by D. A. Maddox
Michael’s head drooped, watching Officer Garcia let his penis drop.
Partially stiff. The laser label now read, Penis / Circumcised / Affected / Erection 52%.
“Anyway—as you have learned, in order for sex with a man to be successful, regardless of the partner’s gender, the penis should be at full length, suffused with blood, springy as a thick twig. Michael’s is on its way now, and that, I think, is my fault. Michael, you see, is homosexual. On the Bonilla Spectrum, he reads 95% male preference, which is an exceptionally high number, even among active and monogamous practitioners of gay sex. That is the only reason why I am here, and Officer Grant, instead of our female counterparts. Simply put, he is only likely to respond to another man’s touch, although I expect it is quite outside of his experience to have a man twice his age bring him along in such a way.”
Michael’s teeth clenched. His cock bobbed, not quite all the way there.
Veronica chomped back a bubble, grinning winsomely at the disapproving glances thrown her way.
“Turn around, sport. Bend over. Spread your cheeks so that your asshole feels the air conditioning.”
Miserably, with the first few tears dribbling down the sides of his face, Michael complied. The laser letter projector put the word “Anus” on his left butt cheek, with an arrow pointing into the deepest shadow of his cleft, right to the exposed orifice.
“When you are married, you might find that your husband enjoys you taking charge with various toys that simulate a reversal of roles. Now, as for Michael here, his butthole has already seen some action.” Here, Officer Garcia traced his finger around the rim, which expanded and contracted in fluttery, nervous little spasms. “This is somewhat pre-dilated, but not much. Nevertheless, a virgin butthole would be considerably more puckered, closer in on itself. All right, Michael, stand and face again.”
Michael stood. Faced. Let the tears fall freely.
“This one is for education,” Officer Garcia said, taking a knee. “The ladies need to see you ten-hut and at attention. Let it happen, Michael.”
He started on him, just with his hand.
It didn’t take long.
Throughout the room, a steady murmur as Officer Garcia stepped back so they could get an uninterrupted view of his raging hard-on, which now pointed straight up.
By then, Veronica was going over the particulars of her shopping list in her mind.
“You finish, please,” Officer Garcia said, putting a bucket in front of him between his feet and pointing. “Go on, Inmate 196. Get to work. Show us an orgasm.”
****
The class, regardless of level or gender, ended at 11 AM for everyone.
Keeping State Secrets, Savannah decided upon exiting the classroom, rivaled waiting in line at the DMV for the All-Time Boredom Award. Learning why secrets still had to be kept from her in early adulthood, before learning what those secrets were, seemed backwards to her, too. Her parents had done it, quoting many of the same deflections Professor Shusterman had just told them to commit to memory:
From Dad: “All good things to those who wait, Savannah. You don’t want us getting into trouble, do you? And it’s room-time for the rest of your homework in an hour, unless you want to go out. Got our show coming on.”
From Mom, usually with a laugh: “You curious thing. We’re going to have such a talk, when the time comes.”
Shusterman had lectured about how the brain didn’t fully develop until the age of twenty-one, even as the hardwired desires of the human body peaked much earlier. He spoke of the potential for adult-scale trouble—premature parenthood chief among them, but also the potential for medical and legal problems—that had so plagued generations of young Americans prior to the Reformation. He spoke of obligation to country, that in order for America to remain competitive in a worldwide community of commerce, their best and their brightest needed to be focused on school, on bettering themselves.
All of that, and yet he was a kindly old man. He was a classic, with a full white beard and a bald spot the circumference of a ballcap. He had a cane, and he projected a soft but inarguable wisdom without ever raising his voice. Preferring light, collared dress shirts unbuttoned at the top and loosely knotted ties, he lacked only the suit jacket and coattails to complete the cliché. And maybe a pocket watch.
He was much nicer than the middle-aged curmudgeon across the hall, Professor Krantz, whose nastiness was legendary. There he was now, speaking in a hushed voice to a young woman not much older than Savannah. She had dark hair and bright eyes—eyes that flitted to her as she passed.
“Anyone who knows how to play the game at all,” the generally vociferous Professor Krantz now practically whispered, “finds themselves playing both offense and defense sooner or later. Remember that, Miss Cruz.”
Quiet in that moment he may have been, but it only made him nastier.
Unflapped, Miss Cruz offered a tilt of her head, acknowledging Savannah as she went—or at least Savannah’s backpack. “Got the whole bookstore in there, do you?”
Savannah looked away and hurried off. Whoever that was, she thought, is probably in The Select. There was no other way Savannah could have merited her attention.
****
Scott saw her leave. He thought about going after her, or at least calling out to her, sharing a wave. In the end, he remembered his common sense and left her alone. If he wanted to have anything like a chance with her down the line, he either had to let her call him, or let the matter be until Saturday. He needed to be the good guy here, not only for her sake but because he honestly thought of himself as one of the good guys.
And good guy behavior does not involve stalking, he admonished himself.
He stalked his way back towards Finney’s, instead. It was just past 11, too early for a beer but just in time for him to suffocate his sorrows in a sandwich. He changed his mind halfway there, though, when he caught sight of one of his crew friends crossing University Way over to the Jam and Java.
“Corky, hold up.”
Corky turned. Rather than a “Hey, bro,” or a point-and-shoot friend salute, Corky’s walk turned into a brisk jog—almost a run—away from the Jam and Java to the wooded bike trail just next to it.
What the living shit? Oh, hell no. I’m not doing weird today.
Scott bolted after him. “Corky!” he yelled, running full tilt. He wasn’t worried—not really—only confused and … well, suddenly and instantly pissed off. And it only got worse when Corky shifted gear and tried to match his pace.
Dumb, Scott thought. Corky was a strong enough guy, but they both knew he couldn’t take Scott in a foot race. They’d been down this trail, both running and biking, more than once.
The trees had hardly closed in overhead by the time Scott caught him. He put a hand on his shoulder to stop him, turn him around. He started to say something—
Corky reeled and, with all the benefit of surprise, took him down with a single barn-burning punch to the side of his head.
Scott dropped, barely kept himself from smacking the back of his head on asphalt.
“I can’t know you today, man,” Corky said, heaving breath. “Not until you grow your brain back. Shit, dude—are you all right?”
Scott was stunned. He didn’t get up, didn’t take inventory yet. And he had no desire to turn this into a full-on fight. But he opened his mouth and found he could still make words. “Who else?” he asked from his back. “You and Rusty and Zeke, I got. Who else? Brad? Fucking Jules? Is everyone in this fucking thing but me?”
“No,” Corky said. “Only the best of us. And it could be you, Scott. You need to get your fucking head on straight.”
And again, Corky ran. This time, Scott let him go.
****
The “Ball Room” of the Student Union was expansive—twice the length and width of a basketball court—with oakwood floors and a high ceiling. It was rigged at the far walls of the stage with massive Thumper Bump speakers with twin subwoofers and lined on eit
her side with 60-inch video screens. It even had a retro, 70s style reflective glitter ball dangling from above on a retractable cord of wound steel.
Those things were standard, for the enjoyment of anyone and everyone who reserved or rented out the space. Most of the fun accoutrements would be put into place early tomorrow evening. But there were a few out already, set on a long, sturdy oaken table with broad legs. Tomorrow, that table would bear three bowls of spiked fruit punch. The two bowls that sat upon it just now, however, were quite different.
Veronica and Malcolm regarded them, along with the pricey but blank rectangles of high end glossy paper stock, cut to 3.5 x 2 inches, the calligraphic pens carved from pig femur and capped with nibs of real silver, and the twin black inkwells featuring bright white silhouettes of the naked human form, one female, one male.
The bowls were black iron, half gallon capacity. These, too, were gender specific, one featuring the hand mirror Venus symbol, the other the shield and spear of Mars. They were seventy-five years old, if one believed the alumni of the Student Council Select.
So were the pens, one of which Veronica now lifted. “We’re done with these. Changing times, Malcolm. Modernization.”
“Oh?” Malcolm said. “That, too, huh? And how does that make it possible for you to do what you want to do, exactly?”
Veronica reached into her handbag and drew forth her afternoon purchase from Golden Tech. “Palm com with a screen signature function,” she proudly said. “And a built-in label printer. Used for finishing off business cards with—”
“With a reproducible signature,” Malcolm finished for her. “Fucking hell.”
“You say the sweetest things.”
“We’ll lose the ceremonial effect,” he warned her. “People won’t like that, Ronnie.”
“They’ll be fine,” Veronica promised him, “when the real show starts.”
Chapter Six:
Movement
Savannah got up ten minutes before her alarm was set to go off. As per her normal routine, still sitting in bed, she reached over to the clock and, for Alisha, reset the alarm for 7 AM. Her eyes were still bleary with a restless night’s sleep when she looked over to her friend. Alisha was dead to the world, emitting slow, rhythmic little snores that she did not believe she ever made.
I should make a video, Savannah thought. Show Alisha the terrible truth.
But not today. Today, Alisha deserved nothing but the best friend treatment. And Savannah had other things on her mind, anyway.
Things that required her to keep secrets from Alisha.
Quietly as she could, Savannah dressed and got her duffel bag out of the closet. She set the white box on top of her bed. Into the duffel bag she put not only her gym clothes but also the contents of the box. She took both the duffel bag, slung over her shoulder, and the box out of the room with her, and hoped the rest of the sorority house was as unconscious as Alisha was. She could just imagine it:
Whatcha got there, Savannah?
What’s in the box, girlfriend?
What are you, moving out or something?
But she got lucky. She was the only one up. She supposed she shouldn’t have been so surprised. Apart from the end of any given semester (when other students had to pull all-nighters for tests and projects), Savannah was always the first one up.
So, she made it outside without anyone bothering her. The gym was right on the Commons. Old world-style streetlamps lit the sidewalk. It was either walk around with all of her stuff right out there in the open, or else slink around in the shadows. She opted for powerwalking under the light. Better to get pestered by some random person on the way to a morning workout than to be mistaken for someone sneaking around, up to no good.
But I am up to no good, she thought, and I am sneaking around, even if I’m doing it in the open.
And as the hours had passed, as the time of the appointed rendezvous drew closer, apprehension had made way for pure, unadulterated dread—and excitement. She’d be at the mercy of strangers in a ritual that was foreign to her.
It was more than exciting, she had to admit. More than dreadful. It was arousing, and that realization made her feel oddly guilty. The whole thing was beyond strange. Whatever hazing they had in mind as part of acceptance into the SCS would have to be something akin to her initiation into Gamma Phi, which hadn’t been fun at all. Getting the honey out of her hair had taken forever.
It’s the adventure of it, she said to herself. The blind dare. I don’t even especially want to be in The Select…
Around the corner, the gym came into view, its green glass walls and red brick frame a comfort in its normalcy. She wondered if Scott would be inside. He almost had to be. He’d skipped yesterday.
Whatever they do, she said to herself, coming under the twin porch lights of the entrance, they’ve done it to others. For years. And you won’t be alone. You’ll be fine.
How many others would there be? What were the chances of winning this “lottery” the email had mentioned? Did she want to?
Going in, setting down her things so she could fish out her pass and trade it in at the front desk for a locker key, she reminded herself to be nice to Scott. There was no reason either of them should have to change their schedules because of the “event” happening tonight, no reason for either to stay away.
Be nice, but stick to your guns. Don’t discuss it.
Passing through the weight room on her way to the lockers—again, she didn’t see Scott anywhere.
Oh, God, she thought. I made him mad, or I scared him off. Now he doesn’t want to come here anymore.
She continued for the lockers, telling herself not to worry about it. Her mother had always told her she worried too much. It wasn’t like she had Scott’s schedule memorized. She had no right to expect him anywhere—not here, and certainly not at the Origins Fete.
But, selfishly, she did want him there. Especially there. It would be good to have a familiar, friendly face next to her at nine o’clock. As for her schedule, Friday was usually her rest day. Today, she needed a locker. Might as well get a workout in while she was here.
She checked the key: 283. She went to the second locker aisle—and stopped.
There was another woman there, even at this ungodly hour, standing right in front of locker 284. Younger than Savannah, probably a freshman. She was pretty, with curly blonde locks bound back in a sweatband, her eyes wide with innocent surprise—and big, bouncy boobs that were difficult not to envy. She slammed her locker shut and leaned her back against it.
It was almost comical. Poor thing was in her underwear and sneakers—all pink—her shorts and t-shirt laid out behind her on the bench. She was the picture of helplessness.
And she was too late. Savannah had already seen the white gown inside her locker, which was identical to her own. Evidently, this particular brainwave of Savannah’s hadn’t been as clever and unique as she had surmised. The most important part would be leaving without getting her pass back, thus keeping the locker key. The gym was closer to the Student Union than her sorority house. She didn’t much fancy the prospect of walking half the campus at night looking like a stock horror film Sacrificial Blondie.
“It’s okay,” Savannah said, marveling to hear herself comforting someone else, as she was the one who typically required reassurance. She set her duffel bag and the box on the bench in front of 283. Before she flipped off the lid or opened her locker, she could see most of the tension wash out of the girl’s face like melting ice.
“You, too?”
“Me, too.”
“But we’re not supposed to talk about it,” the girl then quickly added.
“Then we won’t,” Savannah replied, putting her things away. “Not like we really know anything to talk about anyway, right?”
The girl held her hand out. “Melody Collins,” she said. Then, with a bit of abashed pride, getting her workout clothes on, “I’m a legacy.”
“Really? Older brother or older sister? S
avannah Miles, by the way.”
“Three sisters,” Melody said. “I’m the Princess of Hand-Me-Downs.”
Savannah snorted. “Least you’re a for-real legacy,” she said. “I’m nobody.”
****
Stretching on his own hard carpet. Sit-ups with his feet against the wall, bed pushed off to the side. Pushups. Squats while holding his dumbbells. Later, he’d go running.
For now, with his project finished and his body sufficiently exerted, with no classes until two in the afternoon, Scott struggled to clear his mind for what he had to do. Still sweating, wearing only his shorts and socks, he powered up his tablet and went to his email. Nothing new.
Checked his phone.
Nothing new.
It was noon. If Savannah were going to call him before tonight, she’d have done it already. She’d have done it yesterday. But she was as determined as her words, and she had let him hang—to make his own decision.
“Damn you,” he said, clicking the “Compose” button. In the address line, he put in the emails for Zeke, Rusty, and Corky. In the subject line, he typed, Do your worst. Then he got to work.
So, listen. I’m going to come to this thing tonight, but first I’m going to tell you why.
I don’t care about being in The Select. I didn’t choose them. For whatever reason, they—by which I mean YOU—chose me. I never really cared much about popularity. Can’t miss what you’ve never had, I guess, and we’re getting kinda old for that middle and high school shit. But I do care about my friends, or I thought I did. I don’t know if I have friends anymore.
This was the part where he’d planned on mentioning Savannah, promising injury and ruin upon anyone who hurt her—who treated her even slightly worse or differently than the rest of the “pledges”, although he had no reason to believe they would. The desire to do this was instinctual, and fierce, and it heated his typing fingers with anticipatory rage.
