My Official Website

Head to http://www.peterwknox.com because I paid good money for it, and if you don't go, my $9 bucks will go to waste instead of getting me wasted.

You Can't Leave Freedom

The twenty-four inch flat screen monitor affixed to the blank wall facing the bed blips on. A digital pre-recording of a female’s voice begins its regular task: “Good morning Mr. Winston. Today is Tuesday, September 17^th, 2013. The time is six fifteen a.m. The forecast for today will be mildly cloudy with an average temperature of sixty-three degrees Fahrenheit. The terror level today has been elevated to yellow. In accordance with procedure only transport lines A through G will be in operation. Have a nice day . . . Good morning Mr. Winston. Today is Tuesd-”

Harry grimaces and routinely passes his right wrist over the sensor on his bedside table, silencing the voice but knowing it would return if he remained further motionless. As a calming level of jazz music seeps through the console’s speakers, Harry sweeps off the covers and swings himself onto the floor. He approaches the monitor on the wall and swipes his wrist across its center sensor as he had been instructed to do so everyday. As usual, a jovial priest appears on the screen.

“Good morning Freedomens! Now that you’re all bright eyed and bushy tailed, let us begin our day!” The unnamed priest seems enthusiastic as he regularly did, but Harry rarely shares the same outlook. They both may be middle-aged white males, but Harry doesn’t need to put on a fake smile for anyone. “Now, together as a Nation, May we all bow our heads in prayer and repeat the words our Lord taught us: Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Name . . . .”

It is out of sheer habit that Harry mumbles the prayer, no longer feeling the same unifying sense of community knowing that millions of others were – at that exact moment – standing before their respective standard government issued consoles reciting the identical prayer of religion along with the balding head priest. Following the prayer, a shapelier nun takes the priest’s place on the console, leading her required viewers in Holy Exercises. “Now remember Freedomens, a healthier body means a healthier you, and if we are all God’s temple then a stronger temple we shall be.” Gone are the days of portly monks and pudgy nuns - once the Nation was declared morbidly obese, God had to step in and mandate morning workouts. Harry prefers the nun’s portion of the morning routine to the priest’s renditions of the Lord’s Prayer reminiscent of a cruise ship emcee working the crowd. At least during his stretches and cardio reps with the nun, Harry can think for himself even if he can’t avoid mimicking the on-screen body movements.

Soon, the nun ends the session with her signature sweaty smile and the daily morning program begins its loop as Harry deposits his used sleepwear in the laundry chute by the console and walks nude to the corner shower. Clean and dried off, Harry opens his drawer marked “Tuesday” and removes the pre-selected wardrobe mandated for daily wear every third day of the week. The working class is allowed colored ties, and Tuesday’s tie is yellow. Appropriate for the day’s terror level, Harry thinks. The yellow tie falls right into place with Harry’s regulated black suit and white shirt as he leaves the bathroom and enters the small apartment kitchen.

Opening the cabinet marked “Morning Meal,” Harry removes a small container labeled “Tuesday” and places it in the food preparation chamber. As he waits idly for his breakfast, Harry looks to the console adjacent to the kitchen. “Just be glad you’re not one of the ‘working poor’ because they’ve already been awake for hours preparing the meals you’re about to enjoy. And now in National News-” BEEP, breakfast’s done.

Harry sits down at his kitchen counter on the only stool in the apartment, sipping his instant coffee and poking at his soggy pancakes. He lets out a groan as the daily government statement slides down his nearby mail chute precisely on time. Reading over columns of presidential praise and congressional congratulations, Harry’s mind wandered back to the changes that shaped this situation.

President Macomber was supposedly serving his second and final four-year term in 2007 when crisis struck. For the second time in six years a deadly terrorist attack was made on the Nation’s soil, killing close to ten thousand people, rendering the Nation paralyzed. Macomber said he could never leave his people in pain, and that he would carry out his duty to the end. When people questioned whether a president should be allowed to serve unlimited terms, Macomber said they should be concerned with the war on terrorism instead, that it was a time for the Nation to unite, not pick itself apart.

In good conscience, Macomber said he could never leave his country in shambles and true to his word, stayed on as President of the Nation. His third term brought drastic changes affecting the lives of all “Freedom-lovers” in the Nation, or “Freedomens” he called them. The new policies were seemingly insignificant at first, like the terror alerts and increased military patrols in cities, and then as more channels on television were cancelled and more publications shut down, people took notice.

“The liberal media is at war with the Nation,” Macomber said. “It’s bad enough that our men and women are fighting abroad to keep us safe at home, but when our Nation is at war with itself is where we Freedomens must draw the line. Our media seeks to expose our Nation’s weaknesses, attack our leaders, and turn our fellow citizens against us. The media is creating a civil war at the profit of our Nation’s stability, and if I am to provide for you a continued safe way of life, then I must implement The Information Protection Act.”

The Act initially caused quite a stir, pitting liberals against conservatives in defense of the Nation and what its Freedoms entailed, but when the military made its rounds, people sooner relinquished their contraband items than their personal Freedoms. Since movies, books, video games, and similar mediums of entertainment inspired laziness, violence, insubordination, and worthless idealism, they also were outlawed. The massive media information source called the “Internet” also violated The Information Protection Act by allowing libelous and malicious content, and therefore deactivated by the Nation in 2008, soon replaced by the console in the interest of factual, accurate, and constructive material. As Macomber passed the Act, the consoles came into existence. Now, with a console screen controlled by the Information Agency and displayed precisely everywhere, citizens all had access to the same source. The government compiled its daily updates in regularly distributed statements and upheld day-by-day routine with its required consoles.

Harry Winston held one such government daily in his hands, scrolling the headlines for anything new. MACOMBER’S FREEDOM FORCE TWARTS ENEMY ATTACK ON POWER PLANT. Seems like every week another act of terrorism nearly misses the Nation, so Macomber must be doing something right. VIOLENCE & RAPE AMONG CITIZENS AT ALL TIME LOW. The Information Protection Act has really brought media derived crime to a standstill throughout, thank God for man’s newfound stability and the government control responsible for the peace and safety of citizens. IMMIGRATION DIFFUSION HALTED, NATION CREDITS INCREASED SUBDERMAL ARM CHIP POLICY & WALL DEFENSE.

Once Macomber implemented the new Nation’s citizen protection plans at the turn of the decade, there has been less foreign infiltration in its cities. After the plans called for the erection of sixty-foot impenetrable walls to surround each layer of the city, the next step instituted only rightful citizens to have official access. The Department of Technological Defenses then invented the “Freedomen Wrist Code” which mandated all legitimate citizens stand in long lines outside the wall to be cleared by the government for citizenship. This citizenship is final once a unique digital chip is permanently inserted between the tendons of the right wrist. Harry tenderly massaged the slightly raised bump inside his, a digital code that carried more weight than any birth certificate, driver’s license, or passport. A scan of this wrist not only quieted the console’s wake-up call but also gained him entrance to transportation, his office, and his apartment.

A sip of his stale coffee and overcooked eggs, Harry glances over the next page of the paper. STATE SCHOOLS SQUELCH THREATS IN PERFECT SOCIALIZATION OF YOUNG CITIZENS. Harry can barely remember when he had a choice of where to attend school since the government decided in 2008 that private schools were responsible for much of the dissention and discontentment among citizens. Presently every youngster is a part of a same program educating them in the ways of the new Nation. The government-controlled schools are dictated by the ruling class and taught by the working class to groom citizens for the all-important “Citizen Test” to be taken at age sixteen. Harry, lucky enough to have obtained a college degree before Macomber’s reformation, can still recall sitting in an isolated cell prior to full citizenship, the fifty-page exam opened in front of him. There could be no mistakes when taking this test, as there are no second tries, and the consequences of failing sentence the individual to a lifetime of labor among the “working poor” that perform the necessary blue collar labor that keeps the Nation in functioning order.

Harry had understood that the test would not question his intelligence, just simply his allegiance. Macomber’s government had made it clear that either you would agree with the Nation’s policies and graduate to a working class level of Freedomen citizenship, or you would work outside the sixty-foot walls without a wrist code as a member of the working poor. And to Harry, signing a document proclaiming your love of “Freedom without question as to its authority” was far more important than spending his life knee deep in the sewage of obliging citizens. After seeing several friends tear up the Citizen Test and be escorted out of the testing area, Harry could’ve taken a polygraph test and passed, for it was those that didn’t resist the reform that would live in reasonable comfort even if it meant waking up to a console every morning.

His sixteen by sixteen foot apartment represents the contract he had with his Nation that he would follow their rules and eat his Tuesday crumbly muffins without complaint because he has a job that didn’t require menial labor. Looking up at the muted console, Harry sees he had seven minutes before his district departure and finishes his breakfast, scanning the rest of the paper for news. NATION PHARMACUITICALS INCREASE LIFE EXPENCTANCY & ENJOYMENT. That reminds him. Staying seated he reaches for his case of prescription pills. WINSTON, HARRY. TAKE ONCE EVERY MORNING, MANDATORY UNDER CITIZENSHIP. He had once questioned what was in the pills the citizen psychologist prescribed him following the passing of his test, but after swallowing the first pill right there in the office the doubt disappeared and had yet to return. If he had to take them, he would, because not taking them would mean disobedience and he was a Freedomen for fear of not being one.

BREEEEEEP. “DISTRICT DEPARTURE FOR HOUSING THREE THROUGH EIGHT, SEVEN A.M. REPORT TO YOUR STATIONS IMMEDIATELY.” BREEEEP. “DISTRICT DEPARTURE FOR HOUS-” The console catches Harry off guard although it is precisely on schedule. Frantically, and without thinking, he swallows the rest of his coffee and disposes of his waste in the garbage chute on the countertop. Rising from his chair, Harry immediately realizes his error in routine. The prescription pill lay on the counter and Harry had already finished his coffee. He hates taking the pill without liquid and even though his daily instructions dictated that he ingest his dose prior to his workday, Harry knows it is likely he’d choke on the large pill without water to wash it down. However, he must report for work immediately or he’d be chastised, so in his haste, Harry pockets his lone pill and walks out the door as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

Macomber’s reformation brought about much more than the censoring of the media and military enforced curfews for the preservation of Freedom. He separated those stubborn traditionalists that questioned and held his political decisions accountable from his loyal followers in the united and blind pursuit of Freedom. The new Nation would separate the melting pot of citizens into homogenous housing districts so as to avoid citizens from encountering undesirables on a daily basis. Macomber took all those that successfully completed full Freedomen citizenship and divided them based on race, gender, and sexual orientation rather than attempt to correct or tolerate all the differences. After all, differences between Freedomen would undermine the whole idea of being united as a Nation, free from doubt of another’s loyalty.

The resulting Diaspora created an African Freedomen city, a Caucasian Freedomen city, an Asian Freedomen city, and a Hispanic Freedomen city. Within each city the genders were divided into two sub cities and following subsequent testing if any citizen was foolish enough to admit to a homosexual lifestyle, they were demoted to the working poor since their sexual orientation presented a risk to the real Freedoms as permitted by the Nation’s religion. Each separate city was built so that the sixty-foot wall protected the working class from the illegitimate working poor supporting its function. Inside the wall, each housing district operated independently on different timetables, utilizing the transportation and office space at optimum efficiency. The military force not fighting for equal Freedoms overseas removed those that questioned, challenged, or deviated from the strict rules surrounding the upholding of Freedom under President Macomber.

Harry Winston steps onto the monorail transport in line with the other suited male members of his housing district. The transportation tunnels are holes of gray concrete connecting the apartment compounds to the office complexes and the stoned silence of routine commuting drown out any opportunity to converse on the way to work. Assuming that most of the working class will spend their day in office chairs, the monorail transport boasts no seating, efficiently sending dozens of men holding onto the overhead railings as the transport speeds away from the apartment depot.

Inside the transport, Harry sees the same men in the same order he sees every day of the week. The consoles lining the walls above the railing keep most from making eye contact as gazes are directed upwards, collecting information throughout the short commute to work. Every ten minutes the transport stops and several men filter out of the monorail and into unmarked entrances. Harry waits for his stop and deliberately exits the transport in line with the man in front of him. From the office depot he marches under the eye of consoles and armed military officers alike, arriving at a sealed elevator along the tiled wall that denotes his destination.

Using his right wrist, noticing slightly more pain than usual, Harry swipes his embedded code across the sensor to the right of the steel elevator door, opening the doors to reveal a coffin sized space for one and enters. Standing alone and feeling more claustrophobic than days before, Harry senses the jolt in the elevator as it transports him vertically to his personal cubicle as designated by his unique wrist code.

Suddenly he’s alone in his cubicle, a gray box whose only entrance and exit lay in the elevator that brought him there. Sitting at his desk, Harry notices the bottled water in his government provided icebox and reaches for the pill he had stowed in his pocket, but it’s not there. In a panic, Harry frantically searches both pants pockets before checking his suit and shirt pockets for the prescription pill. “It must have fallen out,” Harry surmises under his breath. “Good Lord, this is an act of treason in itself!”

Almost on cue, Harry’s computer comes to life, booting on its precise time schedule. Gripped by his unwilling insubordination, Harry sits in a sweat, frozen to his imitation leather office chair. On the desk before him lay the papers he had worked on the previous day and computer with a mind of its own. “Good morning Harry,” greets the speakers on either side of the computer. “Is everything alright? I sense elevated stress patterns emanating from you today.”

“Everything is fine, computer,” Harry lies. “I’m just afraid I did not get much sleep last night and had to rush to get here on time today.”

“Well in that case my procedures advise me to recommend that you take ten minutes to collect yourself so that you may reach optimum productivity today. The Nation needs you, Harry.” The computer screen displays an animated paper clip as studies have shown the working class responds more favorably to a soft-spoken office supply than a blank screen and omniscient voice, but Harry knows that the voice is still omniscient.

“I think that’s an excellent idea. I’ll let you know when I’m ready for today’s figures.” Harry is grateful for the borrowed time but knows he must use it to lower his blood pressure. As fake as the chair looks and feels, it is equipped with sensors that monitor his body as to evaluate his health and output at work. Spinning away from the computer screen, Harry stares at the blank gray wall staring back at him. Closing his eyes, he takes deep breaths as he begins to relax and his mind starts to wander.

Suddenly he feels something he hasn’t felt in a long time, causing a delay in recognizing the rush of blood south to his crotch. Struggling to place the sensation he hasn’t experienced in five years since he began taking the prescribed pills, Harry realizes he’s horny. He relaxes his mind and thinks back to his college days when all he thought about was sex – how to get sex, who to have it with, and when he could have it again. And immediately it clicks in his mind, “of course! To keep us focused and working efficiently, we’re prescribed drugs to keep us docile and sexually dormant!” Having lived the last five years in a male only colony hopped up on sedatives; Harry hasn’t so much as touched himself to thoughts of a woman. This enlightenment triggers an immediate physical reaction that excites Harry to the point of moving his hand towards his genitals until he remembers he’s sitting on a chair documenting his every action.

“After violence, sex is the worst aspect of our culture of Freedom. It makes animals out of rational, logical, and moral citizens and its prominence in media has given citizens the impression that sex is more important than anything. Well, it’s certainly not more important than Freedom. The religion states that sex is wrong, masturbation is immoral, and physical indulgence for the sake of anything less than reproducing is morally reprehensible. Our new Nation won’t have any of that filth clouding our future. Apply for citizenship and one of its many benefits will be moral straightness and eternal life in the eyes of our Lord. You’ll be a smarter worker, a happier individual, and a better person for undergoing the next step in evolution. These are the words of your President Macomber.”

And with that vision Macomber divided the sexes, exiled the homosexuals, and killed the sex drive of his citizens. The young were taken from their parents and placed in state schools where their libidos were stunted as well. This action, founded in the Nation’s religion, ended sex crimes and increased general self-esteem among citizens. No longer were women using cosmetics or diet pills or designer dresses. There was no need for money, or bars, or alcohol, or the media. Macomber addressed and improved all aspects of life with the pill developed by the Department of Pharmaceutical Control and distributed to all working class citizens.

Harry stands up abruptly in his cubicle, situating his pants so as to conceal his revelation. “What is the matter Harry? Were you not able to relax?”

“There’s no problem computer. I’m relaxed just fine, but I have an immediate need to use the restroom facilities as my rushing out my house this morning prevented me from doing so then.”

“That is acceptable. Perhaps I will recommend that your wake-up call be earlier so that you will have more time in the future.”

“Sounds good, computer. I’ll return in just a few minutes.”

“Take your time. I’ll have your tasks prepared upon your return.” And with that, Harry turns to exit his cubicle, swiping his right wrist along the wall for entrance to the elevator. Moments later, the elevator deposits Harry in the empty metallic bathroom. Making his way to the furthest stall, Harry notices a government brochure proclaiming the wisdom in the Nation’s newest Freedom Force lying on the counter next to the sinks. He grabs the pamphlet and locks the stall door, flipping through its pages. Finding the clearest image of a woman smiling and waving the Nation’s flag as she stood atop smoldering wreckage in what can only be assumed a terrorist country, Harry cautiously unzips his trousers. Seeing the picture of the woman differently than he had seen any woman in the last five years, Harry pleasures himself alone in the stall, sweat from his forehead dripping onto the brochure’s glossy page.

Closing his eyes in orgasmic pleasure, Harry unloads years of repressed semen onto the brochure he held in his left hand. Finished, he cleans himself up immediately and exiting the stall, realizes the incriminating evidence of his act against Freedom still in his left hand. Afraid to discard the brochure in the restroom receptacle, Harry washes his hands and takes it with him as he swiped himself back into the elevator and away from the stainless steel of the government bathroom.

Thinking clearly for the first time since his rebellious act, Harry begins to panic in the confined elevator, the brochure now slippery in his sweaty hands. Not only had he not taken his prescribed pill for the first time in five years, he blatantly ignored citizen policy on sexual conduct. It was not even nine a.m. and Harry had already committed crimes worthy of deportation. And yet, he had never felt more alive, sharper, and more pleased with himself.

Those good feelings evaporate the moment Harry steps out of the elevator into his cubicle to find a military officer stationed by his desk. The officer, dressed in black Kevlar from head to toe, looms several inches over Harry’s glistening forehead. The officer’s expression was grim to match Harry’s guilty frown.

“What is it, officer?”

“Harry Winston, I presume?”

“Yes sir.”

“Do you take your Freedom for granted, Mr. Winston?”

“No sir. I’d give up anything for Freedom, sir.”

“Then I believe this is yours.” He extends a gloved hand to drop a white capsule into Harry’s outstretched moist palm. “It was found in the elevator last used by you to enter your cubicle.” Harry is visibly shaking, his white shirt suddenly vulnerable under his black suit and yellow tie. “You do know it is citizen law to take your prescribed dosage before leaving your apartment?”

“Yes sir. I was rushed this morning and brought my pill along to take at the office, but had lost it in the commute.”

“Then you’re lucky I found it. Should this happen again you will find yourself outside this city of Freedom with no chance of reentering.” And with that, he notices the brochure in Harry’s left hand. Giving a menacing looking of understanding and disapproval, the officer suggests that Harry swallow the pill immediately. Harry puts down the brochure and, taking the bottled water from his icebox, hesitates for only a second before ingesting the pill.

Pleased, the officer passes the trembling citizen on his departure from the cubicle, grabbing the brochure off the desk. Harry’s concerned eyes turn to meet the officer’s, Harry’s Adam’s apple high in his throat. “Sir, if I may-”

“Listen. You make sure you don’t mess up again and I’ll make sure this whole thing gets swept under the rug because I would hate throwing you out on the streets. But mark my words, this will be your one and only transgression – we are watching you.” The elevator shuts, leaving an unsteady Harry alone in his office.

“I’ve already recommended that you be woken at six a.m. so that you needn’t frequent the restrooms at work. That out of the way, President Macomber needs you to create three different scenarios for Thursday’s press conference.”

“Thanks computer, bring up the files.”

And with that, Harry enters back into his daily routine, never fully realizing how close and how lucky the working poor man was on the back page of the brochure the officer had just confiscated in the name of Freedom.

Verbal Vulnerability

“HOW DO YOU know you love me?”

I rolled over on my side to face her, adjusting the sweaty mass between my legs for comfort. Searching her expression for clues and finding none, I let out a sigh. “What do you mean?”

“I mean exactly that.”

“What? You know I love you.”

“I know you love me only because you tell me so.”

“And that isn’t enough?”

“No.” I watch her pout. She’s laying there, movie naked, where my worn light blue cotton sheets barely cover her chest. It’s a cool afternoon, the kind of day when fall is imminent but summer still lingers. The sun streaks through the dusty slates of my once white blinds, covering me with its warmth, but this time it hits like the familiar light of interrogation.

Wiping the post coital sweat from my forehead, I coyly return her expression, my lower lip jutting out in exaggeration. It works because she smiles and playfully punches me lightly in the arm that isn’t supporting the back of her head.

“No stupid, I’m trying to be serious.”

“Me too,” I respond. And as I do in stagnant situations, I tickle her under the sheets with my left hand, locking her head against my chest with my right. She can’t help but try to stifle her uncontrollable response to tickling. I can’t help but feel like not talking after an especially exhausting lovemaking session. “What do you want from me?”

“You know what I want. I’m trying to be serious here.” And I do know what she wants because she always gets like this. There’s a reason woman are stereotypically the more emotional ones in a relationship, since it’s practically always true.

“Every time we have sex you act like this. Why can’t we just relax and enjoy each other for once?”

“I don’t always act like this.” That’s a lie. “And I don’t want to just relax, I want to know that this means something.”

“No, you just want me to reassure you all the time because you’re insecure.” I relax my arm from around her and pull back slightly so she knows I’m tired of playing this game. The room is small and rectangular, but feels smaller than usual, the bookshelf and posters casually framing my double bed. With the ceiling light turned off, only the afternoon sun creates the cool and calm setting, and by retreating from her body, my exposed arm receives the room’s cooling breath.

She reacts by pulling me into her again. “Is that so bad that I want to hear from you? And especially after we have sex? Is that too much to ask?”

Early in our relationship, she had to deal with other girls always calling me to hook up. After hanging up and never returning their calls, the girls of my past managed to move on, but my girlfriend hasn’t put them out of her mind. It’s something I can understand, but not something I want to keep having to discuss.

It’s a fact that guys don’t want to talk too much after having sex because its one of those few moments during an absolute clarity of mind that guys aren’t thinking about having sex and might be truthful. Women try to take advantage of our scattered thoughts and verbal vulnerability by picking apart conversations, looking for discrepancies in semantics and continuity.

But she looks just as vulnerable and sensitive laying there, now on her side, brown hair spilling over my pillows and perky breasts poking out from beneath my thin sheets. I love her, or at least I think I do. How am I supposed to know if she is ‘the one for me’ or not? And even more so, how am I supposed to know if this is what ‘love’ feels like? Just because I haven’t felt this strongly about any of the girls I’ve been with doesn’t mean this is what she means when she says ‘love.’

“I love you. Is that okay?”

“Yes, but how do I know you love me?

“How am I supposed to answer that? The hours we’ve spent talking? The dates we went on and the times I’ve seen your parents? That we’ve been together for seven months? The flowers and bracelets I gave you? That during that time I haven’t so as much looked at another girl, because I only want you?”

I ended in a huff. I know there is no answer to that question, so why does she have to ask it? Exasperated, I fall deeper into my pillow, away from her pursed lips. Sometimes I wonder how we’ve made it seven months when it feels like all I do is defend my relationship to her – as if it hasn’t been enough convincing my friends to lay off me for dating someone steadily. At least the sex is steady for me, but it usually comes at the cost of these conversations.

She stays quiet for a while. Momentarily I feel bad for snapping at her honest question, but I’m confident any animal would do the same when trapped. The dorm room is small in comparison to hers, but since I don’t have a roommate, we’re over here most of the time, and she always complains because it’s cluttered and messy. Starring at the off-white ceiling, I sense her attempting to break through the uncomfortable awkwardness as her hand graces my chest.

“I’m sorry I made you mad. Everything you do for me is amazing and I don’t deserve to be with you - that’s why I get worried.”

The bed feels heavy with the weight of conversation. The comfort of ruffled sheets and sweat stained pillows can’t counteract the lack of material separating us from the mattress, and suddenly the strain on my spine jolts me to respond and grapple for a comfortable position.

“Yeah, well, I feel the same way. I just get worked up because I love you but it always feels like you don’t believe me. If I didn’t want to be with you, I wouldn’t.”

That seems to satisfy her, but only momentarily. She’s stroking my chest, and I’m breathing heavily, glad to have dodged the first round of questioning. I originally thought that with time our relationship would solidify, yet it’s currently as shaky as ever. The room is silent, only our irregular breathing hyphenates its pause. I can tell she’s thinking things over in her mind.

The second round begins: “Do you ever think about other girls?”

“What? That’s crazy. Think about other girls when?”

“Like when we’re having sex or you’re masturbating.”

“What kind of question is that? I’m not even going to answer that.” She’s sitting up in bed, clutching the sheet to cover her. I’ve resigned to lying on my back, ignoring her inquisitive stare.

She doesn’t give up. “That’s because you do think of other girls then.”

Her playground tactics work: “No, I don’t think of other girls.” I can barely relax, having fended that last attack, before the next.

“How many were there?”

I know what she means. “How many were where?”

“As in women that you’ve been with.”

Feigning ignorance, “Haven’t I told you before?”

“No, you’ve never told me.”

“You realize no good can come of this. Right now it’s already too late. If I don’t tell you, you’ll always wonder, and if I do, then you’ll never get it out of your head.”

We both knew what I had said was true, but the barrier had been crossed, the gauntlet thrown. For months I had been treading on eggshells, apprehensive as to when this day would come. She didn’t respond. She just merely laid her head on my chest awaiting the answer that only I knew.

“Are we talking strictly sex?”

“Uh . . . that’s what I figured, but yeah.”

“Then thirteen.”

“Thirteen girls? Am I thirteen?

“Oh, shit, fourteen.”

“Fourteen!”

She didn’t have to say any more than that to sufficiently let me know of her displeasure. But what could I do? Apologize for my life before I met her? I’m not unhappy at all with my life – there are no regrets for each of the fourteen women on that list. And I knew her number – three. I am the third person she’s been with and luckily for me, they are guys from home I don’t have to see around this campus. She’s already heard from her friends who else I’ve had sex with, she just didn’t know how many. She sees them everyday, and before today, she didn’t have to feel embarrassed to come later on the list.

“And what else?”

“What else is there?”

I could tell that my initial answer wasn’t going to be enough for her. She had a stammer in her voice.

“How many other girls are there?”

“You mean like girls I only did-“

“Yes. How many?”

She doesn’t want to know this; it’s just a follow-up question that cannot be ignored.

“I don’t know.” I’m counting in my head. “I guess I’d say ten or so more.”

“You guess?”

“No, I know.” She has to know. “It’s nine others.”

She’s no longer lying on my chest. She’s retreated to her side of the bed. By now the sun has moved, its redirected rays no longer on me but highlighting the space between my girlfriend and me. She pulls away from my outstretched arm and I remove it having received the hint. And I think, she brought this on herself. There’s nothing I can do about my past. Imagine if I had told her the real number.

Mile High Red Eye

IF MIKE BELIEVED in fate he would’ve thanked it for the beautiful woman seated next to him. Not only had she noticed him noticing her at the airport bar, but the seatbelt sign was illuminated and there was no chance she was leaving for anywhere at thirty thousand feet.

“First Class Flight Non-Stop from Miami to New York,” the pilot interrupted the casual yet increasingly intense conversation between the two. Mike is tan and rejuvenated after his business with the Courtyard South Beach Marriott. Working in advertising was one thing, but being good at it landed him all the plush clientele. Spending a week restructuring their current ad campaign to include the Cuban demographic meant a lot of pool parties, and working for the Marriott meant a free suite.

However, as productive as his afternoons had been, Mike’s nights were quite disappointing. Perhaps his trip expectations were a little high for an introverted advertising agent in his late twenties, but as good as Mike was in approaching a foreign board room crowded with stuffy suits, groups of females were far more difficult to please. Mike managed to sell hair products to bald people but found he could never seem to sell himself. In fact, since Susan dropped his product line one year and a half ago, Mike hadn’t been laid and his lack of confidence was slowly killing his liver with a bottle of scotch each night.

Living in Manhattan without a girlfriend became a bigger issue for Mike’s friends than himself. Mike would sit there quietly enduring the life stories of friends once removed only to politely turn down the pity sex he felt he didn’t deserve. Even his friends had stopped setting him up on dates because they all ended the same - Mike mumbling a goodbye and hailing a cab home. Eventually, Mike would take the money he’d usually spend on dinner and buy a top-shelf bottle of scotch instead, drinking it on the nights his friends went on dates, and soon substituting his friends for Chivas Regal and internet porn.

Mike isn’t a bad guy - just not as social as his friends. And that’s not say Mike didn’t try. He joined bowling leagues, poker clubs, and attended the theatre. After awhile, it’d always end the same. If he didn’t talk to people, they usually didn’t talk to him, and nothing would come of the experience. He didn’t hate his life - it just wasn’t going anywhere.

This was an afternoon flight, meaning Mike had already consumed his morning Bloody Mary, his massive margarita with lunch, and a scotch in the airport. It was between staring at the fake mahogany counter through the thick glass in the bottom of his glass that he noticed her. She approached the bar with the authority of a professional wrestler entering the ring, slapping her money on the table and pointing to the martini glasses. Mike should’ve realized she was a New Yorker as the bartender hastily compiled her Cosmopolitan, but her bronzed skin must have required several serious days of South Beach sun.

Mike’s mind took several stolen glances to take in her intoxicating presence – this was not his type of girl. Her tight Kenneth Cole pantsuit complete with Manolo heels and topped with her hair in a sleek chignon hit him harder than the twelve year old scotch in his sweating hand. The black pantsuit was large to fit her towering statue, the princess seams along the fully lined jacket hitting her at the hipbones was part of last year’s line – Mike had marketed the same look in several bus ads along Madison Avenue in September. Perhaps it was this unconscious connection that drew him in, or it was the way that she kept catching him scanning her figure.

Regardless, Mike entertained the fantasy of speaking with her before he ordered a bottled beer to accompany him to the boarding gate. His blood alcohol content comfortably soaring, Mike allowed himself a martini as he relaxed into his spacious seat next to the window. His friends would’ve given Mike a hard time about not hooking up in Miami one year ago, but now Mike didn’t have anyone to lie to upon his return – his mom only called once a month. “Is this seven sea?”

Mike instinctively reached for his boarding pass, not even looking up. Reading “7D” next to his name, Mike turned to confirm the question but only got as far as cocking his head in her direction.

“I take it by your silence that I’m correct.” She sat. Pulling out and passing into Mike’s cupped appendage she placed a business card – “Sheri Hayden: Psychotherapy”

“I’m sane, thanks,” said Mike, lying. “But how’s your advertising?”

The pregnant-looking man in front of the couple may have been close enough to hear the click as the conversation carried itself. Mike, speaking business, kept him from choking on his foot, quickly discovered that a number of her clients had canceled in favor of a competing firm practice group. Sheri needed to reframe her business, beginning with a new angle on the commonplace style of her therapy sessions and requested a bottle of wine from the stewardess. This pleased Mike immensely as he was told his introverted approach to inter-gender conversation was the inevitable result of years of repressed conflict due to the long-distance relationship he suffered with his mother.

They clinked glasses and released inhibitions, and Mike could not believe his luck. For the first time in years, he found himself comfortably exchanging ideas and inviting her hand to touch his. Addled by the drink, Mike found himself mesmerized by the two sculpted mounds worthy of Super Bowl teaser ads trapped behind taut black fabric. “God I love fake tits.”

"Excuse me honey?”

He had said that aloud and instantly the blood that had just filled his pants now rushed north flush his face with embarrassment. New York was hours away and Mike was drunk enough to think with his mouth open. “Fuck, I apologize. I’m never like this.”

“Hell, I paid for them, it’s nice to hear they’re appreciated.” Sheri smiled. Mike melted. Her hand slowly crept towards his. “If you ask me, your last girlfriend didn’t treat you right and it’s been a long time since you’ve been able to enjoy a real woman.”

A thin trail of spit trickled from the corner of Mike’s mouth and he couldn’t tell if it was from the martini (he never ate the olives) or the way that her hand was now on his leg. Sheri, with her other hand, picked one of his olive toothpicks and sucked the olive right into her mouth, chasing the alcohol-swollen fruit with a long swig of wine. Mike had never encountered this situation at the Osteria Del Circo on 55^th street, but he knew that things could only continue to a point in First Class, and that point had just been reached.

The empty toothpick rattling in his glass, Mike reached out to stop her. “Listen, I’ve never done anything like this, and-”

She cut him off. “There’s a first time for everything,” and rose from her seat, sashaying to the front of the airplane. Curiously alone, Mike leaned into the aisle and caught a flash of her seductive smile before she entered the bathroom, leaving it unlocked. She could have left a path of condoms on the floor and not been more obvious, but First Class passengers would not have noticed a public beating in the aisle - they were each in their own alcoholic world, headphones on and brains off.

Rather than endure the rest of the trip in awkward close proximity after snubbing Sheri’s proposal, Mike followed in nervous erect anticipation. Once he entered the dark, closet-sized bathroom, he was quietly instructed to “shusssh” and remove his tie. Despite having an initial objection to the redundancy of being blindfolded in a dark bathroom, Mike relaxed into intimate embrace with Sheri, who was obviously in control here

Like an experienced veteran, Sheri introduced Mike to her world of instant gratification, as Mike groped her plastic yet realistic breasts and she reminded him how much he missed oral sex. This was fellatio like Mike had never received and came close immediately to ejaculation despite his alcohol handicap. Suddenly he felt the security of a condom and the sensation of intercourse. The act brought a flood of distant familiarity that Mike welcomed back into his life when he snapped back into the scene of their drunken sex – something was different. Something was hitting his leg in rhythm with their movements.

Slowly taking control back, Mike removed the tie from his eyes and flicked on the lights, causing an unexpected reaction from Sheri. Mike had only a few seconds to recognize that what had been hitting him in the leg gave him a lot more in common with his sex partner than he originally imagined. The effect was debilitating, hitting him harder than he had just been enjoying. The response was physically visible as he slid off the sink to nearly crash on the floor. Mike’s B.A.C. might have been twice the legal limit to drive in New York, but at that moment he felt a clarity more sobering than a night in jail. His reaction was not quiet; “-What the FUCK?!? You’re a FUCKING TRANNY?”

In the time it took Mike to respond to the situation, Sheri had composed herself with the guise that this had not been the first time someone turned the lights on her. “Listen. I’m sorry. But keep your fucking voice down. I have the money for the operation, but the doctor won’t give it to me until I complete the hormone therapy. This isn’t a big deal-”

“Not a big deal?” Mike accused at a decibel louder than Sheri had requested. “This is a huge fucking deal. I just had sex with a guy I thought was a chick!”

“Yeah, and you liked it.”

“The fuck I did! You tricked me, you sonofabitch faggot!” Mike grabbed Sheri in a way that was no longer intimate.

“You don’t want this, Mike. Unless you can sell the judge on the pros of gay-bashing like you sold me on the dress you obviously liked, I’d recommend cooling off before joining me in row seven again.” And with this lingering threat, Sheri left Mike in the bathroom - drunk, red-faced, and still wrapped in a condom, sagging to the floor along with his confidence and pride.

Cleaning himself up, Mike knew that this wasn’t something to tell Mom about – at least not yet. Perhaps subconsciously he knew the whole time that there was something different about Sheri, something different that turned him on. Regardless, either Mike needed a drink or he needed to stop drinking, and stepping out of the bathroom he just wanted to go home.

Exiting the bathroom, Mike was greeted with several stares and realized he wasn’t the only one uncomfortable. Those closest to the cockpit were stifling laughter and avoiding eye contact; initially causing Mike to check his fly before realizing the bathroom was hardly soundproof. Even the pregnant-looking man was wide eyed with a look of disapproval and shock that matched Mike’s.

Taking his time, Mike noticed a look on Sheri’s face that persuaded him to sit somewhere else, but the plane was overbooked as usual. “Sir, could you please take your seat?” he was asked, and grimaced at the reasonable request from the stewardess. “If she only knew,” he thought, trudging back to “7D” but Sheri had taken it, leaving him the aisle seat complete with awkward silence. Mike mentally kicked himself as he pushed the stewardess button – he needed help, or at least another drink. The stewardess button flashed off and the seat belt light blinked on as the pilot announced potential turbulence in the near future.

Heist

The Teller

THE ANXIETY making her rattle the coffee cup wasn’t due to the caffeine. In fact, the coffee was weak. Normally she didn’t even need coffee to make it to her lunch break, but the fourth man in line was making her nervous. They had to expect an extra influx of people before lunch – especially on Fridays. Everyone was eager to cash their paychecks and take the afternoon off, and she wished businesses would learn to hold off on giving out checks until later in the day, but it would only delay the rush. From her teller window against the far wall of the one room rectangular bank, the lines of people stretched the entire way across the tiled floor. The four teller windows were all in a row along the back with plush rope defined funnels in front of each, leaving the one security guard to monitor the traffic.

The First Morgantown Bank was the largest bank in the busy county and the last Friday of every month was the worst time to work. She didn’t know how many people realized the trucks came the following Monday to transfer the spillover additional funds from the bank, but it was always in the back of her mind. Each frustrated businessman fumbling for a deposit slip triggers a silent panic attack in the back of her head that makes her practically expect to look up from her teller window and freeze in the sights of a shiny gun barrel every time she says, “Next.”

Josh

HE WAS looking forward to the weekend. The check made out to Josh Witner stood in the way of joining his fiancé for a weekend in the mountains. Cliché, yes, but so was waiting in line at the bank on a Friday when everyone just wants to go home – including the slow teller. How is it when you’re in a hurry, the person in front of you always takes their time, or is that the only time you’re actually paying attention?

Benny

THIS WAS hardly the first time Benny was in the First Morgantown Bank but it was going to be the last. You only get one chance to rob a bank these days. For a month he’d been there everyday mentally recording the shift changes, security procedures, handling of money, floor managers, and bank tellers. There wasn’t a face Benny didn’t recognize or a system in place he didn’t already know about, but something about this day was different. The twelve pounds of metal hanging between his legs might be it.

The bank was crowded enough that his presence would be routinely ignored by security as he moved into position along the six teller windows. This job would be perfect – he only needed the money to live off of and medium sized banks can usually only afford small sized security teams. This Friday job was no coincidence; Benny knew the bank’s surplus at the end of the month meant the end of his financial problems. Fridays were perfect because as everyone would be getting off work to eat lunch, his day would just be starting, and his job only took four minutes.

Unconsciously registering the lonesome security camera overlooking the teller area, Benny walked to wait at the window furthest from the door. Amateurs usually go for the quickest exit, but Benny knew banks always put the “teller in training” at the last window and it takes less time to bully a register rookie into opening the drawers than a surly veteran. And time was all that mattered when county police don’t have anything better to do on a Friday afternoon than put a career bank robber in prison for good.

Jackson

JACKSON WAITED in his idling sedan outside First Morgantown Bank, nervously flicking the safety of his 9MM. On and off. On and off. It wasn’t that he wanted to rob banks; he just didn’t want to work. Tomorrow would be a year since his father kicked him out of the house because he would never fuck the prom queen. The prom queen was his best friend – the problem was that Jackson was more interested in the prom king.

He met Benny at a diner a few months after being on his own and decided he’d rather live in Benny’s spare room than his car. They went to the gun range every weekend and Jackson rarely missed putting bullet after bullet through pictures of his father’s real estate calendar photo. And when Benny said Jackson needed to pretend the bank security camera was his dad or find a new friend, Jackson found himself sitting anxiously in the car that Friday afternoon counting off the seconds in his mind.

Martin

MARTIN THUMPED the steering wheel in beat with his pounding heart, a cigarette dangling between his lips, ash spilling unnoticed onto his denim lap. He was a driver in as much as everyone with a license was a driver, but he wasn’t here for Benny – he was here for Jackson. As bad as Jackson resented his father, Martin yearned for Jackson’s acceptance and while Jackson could shoot, Martin could only drive.

To his right, Jackson flicked the safety to on and replaced the handgun in his pants. Rising out of his seat, he leaned in to kiss Martin goodbye between cigarettes. Ignoring his lingering farewell, Jackson closed the car door and positioned sunglasses on his face. Martin returned his gaze forward as his fluttering hands lit another cigarette and resumed their drumming on the steering wheel.

Benny

INCHING FORWARD, Benny was next in line at the last window. The guy ahead of him was making small talk with the blonde teller as she was counting out his paycheck in fresh twenties. Benny’s eyes surveyed the crowded bank, knowing the current staff were moments from being replaced by the lunch crew. His left hand steadily fingered the heavy firearm taped to his leg, incapable of doing anything else. Finally the man stepped to the side and Benny was motioned to approach the window. Smiling at the blonde woman putting down her coffee cup, Benny slid a piece of paper under the glass.

Jackson

JACKSON HAD practiced this maneuver many times in Benny’s apartment. He no sooner passed through the door than he had his gun out and easily blasted the only security camera twice. The guard was barely on his feet before Jackson had trained his sights on him. Jackson didn’t even need to look over; he knew Benny would stick to the plan. He just hoped the plan would be completed in less than four minutes.

The Teller

SHE WAS STILL reading the typed piece of paper when the commotion began. Looking up to see her current customer remove a hulking twelve pounds of intimidation from his pants instantly connected the capitalized words in front of her. “PUT THE MONEY IN THE BAG, THIS IS A ROBBERY.” The fragmented sentence didn’t bother her as much as the question it begged, but before she could ask, a lightweight black duffel bag landed on her desk. Now her customer had climbed the five-foot glass window and was addressing the confused crowd.

Benny

“DON’T ANYBODY do anything fucking stupid. Follow my directions and no one dies here today. I need everyone to lie down on the floor and put their hands on their heads. This is no fucking joke – do it or I’ll kill you. NOW!” Benny fired his pistol into the ceiling, knocking loose a few tiles, each resulting crash an exclamation mark on his words. The adrenaline firing through his veins made him question whether he liked robbing banks more than spending their money. But as he felt a rip in his new suit lifting his leg over the window, he already couldn’t wait to buy a new one. From atop the last teller’s counter Benny could see Jackson calm and collected, keeping vigil at the door, his gun supervising the heavyset security guard following directions like everyone else.

The Teller

SHE ALWAYS flustered at the first sign of confrontation. Whether it was a long line of exasperated customers unhappy with the not-so-free-checking or a smiling bank robber waving a gun, she was going to have a hard time handling the actual money drawer. Needlessly, she held the bag open in her left hand tossing the contents of her drawer into an increasingly heavy load. “Your backup drawer too, under the counter,” demanded the robber. He seemed to know exactly where the money went, and she struggled to remember company protocol on the issue of robbery.

As she moved through each window, collecting the cash from each, the robber only yelled at her to move quicker. Uncontrollably her shaking hands were both holding the bag and tears began staining her white blouse. Returning from emptying the first teller window, she stumbled with the full bag, tripping and losing control.

Benny

BENNY WAS infuriated. He had one minute to get out of the bank alive and this dumb broad was fucking it all up. Hopping over the counter he rushed to recover the stolen cash. Jesus, it was heavy, as he lifted it to his shoulder proud to have pulled in more than enough reward to justify his risk. The teller, practically bawling, rose to her shaky feet in enough time for him connect her face with the butt of his gun.

Jackson

THE NOISE was sickening, Jackson thought. He didn’t plan on any violence but he knew Benny was more than capable of dishing some out. Jackson saw the scene through the window across the bank lobby. The teller rose again to her feet, but this time her face was covered in blood instead of tears. Benny, in the midst of a stream of curses, quickly snapped back into the heist. Stay in the now, Jackson concurred. Their last minute was up and Benny motioned to Jackson to transition to the getaway phase of the afternoon’s activities. Jackson backpedaled through the door, Benny coming around the end of the teller windows.

Josh

THE BLACK AND white tiled floor was dusty. The custodian was probably waiting until the start of next week to mop, but for now Josh was breathing in clouds of dust. The robbers hadn’t asked for his personal money which meant his weekend was still intact, but as he laid face first in a pile of people he wondered why no one else had acted on the felons.

While this seemed like an organized procedure, there were only two criminals with guns trying to manipulate an entire bank. And when he heard the crack of the one robber’s gun against the beautiful blonde teller’s nose, something snapped inside Josh. Josh remembered his father’s strict words on maintaining gender relations: No one should ever hit a woman for any reason – ever. If I ever hear about such shit from you, I’ll personally kick your ass, and if you weren’t my son, I’d kill you. That could easily be someone’s fiancé, Josh imagined, and she might have weekend plans that didn’t include hospitals and therapy.

Benny

BENNY WAS exhilarated. This job was as exciting as the last and the adrenaline served to push his rush even higher. Stepping over the teller window barrier, the cash weighed heavy on his back, but Benny was bolting for the door. He made it several feet before feeling his legs yanked out from underneath him.

The cold tiled floor flew up to meet him as Benny’s face hit first, the bag of bills knocking the wind out of him from behind. His reaction was swift and immediate as Benny instinctively kicked behind him, threw off the bag, rose to his feet, and swung the gun around. The hero had been the guy in front of him the whole time. Benny didn’t give his assaulter one second to think before pulling the trigger and picking up the bag. The door loomed before a dazed Benny and he made it past only to stumble into an air of unwelcoming sirens. Marvin and Jackson had the car in gear fifteen yards ahead when Benny heard a loudspeaker command him to stop. Reacting to the obnoxious voice, Benny turned and fired off a few rounds in its direction, receiving a volley of bullets in return. (Maybe say that one hit, or explain that he felt something) Crumpled and bleeding, Benny rested his head on the pile of money he had intended to start a new life with. His last clear vision included a stunned Jackson and a grim Marvin speeding away, leaving only a pile of cigarette butts in their place.

Josh

THE PAIN was real but comforting - Josh didn’t know where he was hit. By now everyone had gotten back on their feet and was attending to Josh and the blonde teller. Strangely enough, Josh was smiling – he had heard the shootings outside the bank and assumed his assailant hadn’t made it into the getaway car in time. And people were asking him questions but he could only think about the blonde teller and how now she didn’t have to go to the hospital alone.

One In Six

IF ATTACKED, ESCAPE. If trapped, stay alive. If assaulted, memorize details.

Three sentences I’ve memorized and recited to several hundred-college students at mandatory attendance talks. Greeks, sport teams, freshmen, guys and girls. I’ve stood on stage and seen every one of apathetic faces on my peers. Guys trying to make it into a joke to demonstrate value to their friends. Girls stifling laughter, convincing themselves that it’ll never happen to them.

I tell them I teach Rape Prevention but that doesn’t mean that all rapes can be prevented. I tell them that it’s Rapists that commit Rape – not Victims. What I don’t tell them is that if there were no victims, I would never get laid.

The college auditorium is usually outdated. I stand nervous, sweating under the hot lights hoping the cordless microphone doesn’t slip out of my hand. It’s almost impossible to tell just how many people are there when the spotlight steals my vision. They won’t let me wear sunglasses. Rapists wear sunglasses. I am not a rapist.

Squinting on stage doesn’t prevent me from seeing the ignorance spread out in front of me. The fraternity guys are always grouped together in the back rows. Sororities fill out the rows closer to the stage. No one wants to be sitting next to a potential rapist during a Rape talk, but I don’t mind. It means I get to sweat in front of pretty girls. I’ve been doing that my entire life.

Generally the guys don’t take it seriously – or at least they pretend not to. A curved and tattered baseball cap covering longer unkempt blonde hair and sideburns designates my frat boy. He threw a football earlier in the day and covered up his stink in designer cologne over his polo shirt and classic navy jacket. His sullen eyes are reserved yet his exaggerated hand gestures act as his cloak of confidence. I know he’s back there running through the usual rape-joke routine to impress his friends. I’ve heard them all: “No means maybe.” “I’ve been to better Rape Talks in prison.” Really, they’re all back there and have never felt more insecure.

“No intoxicated woman can give consent to sex.”

They pretend not to pay attention. But I can hear them in the back row as I segue into the drunken girl rape segment. They’re jabbing elbows into ribs, bonding over last weekend’s conquests. But in the back of their minds, they’re wondering if that girl in the front row will ever tell people that she doesn’t remember losing her virginity. Each guy is running through the night in his mind, but it’s hazy. They almost remember her saying she wanted to have sex.

The nervous sorority girl, by attempting to blend into the auditorium seat only succeeds in drawing my attention as I focus my next warning towards her. She’s there pasting a false smile on her lips and trying to fit in because tying the bow in her ponytail wasn’t enough. On bid night when she confessed her virginity to a room full of drunk screaming girls she promised to go all the way the next day. And when the cool frat guy handed her shot after another she imagined they were flirting. And when he helped her back to his room she counted that as foreplay. Feeling the pain and seeing the blood the next morning was as good as actually remembering the sex – she belonged.

“I can’t begin to tell you how many girls I’ve talked to that blacked out drunk and woke up with an STD.”

Now they’re scared, but the fraternity guys have transitioned to herpes jokes. They have to respond somehow. “It’s the gift that keeps on giving dude!” Hand slaps to follow. But I see their nervous smiles behind their forced ones. She did seem really surprised to wake up and see the condom on the floor. The guys can’t even remember putting the condom on. I can see their eyes rise to the ceiling as they mentally schedule a trip to the free clinic. She better be on birth control or she’ll follow in a month.

“Ladies, if you never told him ‘Yes’ you never gave him consent.”

I can see the front third of the room squirm. Maybe Sunday morning they told their sisters that they “fucked the shit out of him,” but now they don’t even remember one sexual position of the encounter. They do remember waking up in a strange room and now are mentally reprimanding themselves for drinking so much. The subtle shaking of their heads demonstrates that they think they got the best of him, not the other way around. I know better.

I tell them more than half of this goes unreported, making it one of the most underreported crimes. I tell them young females are four times more likely than any other group to be victims of sexual assault and are the least likely to report their crime. I tell them that one in six American women have been the victim of rape or attempted rape. I don’t tell them that it’s the one in six that I pursue.

The subtle head shaking turns to full body fidgeting. They know and I know that should they ever consider themselves a victim of sexual assault, not one of them would report the incident. After rape all the woman wants to do is shower and cry. The prospect of standing naked in a cold room on top of paper as your body is graphically photographed, inspected, and sampled by strangers is not particularly inviting. When your bleeding, bruised vagina stands as evidence in court the choice seems simple. No one will know. You won’t have to explain to your parents, your sisters, your future husband and children that the guy you put in jail called you a whore and his friends threatened you enough to transfer schools. Hiding all the hurt only lends to the question if you’re okay – to which you respond, of course. The part you keep to yourself forever is – of course you aren’t. I know this because I’ve seen this.

Scanning the crowd as I move into the passive and aggressive resistance section of my speech, a few girls stand out. They aren’t reacting to my words. They aren’t trading awkward glances with friends. They aren’t doing anything. Found next to an empty seat is the girl I pick out. I know she’s going to talk to me after the speech. I know why she’s alone and quiet. I know she’s been raped and hasn’t been the same since. This is predictable only because I’ve seen the same girl at every college. I’ve seen her, talked with her, and then slept with her.

“Sixty-eight percent of sexual assault perpetrators know their victim.”

I bring the microphone dripping with my salvia and sweat down from my lips. Looking back into the crowd I squint to see the males suffer another self-conscious attack of rigidness before relapsing back into their jokes. They are fairly confident that they would never rape a stranger, but recognize the difference when they’re in bed with the girl from Math 100 and can’t remember her name. The fraternity guys are natural alpha-males, the gorillas in the group of card-carrying y-chromosomes. They haven’t gone a month without sex and don’t know anyone that has. But I’ve gone far longer than a month despite my DNA. I want to hate them, but I can’t. It’s because of them that guys like me can get laid.

Two years ago I was in their place during Freshman Orientation and had barely kissed a girl much less seen one naked. I sat comfortably surrounded by those who knew more about the Pascal Principle than the clitoris and thought I was normal. But that was before those beautiful smart girls in my dorm spent every morning walking back from the fraternity quad, make-up and sperm caked all over their faces. I’d spend every Monday in class listening to their war stories and just when they had almost convinced themselves to go gay they turn to me for support.

I was the nice guy. Normal looking, reserved, and completely average – I was safe. They never saw me with women so I couldn’t have done anything mean spirited to their gender. They came to me because I would listen instead of “accidentally” shoving my penis in their ass. When it was my turn to talk, my well-practiced pitch of how they deserve to be with a guy that respected them fell on deaf ears. They didn’t want a nice guy. Girls wanted a guy everyone wanted.

Nice guys were unwilling members of a lower caste system where the guys at the top fucked everyone they wanted, leaving the nice guys to perform emotional repair on their women during the week in order for them to be ready to fuck again by Friday. Weekend video gaming tournaments were as much my routine as drunken orgies were theirs. But my disgust could not be contained behind an Xbox controller and an online subscription. Despite having paid for the entire month of “City of Heroes” I signed up to learn more about Rape Prevention.

"Around the world, at least one in three women have been beaten, coerced into sex, or otherwise.”

I figured there had to be more than a few of these women on my campus, but I’d never meet any since it was natural for them to become more reclusive following a sexual assault. If I could convince these girls that they could trust me, I would exploit that relationship and function as their rebound back into life. Sleeping with these vulnerable women would put them back in the game and I’d be doing them a favor. Being a nice guy wasn’t getting my genitals looked at, so I had nothing to lose. I would be a nice guy that used the system to pick up the broken angels at the bottom and repair their wings, all for the small price of my virginity.

It took four months of weekend sessions and national conventions before I could work the stage, but I had been waiting for nineteen years to talk with women more insecure than myself and would’ve waited nineteen more. The first girl was almost too easy – I had expected consensual sexual intercourse to be more of a challenge. I had told her school that every 150 seconds someone is sexually assaulted in America. She told me that she was raped in less time than that but it felt twice as long. In fact it still hurt. I told her that I understood, this was my life, and I wanted to help her. I did, and I’d like to report it was the longest sex of her life. Mine too.

After the first one, I couldn’t go wrong. The weekends meant I was traveling the country and preying on the violated women society had left behind. Each had their own story: I had just met him, he said he was my friend, he was my boyfriend, my dad. Their life spiraled downward: I cried, I drank, I tried crystal meth, I cut myself. The pain was not to be silenced with physical or chemical alterations. They wanted to tell someone but knew it would ruin their social life, so everything since it had been a lie. My talk opened their eyes, they were no longer alone, and I was someone who understood.

I understood that I liked sex. I didn’t care who had been there before. Ignoring the bruises on their hearts and hips, I simply made sure to wear a condom. It seemed that easy. Give a neglected girl attention she’d open her legs for more. Compliment a plain girl and she’d drop to her knees to return the favor. Listen to a quiet girl and you’d hear her scream. Making it back to the dorm rooms was the hardest part – never spending a night in the Rape Prevention RV wasn’t.

Someone had taken everything away from these girls: trust, security, love, and sex. I found that giving her the latter made everything possible again. The hard part was over. It’s easy to put someone back together once they admit they’re broken.

Something had changed in me. I still went to class on Monday but I didn’t hate the Soccer guys. They took the girls hanging from the top and cut them down so I could have my chance. My nineteen years of being an emotional soundboard paid off once the girls knew I spent my weekends talking Rape Prevention. I was still safe and nice to them, but I knew how to recognize, isolate, and finish the job another asshole once started. Walking into my Math 100 class, I noticed there were thirty-six females. So really, there were only six.