!"

She was in a great mood.

I waited until there was a pause, but before she had entirely talked herself out - while she was still feeling expansive - and just blurted that Stephanie was going to let me stay through the end of my internship, but I had to pay a full month in advance, plus an additional two weeks for the month's deposit, that I had to pay by tomorrow and that she would only take cash.

This has all come out in a rush. Hence her comment about Stephanie being complicated.

I worried that she was going to tell me Stephanie was too complicated and that she would again tell me I needed to find a new place to live, but right away I could tell I had chosen my moment well. Rather than snap a reply Paula was considering my request. She wasn't going to just dismiss it out of hand.

"I'll forward you the cash," she told me finally. "But rather than take it from your paycheck, I want you to come to work for me at the loft. Can you work Saturdays and Sundays?"

"I can!" I told her. "I'd love to!"

And it was true.

As it was, I was dreading my days off. I had NOTHING to do on the weekends, no one to spend them with, and was terrified of the credit card debt I was running up. Weekend work for Paula would be a Godsend.

"I have a gallery show of my paintings coming up," she told me seriously, which confused me. I had no idea she was a painter, so I just nodded. Paula was, in my experience, as punk rock as a middle-aged woman could be. I tried picturing her in a garden, sitting primly in front of a spindly folding easel, daubing watercolor landscapes. The image was entirely unconvincing.

"I've had prints made. Everything needs to be cataloged and ready to go to the gallery at the end of the month," she explained after she'd been to the bank. "Saturdays and Sundays, ten to six, in my loft - you will earn this back," she told me, handing me the cash. "You will not let me down."

"No ma'am-"

"Don't!" she said, pulling the money out of my reach. She had been hectoring me about calling her ma'am or Ms. Schere since my first day. I was getting better, but I still made slips. It felt super strange calling her Paula.

"I won't let you down... Paula," I told her seriously. "I promise."

She handed me the cash and I thanked her for the help, telling her how grateful I was. I think my grateful obsequiousness made her uncomfortable because she snapped at me, telling me to get back to work. I all but scurried away.

That night, walking home with that envelope full of money in my bag, I felt very proud of myself. I hadn't called my mom or Kwasi for help or even advice. I'd done it myself. I was adulting!

The memory of that walk still makes me proud.

I clearly remember how I had counted out the crisp hundreds, fifties and twenties Paula had given me. How Stephanie had watched me, perhaps counting along in German in her mind.

'Eins, zwei, drei, vier..'

I watched as she retrieved her funny old carbon copy receipt book, sat herself down at the kitchen table, and carefully counted out the bills before writing me out a record of the exchange. Tearing out the original, she handed it to me, keeping the carbon copy for herself. I remember feeling like we were acting out some form of East German kabuki. I also remember feeling optimistic. Like Stephanie and I had passed through some sort of bottleneck and here we were on the far side, meeting as equals.

After that ritual was performed she went back to the couch and the show she'd been watching. After changing out of my work clothes and a quick shower I poured myself a glass of wine over ice and joined her. She was in her weird translucent underwear, and I was in my sleep shorts and tank top. We were deep into the dog days of summer with no AC, both of us sweating it out in our underwear. Too hot to sleep, too hot to even talk or eat or move.

She was watching a marathon of a British real estate show called Grand Designs on some fifth-tier cable station.

"There are like five seasons," she told me when we were two and a half hours in. It was evidently one of Stephanie's favorite shows.

"He's such an asshole," she said about the show's hoity-toity announcer, Kevin McCloud, as he expressed amused disbelief that the episode's young couple could possibly finish their home on the schedule and for the budget they'd proposed.

It hadn't occurred to me until she said it, but she was right. Although even a newby to the show like me could tell that the best part of each episode was when McCloud would question his guests' grand designs, or more particularly their budgets and timelines. His smirking smugness in these moments was pure comedy gold.

"But that's why it's so good," I suggested, which made her snort.

"Yes," she agreed, staring at McLoud with new intensity. "I think this is true."

It was the longest exchange we'd had since our fight, although it wasn't much of a fight since I hadn't fought back - maybe "dressing down" was a better descriptor...

Whatever it was, by putting on a show with Danny, I had successfully made amends and allayed the anger she felt towards me. And clearly, loudly fucking Mike for my benefit was Stephanie's way of extending an olive branch. She was being friendly, in her strange East German way, and I was eating it up in my fucked up and twisted way.

Five episodes in we were still going strong. Stephanie had popsicles and offered to share. We ate the whole box, sitting together on the couch. She was drinking Jim Beam on the rocks with her popsicles. I was drinking chilled wine over ice with mine. Her combination looked disgusting, mine was delicious - maybe a little too delicious.

'Careful, Sarah!' I warned myself.

I was not careful.

On its own, box wine was dangerous.

I bought it because it was CHEAP. A three-liter box cost less than a bottle but contained as much wine as four bottles. What makes box wine so dangerous is how deceptive the packaging is. If you drink half a bottle of wine and go to pour yourself another glass you can't help but see that the bottle is half full - it's an early warning. A cardboard box has no such transparency and a MUCH deeper hole to fall into. Finishing a bottle is a hard stop. You have to make a conscious decision to open another bottle. Again, not so with a box. And in the heat, with the ice and the popsicles, I blew past all restraint.

We ended up getting drunk together... or at least I got drunk. She seemed to match me, a glass of whiskey for every glass of wine I poured, but all the same, I couldn't keep up with her.

I finally hit a wall around midnight. My head was beginning to spin.

"Work tomorrow," I mumbled as an episode about a guy building a house in a cave wrapped up. "G'night!"

When I finally lifted myself off the couch and trundled off to my room I was zonked. And despite taking enormous care as I crossed the living room, I stumbled at my door.

I heard Stephanie laugh at me as the door shut, but she also wished me a good night, maybe I was fooling myself, but the laugh didn't sound unfriendly.

I only realized how much I'd drunk that night when I discovered the next day that I'd EMPTIED my box. It hadn't been full, but still, that box should have lasted me the rest of the week.

Stephanie was in her room with the door closed the next night when I got home. She kept to herself, listening to music, but not loud. I figured she must be working. I went to bed early after a long hard day at work and very little sleep. I'd been miserably hung over all morning Paula had been able to tell. She had sent me to work with the other interns collating and packing fundraising mailers for the New Museum. We'd all had to be on our feet all day.

The work was fussy and required close attention because each mailer was customized for a different contributor. Little name cards had to be perfectly folded and interred into slots, individually addressed letters, signed by the museum's director, had to be coupled with the correct portfolio... on and on.

While the others made jokes and visited, I kept to myself. When lunch was ordered in, I went out and had a Diet Coke in a miserable little pocket park, too ill to think about eating, much less watch anyone else do it. The "black doctor" helped settle my stomach, but when I got back I could tell I'd made yet another mistake. Jamal made a crack about me being too good to eat with scum like them. The others all laughed, I didn't try to explain.

Friday was better, I was out of the dog house. Paula gave me directions to her painting studio in Brooklyn. I promised to be there on time.

I treated myself to dinner at Republic on Union Square that night. It was a bustling noodle shop writ large. It had super high ceilings and was half a block deep with long tables where patrons were squeezed in family-style. It was the classic ramenya layout, but on the scale of a beer hall - and crowded like both. Even sitting alone I had to wait to get seated, but not long.

The after-work crowd made for fantastic people-watching; the tables were packed with every variety of young New York professionals. We were all sitting shoulder to shoulder, everyone was talking loud; arguing, laughing, flirting. I was in love with New York and New Yorkers, I realized. I never wanted to leave.

It was still light out after dinner, and there was a beautiful cool breeze that was a relief after days of humid stifling heat. Union Square was filled with people - everyone seemed to be enjoying the break in the weather. I didn't want to go straight home and ended up spending a few hours browsing used books at The Strand, then Left Bank Books. I stopped at a couple thrift stores as well, perusing the racks with a few other lonely girls. I justified my Credit Card purchases with my new weekend job.

'I can afford this!' I told myself, holding up a beautiful little summer dress.

Finally, I returned home with all my booty.

I found the apartment empty, but the bathroom mirror was fogged from a shower, the tile was still wet. She must have just left. I felt a jolt of excitement.

Stephanie was in pursuit.

I showered and changed into my little shorts and my tight little top - no pretense at modesty. I settled down on the couch with a pile of books and a glass of wine. Most of what Stephanie had to choose from was tumblers, mugs, and pint glasses. The wine glass I used was the only one in the apartment. I had come to think of it as mine. It was nowhere near as elegant as Claire's glasses. It was small and thick, probably filched from a bar or restaurant, but I remember I thought it was pretty; that using it had made me feel adult.

Among my purchases had been another box of wine. I promised myself I would be more careful, but I also conceded that it was Friday night and a girl deserves a treat!

Again, a box of wine is VERY DANGEROUS.

Boxed wine is a Black Box System. If it's working correctly you never even pick it up, just press the spigot... It surrenders NO information until it tells you are absolutely FUCKED. The first signal you receive that you've probably had too much to drink is when you start feeling drunk, and by then the damage is done.

The other Black Box System I lived with that summer was Stephanie. Because of the way she had been towards me when she came home with Mike, and because of how we had enjoyed Grand Designs together, I had relaxed. Again, I had no way know it yet, but I was absolutely FUCKED.

I was tucked into my end of the couch reading Tufte's Envisioning Information when I heard the key in the lock. My stomach dropped when I saw she was alone, but not out of disappointment, or because she looked drunk again - although she did. What spooked me was she looked happy to see me - in the way a bully is pleased to see a nerd.

She kicked off her boots, throwing them by the door.

Idly looking at my pile of books, she leaned over and mugged an appraising face, corners of her mouth pulled down, bottom lip stuck out, eyebrows raised.

"Nothing to listen to tonight," she sighed, stepping directly in front of the couch and looking down on me. I remember trying to cover myself with my book. I felt exposed and naked the way she was looking at me.

"I disappoint you," she accused.

Stephanie wasn't just intimidating because she was so stern. She was taller than me and strong. But that night she was also drunk and belligerent, her cheeks were red with an alcohol flush, and she was slurring a little, her accent was even more pronounced. Most alarming however was her mood. It was giddy and aggressive.

"I'm not disappoi-" I started but she kicked at the couch, making me jump.

"Get up," she told me. "Come on, STAND! Let me see mein spanner!"

"Wha-"

"STAND!"

I did as she said, but she wouldn't make way for me, so I sidled to one side but she followed me. She was standing too close, crowding me, smiling down at me. I remember her breath stank of Jägermeister, that her smile didn't reach her eyes. And it was only as I got up that I realized the box had fucked me again. I was unsteady on my feet, my body felt distant.

Have I mentioned how dangerous box wine is? She wasn't the only one who was drunk.

"You like to vessel," she observed.

I remember being confused by the nonsensical non sequitur. I hadn't had the foggiest notion what she could possibly mean.

"Vessel?"

"Vesss-seL," she repeated, flecks of spittle making me blink as she spat each syllable. "You like to vessel," she cried, speeding through the word again.

When she saw I still didn't understand she raised her voice.

"VESSEL!"

She pushed me and I stumbled back away from the couch, tripping on the coffee table and catching myself from falling. She stepped after me, moving fast. We were in the middle of the room, she was between me and my bedroom. She was practically on top of me as I steadied myself.

"You and your boyfriend VESSS-STLE!" she shouted. Her face was too close to mine. I couldn't focus. Her mouth was in front of my eyes, teeth flashing. I remember how big they looked, how menacing. I was too afraid to move. I was stiff with terror.

My wine-fogged brain finally caught up to what she was trying to say. She was mispronouncing "wrestle".

'Fight Club!?!' I realized with horror.

"No, we-"

"VESSEL ME!" she ordered, shoving me again. I stumbled back and she grabbed at my arms, catching me before I could fall, pulling me back to her like a doll.

Her grip on my arms was like wood.

"I want to see how strong you are!" she demanded shaking me and releasing me, letting me stumble.

"I'm not-"

But she was on me, throwing me to the ground, knocking the air out of me. I was literally too shocked to react, I went limp.

"Fight back, tunte!" she barked, and finally, I tried, swinging my free arm wildly, kicking my legs as hard as I could, my knees pounding her backside.

"Is this how you fight him?" she demanded, her mouth close to my ear.

She wasn't even breathing hard, I couldn't catch my breath.

"Is this the best you can do?"

She was laughing at me. I was pinned face down, one arm twisted behind my back. I kicked lamely at her, hitting her as hard as I could with my heels, trying to dislodge her. She grunted but ignored the blows. Bigger and stronger than me, she easily forced me over onto my back so I couldn't kick her. My arm was twisted underneath me now, she was holding it by the wrist, wrenching it upwards, twisting it. Her other hand held me by the hair. She was straddling me, bent over so our faces were close. All I could breathe was her sickly sweet licorice breath. She bore down on me with all her weight. She was hurting me but I couldn't move, I felt tears coming, making it hard to see.

"You're pathetic and vveak."

Her face was very close to mine, the syrupy smell of Jaggermiester burned my eyes. With her free hand, she grabbed me by the hair and forced my head back bringing our mouths very close.

"Open your mouth," she ordered.

I didn't know what to do.

"OPEN IT!" she yelled, and I did. I didn't think, I just did as I was commanded, opening my mouth as wide as I could. That made her huff a laugh of approval, clearly, I'd overdone it. I kept it wide open, too afraid of what she would do if I closed it even a little.

"Like thish," she murmured, her eyes losing focus. She was even drunker than I first thought. "Shtay like thish."

Holding me tight by the hair she held my head to the floor and pulled away from me so I could see her face clearly.

She seemed to gather herself, to sober up a bit, her eyes clearing and focusing again. No one had ever looked at me with so much contempt.

"Keep it open!" she commanded, even though I hadn't made any move to relax my jaw. She then centered her mouth above mine and pursed her lips. For an instant, I'd thought it was some strange drunken attempt at a kiss, but then she forced a froth of thick mucus through the buss, holding it suspended over my mouth so I could see it.

Then she spit in my mouth.

And I let her.

I just lay there with my mouth wide open with her spit sliding down my tongue into my throat. Her expression of contempt and disdain disappeared as my eyes filled with tears.

"Swallow it."

And I did.

She let go of me and lifted herself off me. Standing a bit unsteady, she looked down on me, eyes bleary.

"Now you can go to bed."

She turned away in disdain, pulling her shirt up off over her head and pushing her jeans down off her hips as she made her way to the bathroom, her underwear in disarray. She didn't even bother closing the door, just stood with her back to me at the sink, washing her face and brushing her teeth.

For a long time, I just lay there listening to her clean herself. I stayed exactly like she left me, arm bent under my back, legs akimbo, shirt and shorts twisted, like a broken doll. My left boob was half hanging out, my nipple fully exposed.

I didn't cry or even get angry, I was too stunned. But I didn't want to still be lying there when she got out of the bathroom.

It wasn't until she sat on the toilet to piss that I finally pushed myself off the floor and went to bed.

* Little Mike is both entirely fictional AND over 18.