Author: Keshia Mcclantoc
Her porcelain face smiled at me, an assurance I neither needed nor wanted. I scoffed at her and wiped the drool from my lips. I'm sorry, I thought, for vomiting on you. She didn't answer, of course, because she was the toilet. Instead I was greeted with a gargled cry and an urging echo as she took my lunch and everything else with her. Anxiety came in many flavors, each with its own unique form of small terrors. This one, of course, had the usual ingredients of shaking hands and sweat parading across the forehead. The vomiting had been a surprise, something to throw a bit of extra spice in there. It was brought on by my heart beating in a furious crescendo and my breath getting caught in every beat. Oh my old friends, you would think by now I would know what to expect from you. Outside, through the paper thin walls of my safe haven there was a ringing crash, followed by a string of expletives. This is the reminder, it said, get back out there. Some hapless soul had taken to branding the mirror in black marker, saying solemnly in wide curving letters "I don't know who I am but maybe this will help." In a singular space, unoccupied by the marked transgression was a sticker, advertising some local band. The person who didn't know themselves must have put the sticker there, as some pretentious gamble, my music makes me who I am man. Maybe I didn't want to hear the angsty cacophony of your garage band, maybe a bitch just wanted to check her reflection.
If you look up the word slut on Urban Dictionary, it tells you a slut is a girl who will sleep with anyone. Of course, when looking up the definition for anything, I turn to the true lawmaker, the Oxford English Dictionary. Slut, a woman of dirty, slovenly, or untidy habits. Slut, four letters, one syllable--two in the mouths of the right people. In its one syllable form it's delivered in a sharp swift cut, or the twisting of the knife in a previous injury. In its two syllable form it starts off tight to begin with, falls fat and round at the end. It's like that first heavy raindrop that hits your face right before the rain falls. Why not say both versions to yourself, practice them a bit. Do you hear that, the weight of those words as they leave your lips?
Coming out of the restroom, I was hit with the cold slap of my anxiety all over again. The bathroom was behind the stage and I had to scoot along between the edge and the graffitied wall, while the band, tuning up and dragging equipment around for their set, stared me down. I didn’t see them seeing me, of course, but I felt the pull of their gaze as I rounded the corner and plunged myself back into the crowd. The people had separated themselves into groups of tall hunching figures draped in flannel shirts, girls whose thighs were accentuated by torn tights, and conversations building and rising in chaotic dissonance. Then, alone, a single lingering figure with hands shoved in pockets.
Type: mediocre white boy, mid-twenties and still dressing like his sixteen year old self. Expression: monotone--and have fun trying to shake that look into anything else besides boredom. If you asked him what he thought of some nameless pop star's new video, then maybe his face would contort in disgust, and he’d tell you with great indignation, eyebrows raised, what real music was. Not too tall, not too skinny, a lot of greasy hair, shoved under a sagging gray beanie. His face was indistinguishable, only made unique by the sharpness of his jaw, the straight edge of his nose. Looking in the crowd I could see twenty or so more versions of him. It was almost like their soft suburban mothers got them all on wholesale at the Gap, and deposited them with lipstick smiles saying, “Make good choices.” The correct answer would be the rolling of the eyes, the pierced lip saying “shut the hell up.” This one, though, unlike his counterparts, belonged to me. Or maybe not belonged, he was attached, like a leech I had placed on myself. It wasn’t the first time I wondered again about why I had invited him.
“Hey,” I said, approaching. His response was immediate, a quick smile and a brief glance at me before settling his eyes on my chest. No, by some strange magic, my tits didn’t fall off in the bathroom, thanks for noticing.
“So, do you know if this place is kind to smokers?” he asked, flipping his pack out of his pocket, lighter twirling in his other hand.
“Well, I mean, people go outside,” I said, nodding vaguely towards the door. I crossed my arms over my chest, and he answered by letting his gaze follow mine outside.
“Well then,” he said, taking out a cigarette with surprising deftness and sticking it between his front teeth, “You cool?”
It’s okay Julia, it’s just me, we’re cool.
“Yeah,” I said with a dry nod, “I’m cool.”
When he opened the door, a cold rush of biting winter air swept in and he caught the glare of a few naysayers. The venue was entirely too small for this massive crowd. What it lacked in width and length, though, it made up in depth. The ceiling rose into some dark shadowy abyss, segmented by an interlocking labyrinth of rusted pipes. Honestly, it had to be shit for acoustics. Even in their individual groups, the people had been tightly packed. This type of crowd, though, liked the bumping shoulders and bouncing music. Once the band started playing they would have their own little pocket of chaos, and, like a pack of wolves, they would devour it. It was the guy, though, and not the crowd, that had stirred my anxiety. With him gone it was easier to breathe. You could to tell, within fifteen minutes of talking to any guy, whether they wanted to take you home or leave you at the curb. Every impression he had given me so far had been that of former. He hadn’t even wanted to come here, instead he suggested we hang out back at his place. For what, I thought, Netflix and chill? I had been insistent, though, “No, really, my friend invited me and I can’t let her down.”
It was the truth, Xandra had invited me. I didn’t let him know, though, that Xandra didn’t want me to invite him. She was across the room know, surrounded, per usual by a flock of guys. Her smile circled around all of them as she giggled, made witty comments, and everything else a nice young lady was supposed to do when entertaining a group of young gentlemen. Her eyes caught mine and her smile stretched deeper, sinking into her dimples. I approached them and became Moses, a shambling opening form that allowed me into the circle.
“You okay Julia?” she asked and I nodded vaguely in response. It was hard for them to resist her, I knew. She was just the type of fine packaging they all dreamed of; small and petite but curvy as well, with big blue eyes, and a pouting bottom lip that she would bite lightly, a signal here, to let know she had other plans for those lips.
“Your date seems kind of…” she let herself trail off here.
I needed to tell her believe me, Xandra, I know my date isn’t up to your standards, but instead I said, “He’s not my date, he’s just a guy.”
“Well, if you wanna come over after this tonight, you can,” she said, casting me a sly grin. I returned it weakly and let myself fade away from the circle. One of these guys would end up the lucky one, the one Xandra would pull back into her apartment, kissing and giggling as she fumbled with the the keys. Perhaps she would turn on the light, let them see her as she pulled off her shirt. Soft skin, luminescent in the fluorescents, and her breasts two perky mountains, cupped in the lace of her bra. Or maybe she would keep the lights off, guiding them through the mess of her living room and pushing them unto the bed. If I did go there tonight, then of course I would join them, because Xandra always made me join them.
The first time it had happened, she hadn’t asked me before, but instead took my hand and pulled me into her room. I was too caught up in the logistics of it, of what to pay attention to. There was so much going on and too much effort to be put into everything. And didn’t it bother them too, that the bed was squeaking too loudly, that we were all sweating too much, that I hadn’t even said once, “Yes, this is what I want.” It had been the first time since the last time, and when I cried afterwards she apologized and told me, she had just wanted to make me feel good. She knew it was wrong, after what happened, but that she wanted me to feel good about sex again. I told her it didn’t matter, and when it happened again I let it take me away, like one of those lazy river rides at one of the ten thousand water parks parents dragged their kids to. i just let it pull me along and I didn’t make much effort to get out.
“Hey,” someone said, grabbing my wrist. He was one of Xandra’s followers, casting a sudden line out to me. I noticed immediately that he was ideal for her, generic enough to fit in with the faceless others, but distinguished enough to catch her attention. His hand, lightly gripping at my wrist, was made of long, cold fingers.
Julia, you’re freezing, let me warm you up.
“Xandra told me your name was Julia, I like that name,” he said, quick to the point, casting me a glance from my head to my toes.
“Yeah, it is,” I said, pulling my wrist from his grip. “And you’ll have to tell Xandra I won’t be coming to her house tonight.”
His disappointment washed over his face in quick succession and he shrugged before joining Xandra and the rest of her zoo. Behind me there was a gust of cold air, and my anxiety joined me back at my side, the fresh smell of cigarettes on his breath and the red chilled cheeks pulling up along his smile. Just as he reached me, sound spread out across the mike, silencing the crowd. Finally, the band was ready.
Almost immediately I noticed the guitar player, because it was the thing I always noticed. It was hard to detach the music from the person; it must be integral to their persona. But this music, loud and overwrought, sharpened like a knife against the oppressiveness of society was nothing like the person. The crowd ate it up, bobbing their heads in perfect unison, all along to a rhythm I couldn’t catch. He was soft, with limp blond hair that fell over his bending head. His posture, it seemed, was guided purely by how his instrument moved him. The line, from his shoulder and down the light muscles of his arm and into his fingers, it was a balance, a whole. My companion beside me didn’t notice me noticing someone who was not him. But when I looked back again, I didn’t see the guitar player standing there. Instead I saw the other guy I knew, the one who was a guitar player as well. Hadn’t he too, had that line of balance? Hadn’t he too, let his instrument guide him? Hadn’t he said, Hey, I’m not hurting you, am I? Julia, why are you crying? Don’t cry baby, you wanted this. It’s almost over, now, okay.
Later on, in the car, I went through the motions of making out with the guy who was my date and not my date. I had told him, right after the first song, “You should drive me home.” What he heard was, “Do you want to fuck me in your car?”
This part was easy, to put myself through each individual step. Step one, get the boy in the car. Step Two, mash your lips against his. Step Three, moan like you’re enjoying yourself when his hands find your way into your pants. Usually I was really good at step three, some might even say my performances were award Oscar worthy. This time I didn’t even get a bid.
“What’s up?” he asked, his cheeks flushed, breath catching at the end of every syllable.
“I don’t want to,” I said, short and succinct.
“Don’t want to?”
“Come on,” I said, turning away from him. The anxiety found its way back again, in sudden, shuddering waves that slapped me coldly against the face. It was the scariest thing, saying no. “Don’t pretend you didn’t come with me tonight just to get into my pants.”
“Well,” he said, “That may have been part of my agenda.”
I scoffed and sank closer to the window, feeling his fingers run themselves with creeping tingles up my thigh. The words I said fell back into my stomach, hitting the ocean floor like heavy rocks, ‘I don’t want to’. The seaweed wrapped around them, locking them in place--useless.
“You know,” I told him, “I don’t even remember your name.”
“Whose room is this?” he asked. His arms, around me, wrapped tighter. Too tight, I noticed, for me to wriggle my way out of. I moved my head around, seeing only the dark shapes and outlines.
“I don’t know, someone whose name I probably can’t remember,” I said and then his hot breath was at my neck, balancing suddenly at the edge of him pressing his lips against it. When I dragged myself into this room, I hadn’t expected anyone to follow me. My head had been pounding, and I knew Xandra would have at least another hour of lap hopping before I dragged her drunk ass home. Certified DD services in form of a friend, that’s me. But then Nathan, Nathan from my history lecture, who always sighed loudly, and audibly, every time Professor Richardson went off on tangents about Rasputin. I always noticed, he always looked over at me with an expression that said, ‘not this again.’ Nathan, whose band had played at the party that night, his fingers moving deftly over the strings. Nathan who had come up to me after they were done playing and asked ‘Julia, have you accepted Rasputin as your Lord and Savior yet?” I hadn’t told him to follow me, I had only said I was finding a place to lay down up stairs. I probably should’ve told him I was finding a place alone.
Behind me he pushed forward, finally kissed the back of my neck. For a brief second his arms loosened, and I understood, this is the part where I was supposed to turn around him and kiss him, and so I did. Perhaps after a minute, maybe more or maybe less, he started reaching down and I was aware of pressure, those fingers there, strong and insistent.
“No,” I said, and I knew even then, that he wasn’t going to listen.
“But you’ll like it, relax,” he said and his fingers were there again, pressing.
“I can’t, please, don’t.”
“Julia, shhh,” his lips were brushing over my ear, “you know you want this.”
“I don’t want to. Please, Nathan, stop.”
“It will be over in a minute, come on,” he told me, gripping me with those arms again, moving his fingers down again. I was trapped, and suddenly, I felt suffocated. I couldn’t stop him, because surely if I tried, he would never let me have air again.
Would it have been better if I had fought back? Would he have known to stop? Would you be able to say, now’s there’s a girl to believe when she tells us, she’s not a slut. I didn’t, though, and it was easier that way. I laid there, I let him wash over me. The lazy river ride, pulling you along. And when I started crying, he didn’t stop then. He told me afterwards I should have told him I had never done it before, he would have been easier. He thought I was crying because it was my first time. And then there was the girl, who belonged to the room, who found us in her bed and denounced me as a slut to the entire party. There was Nathan who said nothing, Nathan who had chuckled proudly with the rest, “Yeah, yeah that’s the stupid slut I just fucked.”
I walked home because I couldn’t stand be in his car another second afterwards. He didn’t matter and I wouldn’t see him again. But it didn’t matter, because he was just one of the many nameless dozen or so that came after Nathan. I never really knew my rapist was a rapist, at least not until he told me so. I hated that you had were supposed to say it that way, my rapist—like he belonged to me. The truth was, I would always belong to him. He would always have my answer, the no, the stop, the please don’t—those words were his now. He took them and locked them away, somewhere, seemingly, where only I could hear them. When Nathan called me, weeks afterwards, and told me, crying that he was sorry for what he had done, I didn’t know what to say. He relayed me the story, he had been with a girl and he couldn’t get it up, for his mind was too caught on what had happened with me. I laughed then, because it was so ridiculous, my rapist, apologizing to be and giving me a sob story about not being able to get laid. I knew immediately the laughter, loud and bitter with tears rolling down my cheeks, was wrong. I had offended him, he had tried to make the situation right and here I was, belittling him with laughter. “Well, maybe you are a slut,” he told me. “Yeah,” I answered, still laughing, “I probably am.”
You have to believe me when I say I didn’t mean to be that girl, the one walking home at three am with the taste of some guy’s last score in her mouth. I didn’t mean to be the girl who let her friend pull her into sexual encounters that she didn’t really understand. I didn’t mean to become the girl who became the slut because that’s what people told her she was and sex was all people wanted of her. I was an accident, really, not what I meant to be. The accidental slut on her accidental walk of shame. That’s how life works though, what the person who scrawled on the mirror really needs to know, life is so much easier if you just become what people expect of you. It takes someone brave to defy expectations, and I am not a brave person.
