Katherine pressed me up against the wall outside the parking lot elevator and shoved her tongue down my throat. She grabbed my crotch and tugged as though it was an emergency brake lever. When she started grinding into me, I felt tiny nuggets of stucco tearing off the wall under the pressure of my back rubbing up and down against it. She wasn't a bad kisser, but she clearly had no idea of her strength. If she pushed and squeezed any harder, I was going to expire like Lenny's mouse in Of Mice and Men.

So this is how it feels to be a petite cheerleader getting manhandled by a pasted lummox after the prom? I can understand why some young women never have orgasms. I'd be scared senseless. How horrible would it be if after all this she was going to shove something into me really hard for 30 seconds and then pass out on top of me, breathing chicken wings and Amstel into my face?

Katherine was a "polar bear." No, not because she was huge and alabaster white, but because she, and those like her, hunt men the way polar bears hunt meat. Polar bears rarely see prey on the tundra, so when they see anything alive they can get their paws on, they kill it. When a woman like Katherine's hormones get rolling, she is going to fuck someone. Just like every office has a pack of "Eugenes" and a basket case, every office also has a "polar bear."

The polar bear gets blind drunk at company functions, and when she does, she gets hornier faster than a 15 year old boy watching Skinemax. Without exception, she's flailing by the end of every office social event. Nervous managers and teetotalers discuss who will take her home. Some busybody shakes her and demands her car keys. But the polar bear doesn't mind. She's on the prowl, and the only thing that will stop her heroic intake of tequila shots, whiskey sours, pinot grigo and Jagey shooters is sex. She is going to get laid tonight, no matter how embarrassing, humiliating and career-threatening the steps she must employ may be. Just as guido brokers and douchebag senior associates will spout off loudly about their conquests in bars under the mistaken assumption that such behavior will attract quality women, the polar bear will hoot, howl and all but tear off her top to snare an interested male. Unfortunately for her, she almost always winds up with the same kill: the IT guy with volcanic acne or the creepy mail room guy who wears Doc Martens to the office and constantly talks about Nietsche and Fugazi.

But I was prey this evening. I was going to be date raped in a car by a girl with a neck like Nate Newton, and judging from her booze-fueled lack of coordination, when she was done, I was going to have hips like Bo Jackson. Thankfully, I felt nothing. I had that fantastic numbness that sets in after several hours of heavy drinking. You're careless, yet lucid, and that's all. No breath, no heart rate, no aches, no pains. You could've put a loaded cocked pistol in my face and I wouldn't have batted an eyelash.

Luckily, she had a large truck - a great big Expedition with leather seats. "OK, now you found it. Lets go back to my place."

"Get in," she shoved me toward the back seat.

"But my place is just..."

"I said I have to go home. If I go to your place, I'll pass out," she barked, opening the door.

Before I knew it I was on my back and her huge breasts were in my face. It was like being hit by an airbag. The interior lights went out and everything went black. All I could hear was the sound of my zipper being undone. I'd had a few moments of reservation. You're new to this place. This is a terribly inauspicious start. What if she's a stalker type? But the booze took over - Eh, fuck it. You could get hit by a bus tomorrow. Do it. I employed this logic a lot, and it's never done me well, yet I continue to follow it. (I actually said "inauspicious" to myself at the time; I'm just that fancy.)

I wrestled with Katherine in the dark for about fifteen minutes, but could not get any leverage. She had me in a submission hold that would've made Hulk Hogan cry uncle. Tell her you have to get protection from your pocket. That will her get her off you.

"Protection? You won't be using protection."

"What do you mean?" I meant to say, "The hell I won't," but being pinned and out of my weight class, I was in no position to start an argument.

"I mean, we're not going to need it."

I was not going to bring up oral sex due to the obvious quid pro quo. "Well, then why did you get us both naked?"

"I'm saving myself for marriage... I'm Christian. There are other ways to have sex. I do that."

I was drunk, but not drunk enough to misinterpret what that meant. She was saving Input A for her future husband by generously offering access to Input C. I decided there was no point in lecturing her about Leviticus, or explaining how absurd and cosmically wrong such a policy was. I was the foreigner here. I was in a new town. Maybe this was how they did business in these parts. Who was I to judge? I had been here 24 hours. I hadn't even set up my phone or electricity. I hadn't registered for classes. Yet here I was, about to violate 7 commandments with a Catholic girl who looked like Maureen O'Hara on a Kirsty Alley-level twinkie binge in a parked car a few dozen yards from the campus chapel. And we were defying nature to avoid sin.

Then the booze took over again - Hey, a bus could come around the corner and kill you both... and anyway, you're doing it for Jesus!

...Enough. Enough already. I'll finish the mission...

"This isn't working."

"Try the glove compartment."

"It's not my type. And won't you be jealous?"

"Look, there's some lotion of some sort in there, I'm sure..."

I fumbled through the glove compartment for what seemed like a day. Pens, nail polish remover, manuals, ticket stubs, napkins, Tropical Flavor ChapStick, but none of what we needed. The booze started talking again - Is there any oil in this car? I stifled that quickly. A trip to the emergency room was not what I needed. How does one explain that to authorities? "Well, I was thinking 'oil's oil', and..." "Have you ever heard of toxic shock? You're under arrest, son."

"Try the ChapStick."

I'd like to say ChapStick didn't work and Katherine and I were forced to part ways before it all got sordid. But a whole stick worth of the stuff did do the trick.

We were awakened by the sun.

"Fuuuuuck!! My parents are going to kill me. I told them I'd be home!"

Katherine drove away. Since it was already 7:00, and I was in no condition to even walk the few blocks home, I got a paper and coffee and waited for school to open for 8:00 registration. When the doors unlocked, I ran to the basement of the library and read the paper. I emerged around 10:00 to find Wallace at the registrar's table.

"Where you been? You're wearing the same clothes."

"Not now," I grumbled, handing my papers to the girl at the desk.

As Wallace and I rounded the corner to the lounge, I spied Katherine talking to a group of girls. She smiled at me, and in turn, all the girls around her looked in my direction.

Wallace was sniffing the air. "Dude, what the fuck smells like a Pina Colada?"

I just stared at my registration sheet. 36 hours in, and already, I knew... I should have quit before I started.

Posted by PhilaLawyer at 12:47 AM

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