by Megan Hart
“All right, Mr. Conrad, I’m Brady. Nice to meet you. Now, should Keisha here kick my ass out or explain to me just what the hell is going on?”
Nothing happened for a long time. Their eyes locked together, and they held each other’s gaze for several seconds before wood scratched on wood and Conrad offered his answer. The planchette twisted in spiraling circles teasing and taunting them and both held lungfuls of breath while they waited for it to stop. It moved its way up to “Yes” and kept moving. Brady cheered. Keisha blew out her bangs, and then her mouth fell open and tears stung her eyes.
“What’s it spelling?” Brady asked, listing off the letters one by one.
Finally they both had the message:
“Tell Him Everything, A.D.”
“Fuuuuuuuuck youuuuuuu,” Keisha said.
“Yeah, looks like it’s time to pay up,” Brady said, but his voice caught in his throat when he saw her face and heard the tremble in her voice.
“Oh… oh shit, I’m sorry.” He offered an arm to help her to her feet and console her. She refused.
“It’s… it’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s probably time someone knew anyway, I just can’t believe it’s you. It’s not a pretty story.”
Part of her wondered why in the hell Brady was still here. After what she’d done to him last night and now, for sure he had to think she was crazy. Most guys would run. Hell, if their roles were reversed, she’d run as fast as she possibly could. But here he was, topping off their bourbons and leaning in close, eyes focused on hers, goading, and a caring smile on his face.
“So what’s A.D.?” He asked. “I thought your name was Keisha, so those can’t be initials can they?”
“They are initials,” she said. “But not for my birth name. It was a nickname some asshole guys gave me a long time ago.”
She sipped her bourbon, grimaced, took another sip.
“I actively try my best to never, ever think about this, but maybe it’s time.”
“You can tell me, it’s okay,” he said.
“Don’t rush me,” she said. “This might take me a while.”
His turn to sip bourbon.
“Sorry,” he said.
She ignored him.
“Angel Ditch,” she said. “A.D. stands for Angel Ditch. It’s what a bunch of guys called me my freshman year of college.”
“Angel Ditch?”
“Just think about it for a second,” she said.
“Still not getting it.” He shook his head.
She sighed and closed her eyes.
“They were talking about my pussy...”
6
“Oh… Jesus,” Brady said, making a face.
“Yeah, you got it now, champ? It even sounds like a compliment right? I should’ve been flattered right? No. The total opposite. It was humiliating and degrading and horrible. It all seemed so innocent and harmless, at first, but the way things ended…”
Her fists clenched and her chest heaved. She was spilling her guts out in an incoherent mess to this total stranger who for some inexplicable reason, was still here, listening as she babbled something crazy. He wrapped his arms around her. She went silent and let herself be comforted.
After a minute or two, Keisha pulled away from him and looked up, and smiled.
“Look, I’m sorry for prying, obviously this has you… triggered or whatever—hell I didn’t even believe in that before today, you know? But yeah, I’m sorry I insisted and pushed you to do this. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No. It’s tough because I’ve never told anyone, but I already feel a lot better just purging even in a mess of words. Let me slow down, I want to get this out. I’m glad Conrad pushed me, I’m glad you’re here to listen.”
“If you’re sure you’re okay,” he said.
She nodded and told her story.
* * *
I didn’t look like this until college. Some girls are late bloomers. I was a super late bloomer. Puberty hit me late and stuck for a long time and eventually I worked my ass off to get into shape. When all the other girls around me were trying on bras and wearing revealing clothing, I just kept staring at my formless self, wondering if this is what I was or if someday I’d actually develop.
Halfway through high school, I thought maybe if I ate more that would help prompt my body into taking a more womanly shape. Give me some of those coveted curves. I put on the pounds, but it never went to the right places. I packed on over two hundred and still couldn’t fill a B-cup, and ultimately, I was nothing more than an undeveloped, unattractive, uninteresting, unimpressive fat girl. And fucking depressed. Horribly, horribly depressed.
I survived high school burying my face in books and focusing on getting good grades. Thought maybe if I worked hard I could give myself a head start in college and then maybe everything would come together. I didn’t feel like I was owed anything, but I felt like hard work in high school might help balance things out.
Guys and gals alike teased me in high school. I was an easy target. More than once I got invited to parties and pranked when I showed up. One time I was told it was a costume party, but I was the only one who dressed up. Rumors started that I was into cosplay and actually thought I was Harley Quinn. Another time I showed up, they led me to the backyard only to be pelted with water balloons and balls of raw hamburger. That was probably the worst. God, kids are assholes.
After that night I retreated even farther into myself and swore off socializing with anyone. Though my hormones and sexual impulses surged, I could indulge them with nothing more than my hands and pornography. I watched a lot of porn in that time, and I didn’t just use it to get off, I used it to study, to try and find out exactly how it would feel in all these different scenarios so that if I ever did snare a guy I liked, even though I was a virgin, after one roll with me, no matter my looks or anything else, he’d never want to leave.
After two years of trying to pack on curvy weight I acknowledged my mistake and started working out furiously, but got no results. Sometimes I thought about killing myself, but never actually tried.
Then I went to college and earned my illustrious nickname, Angel Ditch, and my whole world changed.
During the parties the first weekend, I lost my virginity. I ran into the same guy, named Paul, two different nights and we both talked and laughed and got sloppy drunk. He tried to take me back to his place the first night but I resisted. The second night, after years of teasing and taunting and rejection, I just let myself go.
And go I went.
We were both super drunk, so I remember a lot more about the next morning than I do that night, but the next morning was when it all changed for me. Some call it the walk of shame, and that’s what it normally would’ve been, but apparently even in my drunken blackout state, I’d given Paul the fuck of his life.
See, what they were doing was something I’d never heard of. Paul and his friends, a couple upper classmen, with some experience under their belts had been out hogging. Hogging is a competition in which male friends go out to a party or a bar and they have a contest to see who can fuck the fattest girl, and oh happy day, Paul chose me.
I should have been infuriated, right? Well, while all his buddies were up early downing breakfast beers before football started, he’d told them what happened between us the night before and instead of walking out in shame, they invited me to sit with them, handed me a beer.
You’d think I’d be crushed, humiliated, depressed, all that, but I was getting attention for the first time in my life. All of a sudden, Paul and his friends were interested in everything about me and even though most of it was sexual, it still felt ridiculously satisfying. Sure, I’d lost my virginity the night before, but I’d seen enough porn to bluff my way through their banter until one of them stood up.
“This is ridiculous,” he said. “Look at you, what could you possibly do so different? Christ you weigh like 300 pounds.”
Looking back now, I realize it was a challenge. He w
as looking to get laid, see what he could get away with, and I took the bait. I could’ve thrown my drink in his face and stormed out, but instead, I took my clothes off and fucked him sideways right there in front of all his friends. And then I fucked the rest of the guys in the house, including Paul for a second time.
I made them all rubber up and took them one after another, and I talked shit the entire time they ran the train. Repeating almost every line I’d ever heard in a porno.
“You like that? Why don’t you fuck me like a man, you little bitch? Yeah, pull my hair smack my ass. Is that all you got? Oh yeah baby, squeeze my tits. Yeah, flip me over and fuck me from behind. Harder, more, harder, don’t stop, don’t, no, don’t cum yet. Oh yeah, give it all to me baby. I want it.”
I hammed it up, and they ate it up. I pulled out every phrase and trick in the book and they took their turns fucking me until they were sweating and I was sweating and everyone just kind of collapsed into their grungy overstuffed couches and chairs.
I knew they were using me, but it felt good to be used, fucked, lusted after, I’d never experienced anything like it, not to mention I even managed to harvest some pleasure out of it myself.
When it was over I put my clothes on with wobbly legs and I kind of expected them to tell me to get the fuck out, but instead Paul brought me a beer and they gave me a round of applause.
In hindsight I realize they were really protecting their investment. What college guy wouldn’t want a chick they could call at a moment’s notice to come over and fuck their whole household plus friends or whatever? But in the moment I felt pure pride.
“Okay, boys, you’ve done worn me out, I’m gonna get going,” I said.
“Yeah, okay, cool,” Paul said, “We’re having a party here on Wednesday, why don’t you come back? And give me your number, too, for sure.”
No one had ever asked me for my number before. I gave it to him and every guy in the room and then I left, excited and liberated. Best day of my life. I felt so energized, I went home and showered and hit the gym. After that workout I felt the shift inside my body and things got a lot better.
I went back and saw them before their party on Wednesday, and we did the same song and dance. Things went on this way for a while and then one night I was over there just drinking with them and watching a movie, no fooling around, when they started talking about the nickname they’d given me. How they called me Angel Ditch. How perfect my pussy was and even though my body might not be perfect, the ditch between my legs was angelic. They told me this, straight to my face and I took it with an enthusiastic, agreeable nod and a smile. Angel Ditch. They called me A.D. for short. I had a fucking nickname. I had friends.
I pictured it in my head: “Hey, anyone talked to Angel Ditch? What’s she doing tonight? I just texted AD, she’s down, she’ll be over in an hour.”
I felt important.
Things with The Boys, as I came to call them, escalated as sex usually does. I had to make sure I wasn’t boring. There’s nothing worse than being boring, and curious boys obviously wanted to see how far they could push their willing fuckdoll.
I let them. The only rule I strictly enforced was that they were not allowed to take any pictures or film anything.
Day by day they humiliated and degraded me just a little bit more, but I found I mostly liked it, got off on it, so I didn’t care if they wanted to pour beers on my head while they fucked me, or spit in my face, or fuck me with a beer box on my head, or cut a hole in the pussy of a Hustler centerfold and fuck me through it. I let it all happen.
I burned calories like crazy with The Boys and at the gym, and I ate healthier than I had in my life. I took a nutrition class my first semester and asked a shitload of questions. My body physically and visibly changed over the course of my freshman year, and I dropped the weight in the wrong places, and the weight in the right places tightened with muscular definition from all of my hard work.
I started to draw eyes and comments and conversation and attention from a lot of other people that weren’t associated with The Boys, and worse than that, in my transformation, The Boys started to see me as long term relationship material instead of just a willing, enthusiastic, overweight, freaky hole to stick their dicks in.
So they started fighting over me. Cheap barbs at first, but then fun joking around became mean spirited as they talked shit about each other’s dicks, or who smelled the worst, who had STDs, or who used me to cheat on their girlfriends. I tired of the bickering and made myself scarce which caused them all to text me and call me more often, finally wanting to take me out on dates or something. It’s amazing what dropping 100 pounds can do to a man’s brain.
In the middle of all that, I met Conrad. The first guy ever to legitimately approach me and engage me in a conversation that resulted in mutual flirtation, some fun, and me happily giving him my phone number, and anxiously waiting for three whole days for him to call or text.
He did. We went out for happy hour and hit it off like you see in the movies. Nearly inseparable after that, we did dinners and movies and study dates and everything else, and once our relationship got rolling, I stayed far, far away from The Boys. I avoided places I knew they’d be on campus and ignored their text messages and phone calls. Started to see them for the opportunistic filth they really were. Shocked at myself for never seeing it before.
It turned out that most of them couldn’t get laid without me, so they grew more and more desperate, going so far as to threaten me they’d tell Conrad in thick, grisly detail about all of our escapades. Thank God I’d never allowed them to film or photograph anything.
Conrad confronted me about it, and I came clean, told him everything, told him I even liked a lot of it. Even though those guys were jerks, that didn’t completely change my tastes.
At my pleading, he ignored them and I told The Boys for one final time to leave me the fuck alone and find a new girl or better yet, to grow the fuck up and find girlfriends of their own. Miraculously, they left us alone and our relationship progressed. We were together for about six months and as in love as it gets when we ran into The Boys at a dive bar downtown.
After a stressful study week, we were looking for a cheap relaxing date of awesomely bad music on the jukebox, Bud Light Draft, and shooting pool. We had everything we wanted until the boys showed up.
I never knew them as fighters, but something got into them that night.
They didn’t approach us, but they stared us down for a good hour, sipping their beers, whispering to each other and laughing. With enough liquid courage down their hatches, they decided it would be a good idea to come shoot some stick on the table next to ours.
I didn’t want to let them win, but I didn’t want trouble either, so I grabbed Conrad, we paid our tab, and I used the bathroom and we went out to the car. And there they were, waiting for us sitting right on top of Conrad’s black Dodge Charger like bully punks in some 50s movie.
I pulled my phone out, threatening to call the cops and Conrad stopped me. He asked them nicely once to please move and let us leave. They refused, then they started tossing the nastiest slurs my way. It’s amazing how the male brain changes before they’ve fucked you, after they’ve fucked you, and when they realize they will never fuck you again.
Conrad heard enough and took a step forward. Once he did that it was over, one of The Boys, they called him Worm, snuck out from behind another car and cracked Conrad in the head with a cue stick. Then the rest jumped on him, punching, stomping, kicking, everything. They hit his head on the concrete and broke several of his bones.
I called the cops, but thirty seconds later the boys scattered and Conrad died in my arms as I cradled his bloodied head.
I told the police everything, but ultimately there was no way to prove who inflicted the deathblow, so a few of them went down for manslaughter and a few cut a deal for assault and battery charges. No one went away for life or anything, and now, they all walk free and Conrad is still dead.
&nbs
p; Even at that young age he wanted to be cremated, and since he had no one else, the ashes went with me. Since his death, I’ve studied the occult, Ouija, spirits, stuff like that, and found a way to communicate with him again.
His spirit inhabits this board, and when I sprinkle his ashes on it, he talks to me, tries to help me find the right guy, since I’ve only ever had one, and the rest of my experience with men has been utter shit.
* * *
Keisha took a gulp of bourbon.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Brady said, and went to sip his drink, but it had been empty for half the story.
For a few moments, neither spoke. They stared at the Ouija board.
She expected to burst into tears or something while telling this story, but instead the purge felt more cleansing than anything she’d ever experienced. Now she felt free. Maybe the Catholics were onto something with their confessions.
During multiple points of the story Brady tried to stop her, to hold her, comfort her or console her, but she shook her head each time and forged forward, and once she started, his innocent attempts to reassure her only became more and more annoying.
He pointed to his glass.
“After all that, I think I need a refill. I’ll be right back. You need anything?”
Keisha faced him. Looked him square in the eye.
“Actually, I think it would be better if you just go. I haven’t thought about that for a long time, and I’ve never told anyone. I feel good, but weird, and I think I’d just rather be alone. I probably shouldn’t have told you in the first place.”
Brady gestured to the board. “But he told you to. That’s so crazy.”
“Yeah well, even still. Maybe it was more about me telling it than you hearing it. Can you just give me his ashes and please go? I’m sorry, but I’m fine. I just want to be alone.”
His face looked like she’d stabbed him. He tried to hide the flash of anger, but she saw through it, and she understood why he felt that way, but it wasn’t her problem.
