BLACK TRAIN, My Second

NOTE - For the record, I was eighteen or nineteen years old, or older when these events took place. If you believe I was younger, that's on

NOTE - For the record, I was eighteen or nineteen years old, or older when these events took place. If you believe I was younger, that's on you.

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The second time I pulled a train.

Yeah, the shit game was going. The funny thing was, I wasn’t really a slut at school. The boys at school, they’d have given their right nut to be with me, for five minutes apiece. I wasn’t interested. They didn’t know anything, they had no skill.

I’d had men. Men who knew what they were doing.

No fucking comparison.

So you know, apart from a few things. Like some blow jobs here and there. Maybe a fuck now and then, but one timers only, but no one regular. I didn’t do much at school. Like the stories had me as some insane sex crazed slut. But mostly, it was hateful bullshit and lies.

Didn’t stop the bitches from hating me, or making my life hell. Not all of them. But you know, you worry about the ones that are gunning for you.

Mainly, I got the fuck out. I skipped out on school every chance I could. Afternoons, there were better places to be. Evenings, there were better places to be. I hung out in bars, went to parties. I had really good party vibes. I was friendly, happy, I thought fast, quick on my feet, and if someone saw something they liked I was flattered, and if I saw something I liked, I reached out and grabbed a handful.

Hey, when you’re young and hot and fearless, every door is open to you. Even the ones you maybe shouldn’t go through.

So what happened was some guys I partied with told me about a party going on and invited me. Not technically invited, not their party. More like ‘there’s this thing going on, we’re going to be there, you should show up.’

I knew the place, at least to be able to find it, didn’t know the people, but fuck it. Stay home and get into another raging fight with Mom and Dad about my failing grades, and partying and drinking and bad attitude?

Fuck that.

And fuck them.

So I hitchhiked and hit the party. I knew pretty fast it was a downer. Like, I’d been told there’d be coke there. But almost everyone was older and pretentious. The guys I knew, the one I wanted, didn’t show up, and the one that did show up brought his girlfriend. And fuck that, like, I didn’t poach, you know what I mean? Especially, I didn’t poach when the fucking girlfriend is right there staring daggers. And coke? Oh yeah, it was there, you can tell people are all twitchy and hyper. But I wasn’t getting near it.

I ended up talking to this black guy in the kitchen, Marcel. He had a long last name, I don’t remember it. I do remember, he was West Indies - Caribbean. He smiled a lot, had this groovy accent, and I got him to start telling me stories of the place he came from. Dominique, I think.

I loved that shit. I mean, I’d lived my whole life in Hamilton, a shitty little steel town. It was suffocating. But sometimes, I’d go to a bar or a party, and I’d meet men who really lived. Who’d been places, who had done things. I’d always get them to tell me, even if it was ordinary shit to them, like growing up in Dominique, it was always so wonderfully exotic.

Once, I met a man who’d climbed Everest. I don’t know, looking back, if he’d actually done it or not. It could have been bullshit. But he talked enough, was knowledgable and vivid entouch, for sure he climbed mountains. So yes, I totally fucked that guy. He was a mountain climber. He'd been on Everest (probably). Wouldn’t you?

Maybe I should have been a journalist. I was always good at getting stories out of people, getting them to tell me who they really were.

Sometimes, I’m pretty sure that saved me - like a guy is opening up, and I’m going “Uh huh! Uh huh! Okay, excuse me for a minute, be right back,” and I’d be fucking off for all it was worth, climbing out the bathroom window if I needed to.

Didn’t work with Jules. But that was a special case.

Right. So black guy. Looked nice. Sweet accent. We were hitting it off. Right away, I knew if he wanted to fuck me, I was so into letting him. I just liked him. And black, that was kind of interesting.

I’d been with a black guy before, I’d blown this black kid in school. But he was just Hamilton black, which isn’t really black at all. And it wasn’t memorable. So it didn’t count.

Anyway, we both agreed the party sucked. There were no good drugs, people were hogging the cocaine, and no good liquor. It was all just these pissy wines and I wasn’t into wine back then. But hey, he knew a party somewhere else, fun people. Did I want to go.

Totally!

I figured, fifty fifty it was a real party, or maybe it was just back to his place and we’d get naked. You know what? I was good either way. I wasn’t a slut back then. I liked him, so it was okay.

And back then, the way I reasoned it was that a slut fucked anybody, like she fucked guys, whether she liked them or not. I only fucked guys that I liked. I mean, okay, if I wasn’t into them, but like couldn’t get rid of them, sure a handjob or a blowjob, just so they’d go away. But I only did it with guys I liked.

Yes, I can see what’s going through your mind. But fuck off. That was how I thought back then. I’m not apologizing for it now.

As it turns out, he really did take me to a party. Sort of.

It was someone’s apartment across town. Not a big place. Two bedrooms, kind of ratty. There were three guys there and two women. All of them black. Caribbean black, so real black. Not American black. The women were sisters. They didn’t like me at all, I could tell right away. But the guys liked me just fine, they all smiled and welcomed me, and it’s nice to feel welcomed.

It was almost as lame as the first party, but they had real booze, like vodka and whisky and stuff. I was already a determined drinker. And they had some good pot. And like I said, the most important thing was that they were friendly. So it wasn’t so bad. I cuddled on the couch with Marcel, and listened as they talked with their beautiful accents. I didn’t understand half of it, it was all people and places and shit I didn’t know. But once in a while they'd stop and explain things to me, particularly if it was a joke or something. They were trying to include me, it’s nice when people do that for you.

I started making out with my new friend, Marcel. Like, not crazy, we were in front of people. But you know, when there’s attraction, you can’t keep your hands off. Excused himself and went to the bathroom.

I nodded wisely. I knew what that meant. I waited a minute and followed after... old bar habits.

It so was embarrassing! He actually did have to use the toilet!

I opened the door on him as he was taking a shit.

Ouch! How was I supposed to know!

Who does that?

But after, when he finished, he let me back in. He had pulled up his pants, which I found disappointing. I hadn’t seen anything real when I’d opened the door, not junk or anything. But I’d seen smooth black thighs. I don’t know why he had to pull up his pants, like, I wouldn't have minded, you know what I mean. But I sat on his lap as he sat on the toilet, and we spent twenty minutes giggling softly and trading sweet little kisses. He was a good kisser.

I totally wanted him. I put his hand under my top so he could feel my breasts. My pussy was wet. He was beautiful and exotic, he smiled at me and it was so genuine, like he really liked me. He made me smile. He was funny and sweet and kind.

We went back out into the living room. The sisters fucked off. It was kind of a mixed thing. On the one hand, they really didn’t like me. I could tell by the way they talked to me, or at me, or looked at me, or even just refused to look at me. I didn’t do anything or say anything to them, so I don't know what their problem with me was. They just took one look at me and decided I was trash. So I didn’t fucking like them at all, and I wasn’t sorry to see them go.

On the other hand, when they went, now it was just me and four black guys. Having other women around was at least some safety. Being alone in that situation...

I suppose you can see it coming. I didn’t. I think I was a little drunk, a little high, and just enjoying myself. Honestly, my existence back then was so shitty, little spaces like this in my life were what kept me going.

And I’ll be really honest with you. Sitting there with them in the living room, giggling and getting baked, and just being happy, if they’d said “Hey, we always wanted to run a train on a little redheaded white girl!” I’d have said, “Sure! Why not!”

I mean, why not?

Right?

But it wasn’t like that.

Marcel and I were kind of touchy, and he said let’s go to the bedroom, and I said sure. Though what I probably thought was “Finally!!!”

So off we went, and shut the door. I had this idea that we shouldn’t make too much noise. Ha! We got on the bed, fully dressed. I remember giggling uncontrollably with happiness. I made him take off his sweater, watching eagerly as he pulled it over his head.

Okay, this will sound stupid, but I really wanted to see what colour his nipples would be. Like, how was I to know? He was black all over, except his palms and the flat of his hands (also the bottom of his feet as I found out). So he wasn’t totally dark skinned all over - parts of him were light or pink, like his gums and tongue and the flats of his hands. What about his nipples??? And his cock, what colour was that??? I think I must have seen pictures, but I wasn’t thinking of those. And here was a real live black man, I wanted to know, goddammit!

We made out on the bed, squirming and rolling around, kissing and laughing. And he got my top off, and played with my nipples. I loved that. I loved touching him and licking him. We sucked each other’s nipples. I remember laying on my back as he knelt on the bed, my legs in the air, pulling off my jeans, they were so tight he had to struggle, practically rolling them off.

And then once he had my jeans off, he was spreading my legs, and I was going, “Hey dude! Dude! Take my socks off! Come on!”

This is a thing I’ve noticed with black guys since then, but no one ever seems to talk about. They like socks. Like, even wearing them to bed. I remember once, this gorgeous black guy I was with, and he comes to me, he’s naked... except for white socks. I had to struggle not to laugh (If you’re a woman, never ever ever ever laugh at a naked man, it won’t turn out well). Black men are into socks, not all of them, but enough that I’ve noticed. I have no idea why. It’s mysterious.

Or I don’t know, maybe it’s just the ones I went with. It’s not like I’ve fucked every black man in the world.

He had so much trouble getting my jeans off, I pulled my panties off myself. Otherwise, who knows, we’d be here all night. I mean seriously, yes, they were tight, but for fuck sake’s, I got in and out of them just fine. It’s not a labour of fucking Hercules. Don’t get me started on men and bras.

Oh yeah, and I remember there was a moment, I’m laying there, legs spread, he’s shirtless but still in pants, and he’s just staring at my red pubic hair, like it’s the Virgin Mary or something. At first, I thought ‘Dude, it’s just bush! Get over it!’ And then, in a second, I realized that I was as remarkable and exotic to him, as he was to me, and that made me happy, to feel special. So I decided, yes, stare at my pubes all night, I liked it.

He got off the bed and turned around to take off his pants, which I thought was a terrible cheat, because I wanted to watch that penis getting revealed. He did have a nice muscular ass though, so it wasn’t all bad. He turned around, he was already hard and it was sticking out, and he rolled a condom on. Then he climbed on the bed, and got on top of me as I spread my legs. We were both giggling, well I was giggling, he was laughing, and smiling at each other. He was propped up over me, and I remember looking up at him, wanting to touch him all over.

He found me with no problem, and I was so wet already, he slid right inside, making me gasp loudly, and then we started fucking. I wasn’t very quiet. Part of it was I really liked him, and was really happy he was inside me. I pulled my knees way back, so he could get in deeper. He was just regular size, I think a little thick, maybe curving a bit, but not remarkable. But I liked him going deep, because his pubic area and pubic hair would grind up against my clit and that felt really good.

Also when he was deep, I could feel the bare part of his cock, the condom didn’t roll all the way up, like there was an inch between the edge of the condom and his base, and I wanted to have that inch, to know that when he was deep, we were skin to skin. And no, I couldn’t fucking feel the difference, but it still meant something. I think it was the idea for me of that skin to skin intimacy.

While he was fucking me, I had my hands all over him, touching his arms, his chest, his ass, just running my fingers all over him. And we’d kiss, or rub our faces against each other. I remember a few times he’d lift right up, his body pulling away, so he could look down between our legs, and see his cock buried in my red bush. I can’t explain it, but that made me happy.

He fucked me like that for a few minutes, and then I wanted to get on top, so he let me. I straddled him, held it in my hands. I think for a moment, just a moment, I had the impulse to take the condom off so I could really feel him. Also, I’d noticed he wore athletic socks to bed. But instead, I just held him at my entrance, sinking down on him, with this giant fucking grin. He reached up to fondle my breasts, as I rode him, grinding up and down, fingering my clit. I remember him watching me ride, and loving that he was watching. In this position, I could touch him everywhere, from his lips to his knees. He sucked my fingertips. I leaned forward to kiss him, running my hands all over him. I loved biting his nipples, I just couldn’t stop doing that.

Do you want to know what it’s like fucking a black guy? Their cocks, it feels just like a cock when they’re inside you. And when it’s in your mouth, it tastes exactly like a cock. When you lick their skin, they taste exactly like human skin. If you bite their nipples, it’s totally like biting regular nipples. The hair feels different. Black men more tend to be uncircumcized. That’s about it, really. And they wear socks a lot. That’s all. Take out all the weird fetish stuff, that’s all. Some are nice, some aren’t. They’re mostly just guys.

You know what feels really good? Its when a black man who really loves kissing you is kissing you. That feels so good. It feels just like when a white guy or an Asian guy who really loves kissing you is kissing you. You know what the biggest turn on is? It’s when someone likes you.

I didn’t come. I came close several times, but even playing with my clit while I rode on top, I didn’t come. I think I was over-excited, or distracted or something. I loved fucking him, I loved the feel of him in me, and his hands on my tits, but he didn’t make me come. He came though. I rode him and rode him and I watched the expression on his face and the way his body went stiff, and I loved that he was coming for me. As his orgasm faded, I laid flat on him, pressing my breasts against his chest and kissed him.

After, we laid together for a few minutes. I was just blissful. Then he had to go to the bathroom, and grabbed his pants. It was funny, he'd just been. Maybe he had spastic bowels or something. Or a small bladder. Who knows.

I figured I'd wait for him to come back, and we'd cuddle and decide what to do next. Depends with guys, some bounce back fast, others, it takes a while. I didn't know which he was. So, I just decided to wait and see.

A few minutes later, another guy came in. He wasn't Marcel, I was a bit shocked. I was still naked, obviously, and a little freaked, so I sat up and pulled my sheet up to cover me.

I don’t remember his name. Marcel’s the only name I remembered. He was bigger than Marcel, heavier. Just as black. He had a broken nose. And he was from a different island than Marcel, or maybe a different town. But they were cousins, I knew that much.

I pulled my sheet up to my neck, backing up on the bed, back against the wall, watching him. I didn’t say anything, I was just sweating, hoping Marcel would be right back and he’d go away. But instead, he just calmly took off his clothes and sat on the edge of the bed.

He reached out and took the sheet, and just pulled it away from me. I remember it slipping away, hanging on to it, but being slowly exposed, as it was taken way, sliding down past my knees, until I was naked. He just looked at me for a while. There was no sign of Marcel.

Then we talked. Well, he talked, I just listened. I don’t remember all of it, it was years ago. But a few things stayed with me. I remember him saying, “It is what it is, and we all got to do what we got to do, and the only thing we can decide is whether we want it easy or we going to take it hard.”

Like... Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Well, there’s the message, isn’t it? Especially when you’re a naked teenage girl huddled up with her back against the headboard and there’s a big naked man twice your size sitting and looking at you. "You want it easy, or we going to take it hard?"

But right at the end, he reached out slowly and grabbed my ankle, and he said, “You just say yes or no. And if you say no, that’s all fine, I’ll walk out that door.”

I said “Okay” and he smiled, and pulled my ankle, and I let him spread my legs.

Sometimes, thinking back, I feel about it one way, and sometimes I feel about it another way. Like, he talked for five minutes, and I listened, but half of it I either didn’t understand, or it just went in one ear and out the other. Certain things he said kind of burned in, but looking back, it’s contradictory.

I just knew I wasn’t comfortable. That’s not a big big deal, everyone has sex sometimes where they don’t feel comfortable, where they don’t feel good about it, where we’re doing it for the wrong reasons or bad reasons. That’s just human nature. I knew him from out there, and he’d been nice enough, and friendly enough. But I didn’t really know him, and we hadn’t made out or done foreplay.

I said yes, and I let him spread my legs. I knew that I could say no. Probably. But maybe at some level, I didn’t feel like I could say no.

He climbed on top of me, and I said he needed to wear a condom. So he got off me and got one from his pants on the floor and put it on as I watched.

So... I had that much control?

Then he got on top of me again. He kissed me, not much though, his tongue slid in my mouth. Then he entered, he had no trouble finding me. He was different from Marcel, Marcel went in right away, like it was a race or something, and there was a prize at the back of my pussy. This guy was gentler, more careful, and just eased in.

When he started to fuck, it was slow long strokes. I was on the bottom the whole time, looking up at him, or looking down at his black cock in a white condom going between my legs. After a while, I started touching him, I think partly because it might make him finish faster. And partly, I’ll admit it, because he started to make me feel good, and I liked his cock in me. He made me come twice, before he finished.

When he was done, he went flat, laying on top of me for a couple of minutes, letting me feel his weight. He reached down to hold the condom, when he pulled out.

Sometimes men don’t, and if they lose their erections fast after coming, they leave it in you, so you have a condom half dangling from your pussy. I so fucking hate that. Never do that! Bad penis person! Bad!

He talked to me afterwards. I remember him smiling at me, not a mean ‘ha ha, I just fucked you over’ smile, but an ‘I like you smile, and we just had fun together’ smile. I remember the smile, and being reassured by it. I don’t remember what he said, but I remember saying ‘thanks’ so he must have been saying nice things to me. Then he was gone.

He got off me, grabbed his shit and walked out, naked. I noticed he wore his socks. It was just a weird little detail that sticks with me.

I’d figured out, while he was fucking me, though, that they were all going to fuck me. Fucking one guy in a room full of them, yeah, that’s a thing. You can do one guy and that’s it. Fuck, two guys in a room full of men, that means you’re doing all of them.

So I didn’t bother getting dressed. I just laid there and waited. And the door opened.

This one was shy. He asked if he could come in. He was already in, but at least he asked. Then he asked if he could join me on the bed. I had my body under the bedsheet again, and I was clutching it. But I said okay. He laid down with me, fully clothed, and asked how I was doing. I said okay. He said I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to. I said I knew.

Maybe I should have said, ‘let me the fuck out of here.’ I could have said that, and gotten away with it too, probably. But, I wasn’t as worldly or as strong as I’d thought I was. So I didn’t. I just kind of accepted that at some point, his cock would be in me, and then the next one, and then I’d leave. I didn’t feel bad about that, but I didn’t feel good. It was just how things were.

Anyway, we laid there and we talked a bit. He was genuinely concerned with how I felt, which was nice. I don’t remember much, but I remember relaxing, and kind of liking him. I learned he was a virgin, like it slipped, and he denied right away. But I could tell. I asked if he’d ever seen a naked woman, and he bragged about being to all kinds of strip clubs and was great friends with the strippers. And at some point, I pulled my sheet away, so he could see me naked.

HE STARED. Oh my god, he just stared. He didn’t even blink. He just stared so hard. Didn’t even try to touch me.

So I said, do you want to kiss? And he said okay. So we kissed.

He was fucking terrible. I don’t know what he was trying to do. Improvisational auto repair with his tongue, or something. He was awful. After a minute, I decided I needed to try to teach him how to kiss properly, but he couldn’t seem to learn. Not even when I told him out loud in words, “Okay, now do this with your lips, and keep your tongue there.” He’d say he understood, but then he’d just do the same thing. And his hands were all over my boobs, but in a clumsy way, like they were play dough.

So I said take off your clothes. Because I just didn’t want to kiss him any more.

Isn't that terrible. I chose to have sex with a man because I couldn't stand kissing him.

There was more to it than that, I was actually horny, you can’t have sex with two guys and come close a bunch of times and come twice and then be in bed with a man who is radiating his own horny and not be feeling it.

And actually, I kind of liked him, he wasn’t as sexy and exciting as Marcel, but not as intimidating as the other guy, and I didn’t respect him as much, but I liked him. Liking someone counts for a lot with me.

Also if he was a virgin, I was kind of into being his first.

I am that shallow.

And I knew I had to get it over with and take him, and the next guy before I could go. So it was complicated for me. Sex can be complicated. It should be simple and pure, but we all make it complicated.

He shucked out of his clothes at rocket speed, and as he grabbed for his condom, I told him he didn’t need to. I think I had some idea that for his first time, it should be special. So bareback, so he could feel how beautiful sex was.

His body was skinnier than the others, he was taller, bonier. His cock was the biggest, but honestly, they were all basically average. I had to guide him and put him inside, and fuck, he was like Marcel, like in so fast and deep, it was like he thought there was a prize in my tonsils. He was fast too, I kept trying to get him to slow down, but he fucked like he was on a timer. Then he came in me.

He didn’t roll over, or fall on top he just stayed up there above me as his cock fell out, and asked me if I’d enjoyed it.

Yeah, I hadn’t come within a fucking mile of an orgasm. I mean, it felt good, it feels good to be touched, it feels good to have someone horny for you and excited and full of desire, and it feels good to be fucked. So it felt good, but he didn’t get me there.

But I pushed him on his back and straddled him, and kissed him everywhere but on his lips (I'd learned my lesson) and told him it was great.

When he left, I didn’t even bother to pull the sheet over. I just heaved a great big sigh. I wanted to yell out “Next!” but I didn’t have the nerve. I remember thinking as I laid there, that if they’d come out and said ‘this is what we want to do’ I’d have probably gone ‘hell yeah.’ Or maybe I wouldn’t. But they went about it so chickenshit.

The door opened and the next guy came in. I just laid there and spread my legs right in front of him. I was into my martyr complex. Poor me, don’t even talk to me, I’ll just spread my legs and you can use me, and I’ll just lay there feeling sorry for myself while you do it.

He didn’t jump on me right away. Instead he took off his clothes, and got on the bed with me, and started telling jokes. Not jokes, just funny stuff. Like I was in bed with a naked horny black stand up comedian more interested in trying out some material than going straight to the fucking.

Okay, sorry, I’m being a bitch.

But he was friendly and funny, and he liked touching me. And he got me smiling, then he made me laugh a couple of times, because some of his lines were so stupid. He kissed me, but I could tell he wasn’t into it, not like Marcel had been. And he fingered me, not very well or very long, and I could tell he wasn’t into that either.

Then he tickled me, and he liked that. He was torturing me, and we were giggling, and wrestling all over the bed. Then he did something that no one had ever done to me before, that I’d never even imagined anyone doing.

He motorboated me.

I was completely fucking astonished. I mean, mind blown, not in a good or bad way, but more like a ‘what the hell was that’ way. I didn’t even know what to think. I laughed out loud, partly because it tickled, but mostly, out of sheer astonishment.

I didn’t even know what it was called until much later.

Who even does that? Who came up with that? Who in their right mind thinks it’s a sexy thing to do? Do men get off on it? Like, what the fuck??? I’m not offended or upset. I just don’t get it. Didn’t get it then. Still don’t get it. Men!

He asked if I was ready, and I said yes... because apparently men believe that women find that irresistible. He motorboated, each time to peels of horrified laughter from me.

Then he asked me if I wanted to go with or without a condom. I said I wanted a condom. Then he spent like five minutes trying to friendly talk me out of using one. And like, fuck dude, if you’re so bent on not wearing a condom, why did you even ask me? So I got stubborn and insisted.

The sex was okay. He started on top. But then he pulled off and wanted to do it doggy style. Like, what’s the point of having sex with a black guy if you can’t even see him? What’s the point of having sex with a hot redheaded teenager if all you see is the back of her head? So I said no. But he let me ride on top of him, and I had fun, because his hands were all over me and he played with my nipples, and I could touch my clit with his cock in me. So I almost came, I think I sort of did, but it was a little one. And he came.

Then he left, and I laid back, all spread out, as if there was a line up outside the door, wondering what would happen next. Were they all going to go again? How many turns would they take? Would they bring friends over? I thought about just an unending line of black men pumping their semen into me as I watched the sun come up through the bedroom window. I wanted to go home. Would they let me? Maybe they wouldn’t let me. I thought about schemes to escape, like in the movies I’d set off the sprinkler and sneak away in the confusion. Boy, that was pretty stupid.

Fuck that, I’d just leave, I’d tell them I was going, and that would be that. Except I needed a ride home. Also I needed a drink. And they had good pot.

The door opened, and the last guy to fuck me, he poked his head in and said they were getting ready to light up, and did I want some?

I said ‘Yes please!’ and got dressed and went out.

I mean, priorities! It was really good pot. Back then, some of the weed you’d get in Hamilton was so shitty it was unbelievable. You could smoke all day, and not get a buzz. The only reason you’d smoke it at all was to be cool and to be able to say you did some weed today.

Also, I didn’t want to just lay naked on the stupid bed, feeling sorry for myself and waiting for someone to remember to come in and fuck me. Angst is nice, teenage girls live for angst.

But it sounded like they were having a really good time, laughing and talking and drinking and stuff out there without me, and I kind of wanted that. If I didn’t feel good, I thought maybe partying would numb that bad feelings, and it sort of did.

It’s funny, I didn’t really know what to expect. But they were all still really nice and friendly, and I just sat in the middle with them, and we all smoked and drank, and they told jokes that I didn’t get, and they smiled at me like they really liked me. I was fully dressed, the second guy, he was completely naked except for his socks. And the rest were between the two of us, but actually, I felt comfortable, hanging with half (or totally) naked black guys.

I wanted to leave right away, but I didn’t want to be rude. They brought out some hash, and you know, I had to stick around for that. And they had bourbon, which I’d never had, so it was absolutely necessary I give that a try - surprisingly sweet and smooth, like caramel and vanilla, a little spicy, with this weird charcoal undertaste that kind of balanced the sweetness. A little bit like whisky, but smoother. Not really my thing, but okay.

So I was there for another hour laughing and hanging out and getting a little shitfaced (but not too much), before I said I was leaving. They wanted me to stay, but I insisted. So they all gave me hugs. Marcel was too drunk to want to drive me home, so they took up a collection for cabfare. I didn’t want to accept it, because it was too much like taking money for sex, and one of my tiny shreds of dignity in all my promiscuity, self loathing and budding alcoholism was that I wasn’t a prostitute. But I let them.

I got home by cab. Big fight with Mom and Dad of course. But by that time, we were fighting constantly. And honestly, they had stopped expecting anything better from me, so it was almost going through the motions. We were all just at the stage of resenting and really disliking each other.

I had to fuck up colossally to have a real blowout... so of course I did. But not that time.

So that was the second time I pulled a train. I don’t feel that I was raped, I said yes, I chose to allow it to happen. But sometimes I felt different, but even when I feel different, it’s hard to convince myself completely, one way or the other. I feel stupid for it, I let myself get into this situation, I was naive or stupid, or weak, or passive. I don’t know. I felt... I feel ambiguous about it, about the way it all happened, and what they did and what I did. It’s never sit a hundred per cent well with me. I feel unsatisfied, and it’s not the lack of orgasms (although I’m sure I’d feel a lot better about the experience if I’d cum and cum and cum buckets).

I don’t know. Sometimes sex is complicated, that’s all. We get ourselves all tangled up. Someone said to me once “There’s no instruction manual for being a person, we’re all just bumbling along, learning as we go.” I think he was telling me to forgive myself.

Like I said, if they’d come up to me up front and said, “we want to do this” well fuck, back then, half drunk, half baked, all horny, I might have said “Hell yeah! I thought you’d never ask!” I might have. Did I say that before? Sorry, I'm a little drunk as I'm typing. Not much, just a little.

But looking back, I don’t know for sure that they had a plan. I’m sure Marcel didn’t pluck me out of one party and take me to his friends with intent to gangbang. I think maybe it just kind of drifted into it, that I seemed willing and slutty and fun, so one of them said ‘maybe I’ll try’ and it went from there. I guess I didn’t know what I was doing really, so maybe they didn’t either.

I don’t know what it was for them, or how they felt. I never saw them again. I think I saw Marcel once at the mall, but I’m not sure, and I didn’t talk to him. Maybe I was just the slut of the week, and they picked up drunk horny chicks and gangbanged them on a regular basis. Maybe I was nothing more than kleenex to blow their cocks in.

Or maybe I was this magical unearthly redhead of exotic paleness and surreal hair colour, who drank like a man, toked like a Jamaican, laughed and partied with them, and then when she was ready, she took each one of them, lead them into the bedroom and made each of them feel like a king. Maybe I was this amazing, unforgettable goddess, a memory they each treasured for the rest of their lives, and they still talk about me to this day.

I don’t know. If I had a choice as to what I was to them and how I was remembered, guarantee you know which I’d pick. We all want to feel special.

I don’t know that I understood, or had any real idea what I was getting out of it for myself, or how to handle myself.

I was young. Maybe that’s what being young is about - screwing around and screwing up and not feeling a hundred per cent until you figure it out.

I don’t know, like if I had to do it all over again, I would have done it, or let it happen. Probably not. If it had happened, with a smarter, more worldly me, it would have happened differently. But do I regret it? Yes... But also no?

I think it was an experience, and I wasn’t hurt or damaged, and some parts of it were good, some weren’t, and maybe I learned and grew. Look, Mom, no scars. That’s something. I can’t say that about all my experiences.

It wasn’t until my fourth train, I really understood how to do it right.