by Margot Wood
“It’s a skill.”
“Who else besides American Psycho boy have you hooked up with here?” I ask him as I tug on the zipper. “I need to keep a list so I don’t get any more of your sloppy seconds.”
“Oh, I’m done with Emerson boys. I’m widening my network. If I’m lucky, I’ll bag a trust fund gay at Harvard, and maybe then my parents would forgive me.”
“Forgive you? For being gay?”
“They don’t care that I’m gay, they only care that I chose journalism over architecture. But they might be able to forgive me if I marry an architect since I won’t become one.”
“Didn’t they see your front-page article in The Daily Beacon on the college tuition debt crisis in America? I thought it was crazy bold of you to call out Emerson for increasing tuition costs by 54 percent in the last ten years alone.”
“I emailed my parents the article, but I doubt they’ve read it,” he says, and his eyes drop to the floor.
“You should print the article out and mail it to them. That’s the only way I’ve been able to get my dad to read my favorite comics. Text me your parents’ address; I’ll mail them a copy on your behalf. Now, hold still or you’re gonna be stuck in this suit forever.”
Micah spins to face me again. “Wait. Did you say that Kenton told you about this place? As in the same Kenton that has totally vanilla sex with Lucy?”
“I was just as shocked as you. Can you even imagine a guy like Kenton in a place like this?” I hold my arms out wide.
“I can’t figure that boy out.” Micah puts his hands on his hips, his fingers squeaking against the latex.
“I know, right? You cannot put that in your Third-Floor Report, though. Lucy would kill us. Now turn around and let’s get you out of this thing before they make you buy it.”
A week later, it’s finals week and three things happen:
1) Micah puts out a new Third-Floor Report divulging the highlights of Project Tender Chicken.2
2) I present Project Tender Chicken to my Love and Eroticism in Western Culture class. I incorporate fun movie clips into the performance and my classmates love it but . . . it’s quite possible I make my male professor suuuuuuuuuuper uncomfortable when I pull out the bondage props.
3) Boston. Boston happens. A December snowstorm threatens to shut the city down and Rose holds an emergency third-floor meeting in the common room on Monday night.
“Listen up, everyone,” Rose has to yell to be heard above all our chatter. “Due to the impending snowstorm—”
“Snowpocalypse!” One of the Brads shouts from the back and high-fives his twin.
“Yes, thank you, Brad,” Rose deadpans. “Due to the impending ‘snowpocalypse,’ all finals next week are being rescheduled.” The room immediately erupts into cheers. I myself am personally ecstatic and relieved because I spent so much time working on my Project Tender Chicken essay, I completely forgot about all my other classes and haven’t studied for a single test yet. This is a huge relief.3
Rose remains silent at the front of the room, waiting for us to simmer down and when we do, she continues. “I’m not done, people. Because of this, your finals will now be held this week.”4 This new piece of information hits the room like a bucket of ice water and everyone starts to panic.
But me? I’m totally fine.
This is fine!
This is all just totally, 100 percent, absolutely, perfectly fine.
Twenty minutes later, Rose finds me hyperventilating in a toilet stall in the girl’s bathroom. She knocks on the door. “Occupied!” I croak out. Just as I realize that I forgot to lock the door, it starts to open. “Hey, hey, don’t come in here, it’s occupied!”
“You’re not even doing your business, Elliot.” She slips in next to me and shuts the door behind her.
“I’m going to have to kindly ask you to leave,” I tell her. “This stall is reserved for people who are freaking out.”
“Elliot—”
“WHAT?!” I screech.
“You need to calm down.” Rose rests her hands on my shoulders. “We’ve lost like what, seven extra days to study for our finals? If you don’t know the material by now what makes you think you’ll know it after only one week of studying?” She looks at me expectantly but there’s nothing I can say. I am so ashamed.
I take a deep breath and tell her. “I don’t know the material.”
“What do you mean?” She looks genuinely confused, like it’s inconceivable for someone to be a total slacker. I am about to deeply disappoint her.
“My method in high school was to cram all of my studying into the weekend before finals and then just memorize everything so I could regurgitate it back. And, well, this semester I got distracted and spent way too much time working on that essay you and Monica gave me the idea for, and I haven’t paid much attention in my other classes and was really banking on this extra week to cram.” I wait for her to respond but she just stares at me. “Do you think I’m screwed?”
She thinks about it for a second. “No, I don’t think you’re screwed.” I breathe a sigh of relief. But then she adds, “I think you’re fucked.”
***FOUR DAYS LATER***
Rose was right.
I got fucked.
Look, I don’t really want to talk about it.
Let’s just say, it was a motherfucking bloodbath, all right?
ELLIOT MCHUGH’S FIRST SEMESTER FINAL GRADES
WR 101 Fundamentals of Speech Communication: D+
SC 114 Plants & People: D
SW 101 Beginning Writing for the Screen: B
IN 106 Love and Eroticism in Western Culture: C-5
* * *
1 This is a real book, by the way.
2 At first I was pissed that he aired my dirty laundry for the floor to see but honestly, most everyone on the floor knows about it already because some of them have participated.
3 Thank you, Boston! I no longer hate you!
4 I take the last footnote back. Fuck you, Boston. I’m now officially rooting for the Yankees and THAT’S ON YOU.
5 Do you remember that essay I spent nearly two months working on? Well, I got a C-. A FUCKING C-. Here’s what the professor said: While I admire your commitment to exploring your own sexuality and bravery in sharing it with us, this essay failed to incorporate the texts we studied over the course of the semester in a meaningful way. This essay aims to only explore the eroticism side of the class, but neglected the love aspect. Most in your class met with me for office hours at least once this semester to discuss their essay. I wish you would have too.
CHAPTER 9
THE ELLIOT MCHUGH DRINK SCALE (A REMINDER, JUST IN CASE YOU FORGOT.)
1 drink = Elliot is feeling warm and cozy
2 drinks = Elliot is charming and hilarious
3 drinks = Elliot is an asshole who will zero in on your greatest insecurities
4 drinks = Elliot wants to DANCE
5 drinks = Elliot is in love with everyone and wants to make out
6 drinks = Elliot is crying in the corner
7 drinks = Elliot is vomiting in what she thought was a trash can but is actually her purse
8 drinks = Unknown territory
Hello, I am drunk.
You know what’s a great way to forget that you just bombed your first semester of college? Tequila. Tequila is great. I used to think vodka was a great idea but then Kenton introduced me to good tequila tonight and now I’d like to publicly declare my burgeoning relationship with tequila. I think I love tequila the most because I get to eat a bunch of salt with it and there is nothing better than salt. Except for dancing. Tequila and dancing. It’s been an hour and a half and I’m somewhere between four and five shots of tequila and having the time of my damn life.1 We’re at some sophomore’s apartment only a few blocks from the Little Building. Lucy went home after finals but thanks to Micah, tons of people from the third floor who don’t normally go to off-campus parties are here. One of the Brads and Sasha are in a bedro
om getting it on because apparently that’s a thing that’s been happening for a few weeks now, Micah is mixing drinks in the kitchen with Kenton, and even Rose is here with her scary girlfriend, Monica. And me? Yes, well, I am dancing my motherfucking ass off.
Someone turns off the overhead lights in the living room and turns on one of those tired-ass party strobe lights. Normally, I’d make fun of the cheesiness of a strobe light at a house party, but I’m in that agreeable fifth-drink stage of drunkenness where everything is amazing and I want to make out with everyone. More people join in on the dancing and things start heating up. I shed my top layer, a long-sleeved crop top sweatshirt, and reveal this shiny, gold, backless leotard I borrowed from Sasha. Others seem inspired by my costume change because suddenly clothes are flying everywhere and the party is now 25 percent more naked. Hell, yes. Some girl I have never met appears out of nowhere with a bottle of gin. She and I must be at the same level on the drunk scale because when she sees me she shouts, “Friend!” and I yell, “Friend!” right back at her and now we are friends. She takes a drink straight from the bottle, hands it me and I do the same. And just like that, she disappears and I go back to dancing. This party is quickly turning into one of those nights that could go down in my memory bank as one of the best parties I have ever been to.
The song changes from Robyn’s “Dancing on My Own” to Ginuwine’s “Pony,” a motherfucking classsssic, and everyone collectively loses their damn mind. People go from, well, dancing on their own to partnering for some dance-floor dry humping—a natural and expected by-product of “Pony.” I close my eyes and lose myself in the music and in my own body. All the bullshit from finals melts away. I’m not worried about telling my parents about my grades. I’m not worried or stressed about anything. Instead, I feel sexy, uninhibited, confident.
Whatever vibes I am putting out there must be working because suddenly, I feel the heat of another body behind me. I keep my eyes closed, I don’t really care who it is, I am feeling this moment so hard and whoever this guy is, he knows how to fucking move. Strong hands grip my hips, pulling me in closer and I lean back into him. The heat, the song, the flashing lights, the energy of the room, his hands, my body. This particular moment is thrilling because the next time I play never have I ever and someone asks, “Have you ever given a guy a boner while dancing?” I will finally be able to take a drink. Our bodies move as one to the beat of the song. His hands slide up my hips and over my torso until his fingers graze my breasts. Feeling devilish, I press my back into his front a little harder, making him a little harder, knowing full well in the back of my mind that the second the song ends I plan on abandoning ship. I’m only in the mood to tease tonight, not to play for real. The song ends and I peel my body off his. I was planning on playing it cool and walking away without looking back, but now I am waaayyyyyy too curious to see whose boner I had the pleasure of sponsoring. I turn around and the world stops.
It’s Kenton.
The guy I’ve been grinding all up on is my best friend’s boyfriend.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
I get out of the living room and away from Kenton as fast as I can. I push my way passed blurred faces until I find an empty bedroom where all the coats have been tossed on the bed. I close the door behind me and try to steady my heart rate as I pace back and forth over the creaky hardwood floors of this shitty apartment. I can’t believe I just gave my roommate’s boyfriend a boner. That was not friend-dancing. That was vertical fucking. Shit. I wish I was sober right now. And I so, so, so, so wish I had not had that last shot. I can’t steady my breathing, and the lack of oxygen is making me light-headed. The room tilts on its axis and I stumble. I collapse on the bed and stare at the ceiling, hoping that if I focus my eyes on one spot the world will right itself.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here—maybe an hour, maybe a minute—but suddenly, the door opens. Piercing light and noise flash for a moment before the door is closed again, swallowing me back into darkness.
But I’m not alone.
Someone is in here with me.
“Elliot,” he says. Shit. It’s Kenton. He’s in here with me.
“Go away,” I try to say, but my mouth is too dry and the words shrivel on my sandy tongue. After last year, I swore I would never put myself in a position to be cheated on again, but right now I am giving Kenton the false impression I am someone who is comfortable with cheating. I need to sober up RIGHT NOW. I force myself to get off the bed and go to the window. I stumble again but I manage to push up the dirty window and stick my head out.
The sudden shock of cold air is like a force-quit to my system. I feel clearer, more aware. I reach for my back pocket and feel the comforting shape of my phone. Thank god I have this with me.
“Elliot,” he says again. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
“I really wish you wouldn’t.” I try to sound polite but it comes out sharp, too sharp.
This is really bad. Here are the facts: Kenton and I were seen dancing and then we went into a bedroom together and shut the door. The longer we’re in this room together the worse it’s going to look. I suck in a few final sobering breaths of icy cool air before I turn around and face him.
“What happened back there was—” Kenton takes a step toward me but I cut him off.
“Nothing happened, Kenton. Okay? Nothing. I would really like to be alone now, if you don’t mind.”
“Elliot—” He takes a step toward me. He’s too close now. I look around for an exit but the only way out of this room is through the door behind him. I hold my hand up to stop him but he still takes another step closer.
“Fffine then. I’ll leavvve,” I slur. I make a move to walk around him but he cuts me off, backs up, and blocks the door.
“I’m trying to talk to you,” he spits out at me.
“And I’m trying to leave,” I fire back.
“I felt something back there,” he says pathetically. I roll my eyes at his bullshit.
“Look, I didn’t know it was you, okay? It was a simple misunderstanding. Nothing happened.”
“Don’t lie to me, Elliot. I know you wanted it, the way you moved your body against me.” He takes another step forward and lowers his voice. “You liked it when I touched you.”
“Are you fucking serious right now?”
“No one has ever gotten me hard like that. Lucy and I only had sex once and that was months ago.”
“So fucking what? You think you’re owed because Lucy wants to take things slow?”
“Lucy has never even come close to turning me on as much as you did, and I’ve seen the way you look at me when I’m with her. Don’t deny it, Elliot. You want me. I know you want me.” I’m too slow to dodge him. He grabs my hand and brings it to his crotch. His breath is hot and moist on my neck. “God, do you feel how hard I am for you right now?”
I freeze, my entire body stiffens. I become hyperaware of this moment. The smell of the thick, heavy coats on the full-size bed behind me. The orange glow from the floodlight in the alley streaming in through the dirty glass window. The heavy bass vibrating the slightly sticky hardwood floors below me. The superhero movie poster on the wall to my right. The muffled sounds of the crowd chanting just outside the door for someone to drink. The smell of Kenton’s overly scented, spicy cologne. His chapped lips and clammy tongue on my neck. His one hand skimming over my shoulder as he pulls down one of the straps of my gold leotard. His other hand on top of my own as he moves it up and down the outside of his terry-clo
th sweatpants. His erect penis. I take stock of it, of all of it. Every detail carves out a place for itself to live in my brain forever. But even though I am still way too drunk, I consider the situation, my options. I weigh my choices and their possible outcomes. This is not the time to play games because there really only is one clear choice right now.
So I choose. I decide.
As his mouth travels from my jugular to my ear, he lets out a heavy moan and I know that this might be the only opportunity I’ll get. I cannot waste this.
“Kenton,” I say in his ear.
“Elliot,” he groans again, thrusting his penis harder against my hand.
He’s badly misjudged this situation.
“Kenton,” I say again, this time a little louder. “I am only going to say this once so please listen.” I take a deep breath and enunciate each word slowly, clearly. “Get your fucking hands off me.”
He immediately stops licking my ear, but doesn’t release my hand from his crotch. He leans back and though it’s dark in here, I can see his expression clearly. This is the moment I worried might happen. His face confirms it. The raw, unfiltered lust has soured and curdled into white-hot rage. Spit flies from his mouth and lands on my face as he snarls, “I don’t fucking get you. You open your legs for everyone else—”
I don’t let him finish.
Instead, I give him what he wants.
I wrap my hand around the full length of his dick and feel how hard he is.
And then I twist it as hard as I can.
He screams and doubles over in agony but I don’t let him go. I take a steadying breath, then calmly and slowly address him. “Here is what’s going to happen, Kenton. I am going to release you and then I am going to leave this room and after I go, I suggest you take a moment and think things through because you’ll have a choice to make. Your first option is to break up with Lucy. Tonight. I don’t care what excuse you have to come up with, you will break up with her tonight and never see her again. I mean it—you will not call her, you will not text her, you will unfollow and block her on all social media. If you see her in the halls, you will turn and walk the other way. If she tries to reach out to you, you will ignore her. You will disappear from her life for good. And your second option is, well, you don’t have a second option because if you don’t break up with Lucy, not only will I tell her everything, I will also report you for sexual assault, you pathetic piece of shit.” I give him one last excruciating squeeze before finally letting go. Kenton falls to the floor, his knees curling into his chest as he whimpers and cries.