by Bob Purssell
Back at the car, Elizabeth Sue was on her knees in the driveway. With my assistance, the still-drugged girl staggered to the back door.
Now I confronted a problem. The house had one of those security systems that required you to punch in a key code. Of course, I did not know the code. I looked at the two girls. Elizabeth Sue was unconscious; Karen, drunk, was mumbling a song.
I took a deep breath of the cold spring air and then, more in frustration than anything else, I pounded on the door.
With slurred speech Karen said, “You have to use the key thing.”
“I don’t know the code.”
“I do,” said Karen, who trying to struggle to her feet, added in a drunken voice, “Let me do it.”
I stopped the girl’s uncoordinated efforts. Setting her back on the ground, I told her, “Tell me the code.”
This she did. When I asked her again, Karen repeated a different number sequence.
I was stuck. If I triggered the alarm, I would be talking to the police. If I did nothing, we could be out in the cold for hours.
Indecisive, I looked at the stars, took in the cold air. Not knowing what I should do, I glanced at my watch. It was almost two in the morning. I had to do something; it was too cold to stay out here all night.
I glanced at Elizabeth Sue and Karen. They had both nodded off to sleep. Lucky you, I thought.
Not knowing what to do, my eyes wandered. In the distance, a pair of headlights pierced the darkness. Focusing on the car, I watched it proceed down the road toward the Wingdale house. My heart sunk as the vehicle began to slow. I thought, I’m screwed; it’s the police.
My nightmare scenario began to unfold. Now moving slowly, the car turned into the long driveway. I closed my eyes and mumbled, “Oh, no.”
* * *
Attracted by the headlights, Karen stared at the car and, with drunken voice, said, “It’s Mrs. W.” Somehow, the girl managed to stand, but then, trying to step forward, she stumbled and fell to the ground laughing.
The car stopped next to Elizabeth Sue’s BMW. The driver side door flew open and a woman got out, running toward us. Surveying the scene, she exclaimed, “What the fuck?!”
Before I could explain, the woman punched the keypad and ordered, “Help me get them inside.” As we all but carried Elizabeth Sue into the kitchen, the woman asked, “What happened?”
“We went to a party. They may have drugged Elizabeth Sue.”
“Did they …?”
“I don’t’ think so. I think I stopped them just before they started.”
With obvious relief, the woman exclaimed, “Thank God.” Then she ordered, “Let’s get Karen inside.”
With both girls sitting awkwardly in kitchen chairs, the woman turned and faced me. “I’m Jessica Wingdale, Elizabeth Sue’s mother. I’m going to get these two into bed after I clean them up.”
“I can help.”
“Thanks,” replied the mother, and together we all but carried Elizabeth Sue to a shower room. After helping strip the drugged girl of her clothes, I watched as Mrs. Wingdale flushed her daughter’s private parts with the shower. Then, after the mother toweled her daughter’s body, again with my assistance, we all but carried Elizabeth Sue to a first-floor guest bedroom and put her on the bed.
“Sweetie,” asked the mother, “how are you feeling?”
“I’m so tired. Where am I?”
“You’re home, sweetie.” Elizabeth Sue let out a sigh and closed her eyes. Kissing her daughter on the forehead, the woman said, “Get some sleep. I’ll be here for you.”
We repeated the procedure with Karen, whose contribution was to puke while we were cleaning her up. Finally, after another showering, we put her to sleep in yet another first-floor guest bedroom.
* * *
At three-thirty in the morning, Mrs. Wingdale put out her hand and said, “I’d like to say thank you, but I don’t even know your name.”
“Barbara O’Leary.”
“You’re the ice hockey star?”
Normally I would have bridled at such a limiting characterization, but considering what was happening tonight, the matter seemed unimportant, so I answered, “Yes, I play ice hockey.”
After exhaling, Mrs. Wingdale shook her head, and then said, “A grateful mother says thank you for bringing her daughter home safe.”
Sounding overly formal, I replied, “You’re welcome, Mrs. Wingdale.”
“Call me Jessica. This is hardly the night for formality.”
Never comfortable calling adults by their first name, I nodded.
Mrs. Wingdale said, “Barbara, take a shower; get yourself cleaned up. Leave your things outside the door. I’ll wash them.”
“They’re not mine, Mrs. Wingdale; they’re Elizabeth Sue’s. She lent me the clothes I wore to the party.”
Handing me a large bath towel, the woman said, “It’s Jessica, remember.”
I asked, “May I call you Mrs. Wingdale?”
“Well, I’m not comfortable with that. We need something in the middle.”
Remembering what Karen had called out, I asked, “Can I call you Mrs. W?”
She thought about it for a second, smiled, and then replied, “Okay. If it makes you feel better, I’ll be Mrs. W.”
* * *
After showering, I found Mrs. W sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, looking out into space. I sat down without saying a word. Recognizing my presence, she asked if she could get me something. We settled on iced tea, which she handed to me with the words, “Do tell me what happened.”
I recounted the events of the day and night. When I had finished Mrs. W told me, “I never spoke to your mother.”
“But?”
“It was Elizabeth Sue. She told your mother that she was Jessica Wingdale.”
The light went on. I said, “I should have realized. I guess I was pretty naïve?”
“Trusting, not naïve. You had no reason to expect that my daughter would do a thing like that.”
“What are you going to do?”
“About what?”
“About Elizabeth Sue?”
“Not much, probably,” replied Mrs. W. “We’ll talk; I’ll take her to the doctor.”
“Aren’t you going to punish her?” I exclaimed.
“Waste of time. It hasn’t worked before; I have no reason to believe it will now.”
“But-but—,” I responded.
“Barbara, considering all you’ve done, I think you’ve earned an explanation. This is not the first time my daughter has gotten herself into a situation. In fact, although you may not believe it, tonight is not the worst.”
Mrs. W stopped to let me absorb her statement. She continued, “I’ve pushed all the buttons. We’ve had the heart-to-heart, mother-daughter talks. She’s in therapy. I’ve done all the parent things like grounding her, cutting her allowance. We’ve talked to pastors. None of it has worked.”
I wanted to say something, but I could not think of anything useful.
Mrs. W answered my unasked question. “Do I want Elizabeth Sue to behave like she does? No, of course not. But I can’t prevent it. What she wants … is to screw around, to party, to have fun, which to her means sex. And until she gets over that phase, she has the beauty and the charm to do just that.”
“Did she tell you why she behaves like she does?”
“Of course. She has all kinds of explanations. So does the therapist. When you peel away all the highfalutin language it comes down to thrill seeking and lust.”
“She could get an STD.”
Rolling her eyes, Mrs. W exclaimed, “So far, we’ve lucked out on that one. But you’re right. She practices unsafe sex, and she could ruin her life. That’s partly why I moved here, lower infection rates.”
I switched the subject. “Ar
e you going to call the police?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Well, they-they tried to hurt your daughter.”
“Yes, they did. And you have no idea how angry I am. But I think we have to be careful.”
“Careful?”
“If the police get involved, they’ll conduct an investigation. They’ll likely ask: Why is a juvenile driving after dark without an adult? Why were you at a party where alcohol was being served?”
“Oh.”
“Yes, ‘oh’ is absolutely right,” responded Mrs. W. “But, being careful doesn’t mean doing nothing. I’ll handle this situation in another way.”
“How?”
“I know the dean of finance at the college. He’ll probably recognize a connection between my company’s annual contribution and the need to make an example of an out-of-control fraternity. He’ll probably suggest throwing them off campus; probation at the very least.”
Even then, having just met the woman, I felt certain that the fraternity would soon be history. Thinking of Big Boy and the rest of the louts, I responded, “Serves them right.”
Now Mrs. W changed the subject. “You must be tired?”
“Kind of.”
“I’ve used up all the guest bedrooms. You’ll have to sleep in my bed.”
“But what about—”
“Me?” replied Mrs. W. “Don’t worry. I’ll be up with Elizabeth Sue and her friend. Let’s get you to bed.”
* * *
I followed Mrs. W through her house and up a flight of stairs to the master bedroom. As I gawked at the huge, opulent room and its oversized bed, Mrs. W opened a drawer and handed me a pair of silk pajamas. I thanked her then meekly protested, “I can’t. It’s not right.”
“It’s right if I say it is. Remember, it’s my bed.”
Exhausted, sensing Mrs. W was one of those people you do not argue with, I dressed for bed and then tentatively touched the satin sheets.
Mrs. W urged, “Go ahead; lie down; try it.”
Without protest, I slid my tired body onto the softness of the bed and closed my eyes. That is all I remember until 9:00 AM, when I awoke and found myself alone in the room. Quickly dressing—Mrs. W had left my washed clothes on a chair—I quietly began looking for the kitchen. On my way, I passed the guest room where Karen was sprawled awkwardly on the bed. The smell of vomit was impossible to miss. I continued on my way.
Mrs. W had just started to make breakfast, and I helped prepare a tray for her daughter. When she asked about Karen, I said, “Maybe some crackers.”
“Bad?”
“Not nice,” I replied.
Getting my drift, Mrs. W handed me Elizabeth Sue’s tray saying, “I’ll handle Karen.”
Elizabeth Sue was sitting up in her bed when I entered the room. Looking at me, she asked, “You brought me home?”
“Yes.”
“I was in bad shape?”
Putting the tray on her lap, I replied, “They drugged you.”
“I’m such a jerk.”
“They took advantage of you.”
“If I hadn’t been such a jerk, none of this would have happened.”
Although I agreed with her analysis, I smiled warmly. It was not my place to lecture or criticize.
“Thank you for bringing me home. You’re a nice person.”
“You would have done the same for me.”
“You’re not a jerk. Nobody had to bring you home.”
We talked for a few minutes more. Although I could not argue with her self-assessment or the boys’ “fucking slut” description, I liked Elizabeth Sue in spite of her behavior.
* * *
In Mrs. W’s car on my way home, if asked, I would have said that my interaction with Mrs. Wingdale and her daughter was coming to an end.
Boy, did I get that wrong.
As Mrs. W turned into my driveway, I saw my father lying on a crawler underneath his Miata. Hearing a car come up the driveway, he backed out and stood up. When I introduced her, Mrs. W extended her hand. My father declined, saying, “I’d shake, but my hands are filthy.”
“Don’t worry,” replied Mrs. W as she took hold and shook my father’s grease-stained right hand. Changing the subject, she added, “Your daughter is a wonderful young woman. I’m very impressed. You should be very pleased.”
Giving me a smile, my beaming father responded, “We think she’s special.”
“Indeed she is. If you’re not too busy, I’d like to speak to you and your wife for a moment.”
Trying to hide my alarm, since I didn’t know what Mrs. W intended to tell my parents, I froze. After my father prompted me, I went and found my mother. Returning I introduced her to Mrs. W and then withdrew, fearing I would soon have a whole lot of explaining to do.
Nervous, preparing my story, I waited in the living room. Finally, my father called me to say good-bye. To my relief I found Mrs. W and my mother talking and laughing. After my parents wished her well, Mrs. W hugged me before she drove off.
* * *
That evening, at the end of dinner, as we were about to get up from the table, my mother informed me, “Mrs. Wingdale said you might like to tell us about last night.”
Probably not hiding my alarm, I wondered, how will my parents react if I tell them what happened?
Before I started to speak, my father put up his hand. “Barbara, if you want, you can tell us. If you don’t wish to discuss what happened, we’ll understand.”
For a few seconds I thought about the option that my parents had just given me. I considered not telling them what had happened, but then I decided if they were ready to trust my judgment, I could trust theirs. Clearing my throat, I began recounting my experience.
I told them everything; I didn’t hold back what I had seen on the second floor of the frat house. When I was done, my mother exhaled as she said, “You certainly had a night!”
“You’re not mad?” I exclaimed.
“No, child,” replied my father. “I think by and large you used good judgment, particularly in leaving when you did.”
My mother added, “I hope you understand why we worry about you.”
“It could have been worse, couldn’t it?”
“Yes,” my father replied. Then placing his hand on mine, he added, “But all’s well that ends well. Our hope is that you learned a valuable lesson.”
* * *
All weekend I worried about what would happen when I went back to school on Monday. Would Karen and Elizabeth Sue blab about what had happened Friday night? And if they did, what would that do to my reputation? Would I become a “fucking slut” to my fellow classmates?
Full of angst, all day Monday I listened to as much school gossip as I could. Karen told a couple of girls in our American history class, “The party was okay. I met a guy. He was okay, well, sort of.” When pressed about the party itself, she replied, “It wasn’t bad; it wasn’t good. It was kind of blah. Anyway, we left early. I probably won’t go back.”
In the hall, I overheard Elizabeth Sue tell her circle of friends, “There were a lot of gross guys. I mean really gross and definitely not cool. We came back early.”
Much relieved that neither girl had mentioned my involvement, I went to sleep Monday night figuring everything was okay. That night I had the following dream: I was at a party like the one at the college. At first, I was in a crowd of college kids. Then I realized I was naked. I started running, and I ended up in a room with some naked guys. They all disappeared except for one guy who had an enormous organ. When he started chasing me, I woke up, scared.
Shaken, for an hour or so I stayed awake before again drifting off to sleep. Again, I began dreaming: I was in a car with a girl who was driving me somewhere. After a while, she stopped and a group of naked guys got into the car. Then I was chasing one
of the naked guys down a street. When I caught him, he turned into a penis. Scared, I awoke. For the rest of the night I did not dare sleep for fear of yet another nightmare.
* * *
Tuesday night, I went to bed wondering if I would have more nightmares. Fortunately, I slept peacefully without dreaming.
Wednesday night I got into bed figuring that Monday was just a bad night. I drifted off, and I had another dream. This time I was floating in space with this really handsome guy. We weren’t doing anything other than floating. Then I started holding and kissing him. He didn’t do anything, but I kept on kissing and fondling him. Then I realized I was kissing the guy’s cock. Startled, I awoke.
Unlike Monday night, I lay in bed thinking about what I would experience if I had sex. I wasn’t scared this time. Rather, I felt excited and had an enjoyable tingly feeling. My thoughts did not stop when I got up. In fact, all day Thursday, I could not stop thinking about my dreams and the party. What did it mean? In English class, I became so distracted that the teacher had to prompt me to pay attention. Embarrassed, I forced myself to focus on my schoolwork. That afternoon, after school while I was jogging, alone with my thoughts, I continually thought about naked men and sex. Far from finding my thoughts disturbing, I enjoyed my fantasies as I ran along in my own world.
* * *
At home, while getting ready to shower, I realize I am so tense. My body feels tingly in the way it had felt the night before. In the vanity mirror, I see my swollen nipples. Excited, filled with anticipation, I turn on the water and step into the shower. Closing my eyes, as the warm water cascades over my body, I caress my breasts with both hands. Pleasured, I squeeze my nipples and instantly a heavenly sensation spreads throughout my body. Then my mother calls, and I immediately stop.
That Thursday evening, as is their custom, my parents leave the house to play bridge with friends. Alone, I obsess with what had happened earlier in the shower. I cannot stop thinking about caressing myself.
I stop studying and take another shower. This time, in addition to caressing my breasts, I fondle my genitals. Reacting to the rush of sensation, startled, I let out a cry. Intrigued, I stroke my clitoris again, and again I experience a wonderful feeling of excitement. A feeling that is as intense as it is enjoyable. Hesitating, realizing I am breaking one of society’s taboos, I consider turning off the water and stepping out of the shower. However, my yearning is too great. Once again, I close my eyes, fondle my breasts and caress my genitals. This time when the rush begins I do not stop. Instead, I let the tension grow and grow. Just as it becomes near unbearable, my body shudders and there is a tremendous rush of pleasure. I cry out and that makes the experience even more enjoyable. Finally, after who knows how long, when the sensation fades, I open my eyes and say, “Wow!”
