5 – Underpants

One of the local supervisors, Lorraine, has invited all of the VISTA volunteers to a party at her place. My roommate Rachel really wants to get high, but can’t afford to buy any weed. I really want something else. So she and I decide to go to the party. We bum a ride with two other volunteers we know from our training class. Even though it’s mid-September, it’s still brutally hot, so I wear as little as possible — a sleeveless, ankle-length India-print dress with absolutely nothing under it, long, dangly, silver earrings, and a pair of sandals. I’m not driving, so I don’t bring a purse.  

The party is in full swing when we arrive. The Commodores’ new song, “Brick House,” is blaring out of the speakers and several dozen people are dancing in the middle of the living room. The air is thick with smoke and the smell of grass. Rachel grins. We sit down on a couch and someone in a nearby armchair passes us a joint. I take a deep drag, then hold my breath as I pass it to Rachel and survey the scene. I don’t know anyone in the room but Lorraine and the other VISTA volunteers, and I feel a little uncomfortable, but after the joint has been passed to me a few more times, I’m buzzed and I feel fine. I want to dance, so I pull Rachel to her feet.  We’re both good dancers, and pretty soon I know that the men in the room are watching us. I pay attention to whose gaze lingers the longest, who seems the hungriest. I have no intention of going back to the apartment with Rachel tonight.  

Pretty soon I’ve picked my target. He’s a relatively short man, with a goatee and a leather vest. When Rachel goes to find something to drink, I walk up to him. I feel completely in control and like I know exactly what I’m doing. After all, I’ve done it dozens of times before. I look into his eyes and ask him if he’d like to dance. He nods and we move into the center of the room. As  I swing my hips, my breasts move freely under my thin dress and I know he can tell that I’m not wearing a bra. He can’t take his eyes off me.

Another joint makes its way from dancer to dancer. I’m really high now and I can feel the music inside my body. When a slow song comes on, I move closer to the man,  close enough that my breasts brush the front of his chest. And then I slowly put my arms around his neck. He pulls me to him and I feel the familiar hardness push against my abdomen. He wants me. He runs his hands over my hips, pulls me even closer, presses his whole body against me. We don’t talk. Even when it’s clear that we’re going to leave the party together, we don’t say anything to each other. Rachel sees me heading toward the door with him and pulls me aside.  

“Where are you going?” she asks me in a whisper.  

“To his place, I assume.” I laugh at her anxious face.

“Karen, this is the third guy this month,” she says. She’s pleading. “There was the one you picked up at the supermarket, and there was Charlie at the office, and now this guy. Do you even know his name?”

“No, and I don’t care,” I say defiantly.

“But you don’t know anything about him. What if he’s dangerous?”

“Rachel, he’s just a guy who wants to get laid. I can take care of myself. I’ll see you tomorrow.” As I go out the door behind the man, I notice Lorraine, the supervisor, watching me.  She shakes her head at me, but I ignore her.

I follow the man to his car and we drive in silence to another house. When we step into the front hall, I can see several men sitting around a table in the kitchen. There’s some money on the table, and something shiny. I think it might be a knife. The man mumbles something to me about “business” and gestures towards a closed door down the hall. I understand that I should go into the room behind the door and wait for him.  

There’s not much in the room except a very large, round bed right in the middle of the floor. It has shiny red sheets made of a slippery fabric. Above the bed, attached to the ceiling, is a large mirror. I want to laugh at the bed. It’s so ridiculous, like something out of a bad movie. But I’m a little worried about what’s going on out in the kitchen. Rachel’s words come into my mind. Footsteps tell me that the man is coming.

For an instant I give in to fear. I imagine that he will come in with the other men. I imagine that he will come in with the knife. But he is alone and empty-handed. He strips off his clothes, pulls my dress over my head, and pushes me down onto the bed. He doesn’t kiss me, but sucks at my nipples instead. I want to tell him not to bother, that I’m more than ready, soaking wet, in fact, throbbing after looking forward to this moment for several hours. And from the feel of what’s pressing against my thigh, he’s ready too. Soon enough, he pushes into me. He thrusts hard. The pressure is just right, and I cum quickly. I expect him to do the same. But he just keeps thrusting and thrusting. What’s taking him so long? I begin to get kind of bored. I wonder what time it is. I wonder if he would mind changing position. But I can tell by the vacant look on his face that there would be no point in speaking to him. I think again of the money on the table, the knife. It occurs to me that there may be more in his system than the weed from the party. I start to drift in my mind…

When I wake up, it’s light outside the window. I don’t see a clock anywhere, so I have no idea what time it is. The man is lying on his back, snoring deeply. I wonder how long he kept going last night. I really need to pee, so I get out of bed quietly and walk to the door. Something dribbles down my leg, so I guess he must have been successful eventually. I peek out into the hall and see that there’s a bathroom directly across from me. Thank goodness. But when I sit down and start to go, I wince. I’m really sore. The man must have kept it up for ages — I seem to be rubbed raw. When I wipe myself, there’s some blood. It makes me feel shaky, but I know I’m only a little hurt, so I try not to panic. I splash some water on my face, being careful to avoid the mirror above the sink. I don’t want to look into my own eyes right now.

I can’t find a towel, so I go back into the bedroom and dry my face on my dress. The man is still completely knocked out. I sit on the edge of the bed for a while, wondering when he’s going to wake up. Suddenly, I’m very sure that I don’t want to be around when he does. I slip my dress back over my head. My earrings are still on. I pick up my sandals and tip toe out the door.  I worry that the man will wake up and come after me, but he doesn’t. I worry that I will meet up with one of the men who were in the kitchen last night, but no one seems to be around. I worry that I won’t be able to get the front door open, but I discover that it isn’t even locked. I step out onto the stoop and pull the door closed behind me as quietly as possible.

I have no idea where I am and no idea which way I should go to get back to my apartment. In one direction, there are triple decker houses for as far as I can see. In the other direction, it looks like there’s a main road. I head that way. I need to find someplace where I can ask for directions. The road is a pretty big one, and there are lots of businesses, but everything seems to be closed. It’s a Sunday morning and I’m guessing it must still be pretty early. Then I notice a little mom and pop grocery store with an open sign hanging in one of the windows.  When I walk in, the two middle-aged men behind the counter stare at me. I realize I must be a sight – all alone early on a Sunday morning, with a wrinkled dress and snarly hair.  

“Um, excuse me,” I say, “could you tell me how to get to Sherwood Avenue?”  

The two men continue to stare at me. I start to feel a little embarrassed. They’re about my father’s age, and I’m afraid that somehow they can tell what I did last night. I feel myself blushing. One of them looks out the window and I realize he’s probably wondering if I’m driving a car. Sure enough, when he finally speaks, he asks:

“You driving?”

“Um, no, I’m afraid I’m not.”

“Sherwood Avenue? That’s a long walk from here. The bus don’t run on Sunday.” The two men exchange a look.

“I know,” I say, “can you tell me the best way to go on foot?”

The men discuss this question for a while, come to an agreement, then give me the directions they’ve settled on. I commit them to memory, since I haven’t got any paper or pen with which to write them down. I also haven’t got any money with which to buy a bottle of juice or a package of crackers. I thank the men for their help and head out the door, smiling as best I can. I don’t want them to know that I’m scared.

And then I walk. After an hour or so, the straps of my sandals have made blisters on the backs of both of my heels, so I take them off and walk barefoot. The pavement is rough, and it doesn’t take long before the soles of my feet start to hurt. But I need to keep walking. I pass business after business, mostly closed — shoe stores, hair salons, pawn shops.

I don’t want to think about last night, so as I walk, I think about my job. I run a teen center in a housing project. a forlorn room in the basement of one of the buildings. There isn’t much in it — a pool table, a few toys and craft materials for younger kids, a dirty bathroom, and a small office. I have a degree in English and have no idea how to do this job. I was given a few weeks of training when I first arrived, but for the most part, I’m on my own. I spend all of my time there feeling overwhelmed and inadequate. I arrive late and leave early. I sit in the office and read books. When teens come by, I play pool with them. I’m a pretty good pool player and they respect that. But I don’t offer any other activities or counseling or anything that might help them, so mostly, they stay away. Every now and then younger children come by and I try to play with them. Having helped raise my five younger brothers and sisters, I’m good at that. But often, they just want to use the toilet.   

I think especially about a small girl who came by recently. She asked me to help her in the bathroom. I lifted her dress and was about to pull down her underpants when I realized that she wasn’t wearing any. Her tiny girl parts were naked. They were also incredibly dirty. It looked like no one had bathed her for weeks. I lifted her onto the toilet and she did her business. After matter-of-factly wiping herself, she asked me to help her get back down. I insisted that she wash her hands, and after doing so, she ran outside. She seemed so vulnerable without underpants — as if a thin pair of panties could protect her from danger.

As I continue to walk, I wonder what kind of adult allows a child to run around in this state. And then it hits me — what kind of woman allows herself to run around in this state? What kind of woman allows herself to be this vulnerable? What kind of woman has so little self-respect? I guess I’m that kind of woman. I feel ashamed at how far my life has veered off the path I always thought it would take. My relationship with my mother seems to be dead. Every time I try to talk to my father about my despair, he gets angry with me and accuses me of being selfish and having no sympathy for my mother. My ex-boyfriend Josh has refused to marry me, so I lurch from one stranger to the next. I have a job I hate and no prospects for any other work. I feel like I’m completely alone in the world and have no home.

The only time I feel powerful is when I seduce a stranger. But it’s a fleeting feeling.  Attracting a man and getting him to sleep with me feels good for a while, but soon I realize it doesn’t change anything. I’m still powerless to win back my mother’s love. This is the only power I really want and it’s one I can’t seem to have.

I keep walking. The sun beats down. Finally I pass a small park with a working water fountain. I drink and drink, then sit on a bench to rest for a while. And then I walk again. I walk and walk. I’m in a kind of daze by the time I realize that I’ve arrived at an intersection I recognize. I’m not too far from my apartment. I keep walking, and arrive at my front door in the early afternoon.

“Where have you been?” Rachel screams when she lets me in, “I’ve been out of my mind worrying about you!”   

“Rachel,” I sigh, “I’m OK. Just tired and hungry. And I had to walk home, so my feet hurt.” I don’t tell her what else hurts. I drink several glasses of orange juice in quick succession.  Rachel makes me a sandwich and doesn’t press me for details, for which I’m grateful. I know I will tell her what happened later. But right now I just want to take a long shower, then fall into bed.

The next morning, we have our weekly meeting with the local supervisors. Lorraine, the one who invited us to the party, comes up to me when the meeting is over.

“My cousin’s not too happy that you took off on him.”

“He’s your cousin?”

“Yeah, and he wants to know why you ran away.”

“I didn’t run away.  I just didn’t feel like sitting around all day, waiting for him to come to,” I say, shrugging my shoulders and trying to sound nonchalant.

“Yeah, well, he said to tell you that he’s looking for you.” She smirks at me. I realize with a start that she could easily give him my address.

“Hey, you can just tell him that I’m not interested in seeing him again.” 

“I bet you’re not.” She smirks again and strolls off. What did he tell her?

For several weeks, I don’t go anywhere alone and I keep watch behind me when I’m walking on the street. Once or twice, a car pulls up beside me and my heart beats wildly, but it’s only someone parking or stopping at a mailbox. By October, I decide that Lorraine’s threat was an empty one and I begin to relax, begin, in fact, to think about going to another party, finding another man. Instead, I start sleeping regularly with Charlie, the streetworker from the local VISTA office.

In December, Josh sends me a dozen roses and asks me to come live with him and try again. I say yes and quit my VISTA job. I do this even though I know it’s never going to work out with Josh, even though I know that I’m too broken to have a relationship with anyone. If my own mother doesn’t love me, why would anyone else?