Bad Girls Do It Well: Part 1

It’s eight o’clock on a Friday night, and I’m leaned in close to a smudged mirror in a cramped dorm room, trying to apply my eyeliner perfectly while competing for the small space with my friend Morrigan. We elbow each other accidentally, crammed into the two-foot-wide space over the dresser where the small mirror is mounted, each attempting to apply makeup in a haze of alcohol and youthful anticipation of the night to come. I’m 19 years old, about to turn 20, and it’s mid-September of my sophomore year of college. The semester has just begun, and I’m finally rooming with my best friend. I spent the year prior suffering through the eccentricities of my ex-roommate, Janice, who used the term “Oh, Mylanta” frequently and had decided to become nocturnal sometime in the middle of our nine months together. I eye Morrigan in the mirror, cocking an eyebrow. We became inseparable last year, so it only makes sense that we now share the 10 x 15 space of an Ohio State dormitory. Morrigan grins back at me and finally steps away from the mirror, giving me dominion.

 

The late summer heat hasn’t yet broken, and it’s a rather muggy evening in central Ohio. Morrigan and I use that as an excuse to wear next to nothing. Tight miniskirts, crop-top shirts, flat shoes because with the amount we plan to imbibe tonight, we aren’t bothering with heels. It’s our usual armor, lightweight because we plan to dance, a lot. We’ve been sipping margaritas since three when an older boy I’ve been stringing along picked us up to take us to the drive-through liquor store just outside of town. We’re both a bit tipsy, and a bit handsy.

 

I can’t help myself; Morrigan is a gorgeous girl. She’s an Irish beauty—fawn-colored hair falling freely to her midback, a spattering of freckles across her small nose bringing out the brilliant green of her eyes. She’s muscular from her years as a swimmer, a thin frame bearing massive breasts, supported by long, shapely legs. The moment I had seen her on Facebook a few months before I started college, I had known we would be friends. I put my hand at the bare skin of her lower back and offer to adjust her lipstick. She puts her palms against my chest and acquiesces. We’re not particularly high-maintenance girls, and we’re ready to go at half past eight. Too early for anything fun, so we turn on music and play banal drinking games. Pre-gaming is an important step in the life of an underage party girl, and we swig our margaritas happily and discuss the gossip of our friend group.

 

“Did you hear that Rick hooked up with Eliza last weekend?” Morrigan asks me, sipping her drink from a knock-off Solo cup purchased from the commissary.

 

“Who hasn’t Rick hooked up with?” I scoff.

 

“But Eliza is still dating Kyle!”

 

“Which started after a one-night stand,” I point out. “Do you know what Eliza said to me the other day?”

 

“What?”

 

“She asked me why I never date, and I told her that I didn’t want to, that I don’t want to be monogamous,” I start. “And she gave me a funny look and said, ‘You’re too pretty for that.’ ” Morrigan laughs. Eliza’s a sweet girl who means well, and she’s absolutely beautiful, but she’s often unbearably bland. Morrigan and I can take her only in small doses, though she’s in our Learning Community and lives just down the hall from us. She’s invited us to a party tonight, some friend of a friend having a house party around ten, but she’s even harder to deal with when she’s drunk. Far too slow for our taste, constantly wandering off and wanting to stick around bars and parties long after everyone else has grown bored.

 

We go over our options for the evening. As usual, there’s plenty to do on a Friday night in Columbus, and we’ve been invited bar hopping, to a frat party, a basketball party, the house party, and a small get-together at our friend’s apartment. There’s also a rave that we’re dying to attend. At nine, we finish our drinks, check our makeup, pocket our keys, our fake ID’s, our phones, and twenty bucks each, and head out into the night.

 

The atmosphere on the Ohio State campus on a Friday night is electric. There are people everywhere, walking along the sidewalks lugging cases of beer and backpacks full of liquor bottles. Every other house is lit up, overflowing with people and pounding loud music. Morrigan and I walk arm in arm, and from the overcrowded porches we’re shouted at, invited inside, offered alcohol. We ride our buzz, deciding to head to the small get-together rather than the frat party.

 

“Too rapey,” Morrigan observes, and I agree.

 

Many from our friend group are here, cramped into this small apartment. It’s not a party by any means: the lights are on; the music is low; there are even picked-over food platters on the kitchen island. In the living room, a rowdy bunch is playing euchre. There’s homemade wine in massive jugs in the dining nook, and a guy we know drunkenly offers us each a glass. The concoction is bitter, not quite achieving the desired wine-like taste, but I can tell it’s strong, so I drink it down. Morrigan and I meander about, saying hello to people, sharing plans for the evening, getting further invites to events.

 

“Where are you guys going after this?” Rick, intoxicated and red in the face, demands loudly from nearby. I hadn’t even noticed him standing there. I blink a few times, feeling the effects of the drinks I’ve imbibed, and summon up an answer.

 

“We’re thinking of checking out that rave uptown tonight,” I say.

 

Rick jeers, telling us that raves are stupid, and Morrigan and I share a glance. Not long after, we decide to move on. We meet another couple of friends at a bar for some shots, flashing our fake ID’s and our cleavage to get inside. It’s a crowded bar, usual for a Friday night of course, and we have to shout over the music to be heard, but it’s exactly what I’m needing right now with the buzz I’m nursing.

 

We keep going, bouncing around bars and parties, meeting up with people and then saying goodbye. We don’t want to go to the rave until after midnight, so we stumble about in the warm night air, laughing and talking and leaning against each other. Our phones buzz with calls from friends, asking where we are, hoping to meet up, but eventually we decide to just turn them off.

 

The night passes by in a pleasant blur of music and conversations. At house parties and on bar dance floors, Morrigan and I hold our drinks and dance against each other, happy to get lost in the good feelings of the night. We toy with the thirsty onlookers who watch us with interest. Any man who comes near is quickly dispatched though. We’re full of youthful vigor and drunken bravery, and we’ve been known to get into a bar fight or two when pressed. After one particular guy doesn’t get the message and is shoved into a table by Morrigan, I remind her of the time that I punched a guy in the face for breaking in through her window and drunkenly demanding jello shots. He was on the wrestling team, six and a half feet of muscle, but when I broke his nose, he was so stunned that all he could do was shout irascibly as Morrigan dragged him out the door.

 

At just past midnight, we make our way to the rundown, two-story bar that’s a particular favorite of ours. The dimly lit stairwell is packed with people waiting in line, and we take our spots patiently, tipsy and happy, making friends with those around us. We’ve been to a rave here once before, an experience so enjoyable that we hope to recreate it tonight. The line doesn’t take long, and soon we’re filtering into the upstairs of the bar.

 

The second story is dark and loud. A haze of artificial smoke hangs heavily around everything, making it hard to tell the size of the actual space. Through the smoke, I can catch glimpses of a writhing crowd, interspersed with bright neon glow lights. To my right is a massive pile of bags and heels, discarded lazily, and beyond that I can make out the shape of a small, crowded bar. Black light renders everything even more distorted, and the loud, pulsing music seems intentionally disorienting. I smile because I’m looking to be disoriented tonight.

 

Our purposefully selected neon-accented outfits fluoresce under the black lights, and we take off into the fray, diving into the sweating, gyrating mass of bodies. Everyone seems to be out of their mind, every face we pass a crazy mask, but it might just be a trick of the light. We wade through the ocean of partygoers, letting the ebb and flow carry us across the packed dance floor. The next number is a distorted remix of a song we know and love, and we squeal at each other before letting the haze of pheromones and fog take us.

 

We dance against one another, hands on each other’s waists, swaying and grinding to the music. Morrigan drops low to the beat and moves up my body, and I twist my hips against her. Every so often, we lean in close and our lips touch. We’re lost in a haze of alcohol and youth and sensation, and we’re alive, so fucking alive. Every moment passes without thought, without analysis; it simply passes, and the next moment begins like a breath of fresh air. It’s so easy to get lost in the music, in the fantastical atmosphere of it all. We’re offered glow sticks, alcohol, invitations to other events. We ignore it all, concentrated solely on each other and the exploration of our own sexualities. If a man steps between us or grinds his cock against our asses, he meets with our ire, and soon enough we’re being mostly left alone.

 

Eventually, we find our way onto the small, raised stage, beside the DJ. Of course he doesn’t mind two half-dressed teenage girls grinding on each other for display. Exhibitionism is a word I’ll use later in my life to describe the wicked way I tease the onlooking crowd, but right now I just call it fun.

 

Hours slip by, and soon I can no longer ignore my thirst or the sour taste in my mouth left by the various alcohols I’ve imbibed tonight. Morrigan agrees to a break, and we make our way back through the crowd. Our exuberant dancing has left us drenched in sweat and almost sober. There are large jugs of water near the bar. Morrigan and I down a few cups, take a couple more to the line for the bathroom, and catch our breath as we wait.

 

The mirrors of the bathroom show us the result of our exertions tonight. Our hair is damp, faces flushed, eyes bright. I smirk at my reflection, the glaring light making me realize maybe I’m not quite as sober as I thought, and tuck a damp blond strand behind my ear.

 

We’re not yet tired though, far from it; we probably won’t be until the sun comes up. So after another cup of water, Morrigan and I head back out onto the dance floor. As before, we wade through the bodies around us, ignoring almost everything around us until I hear someone shout my name.

 

“Bridget!”

 

I straighten and turn around, scanning the hazy faces around me, trying to figure out who is calling my name. It doesn’t take too long though, because soon I spot Rick, ruddy-faced and stumbling, making a sloppy beeline for us across the dance floor. He shouts my name again, loudly over the music, even though I’m already looking at him. Part of me wants to ignore him, to turn around and pretend I didn’t see him, maybe slip away with Morrigan to another event. But Rick is fast for a drunk guy, and soon enough his body is smashed against mine by the crowd around us.

 

Rick begins trying to scream something at me about the party he was at before this, but I can’t hear him over the new song that comes on. I can tell he’s incredibly drunk by the way he sways and the smell of his breath, and I roll my eyes, shooting Morrigan an annoyed glance. She returns my sentiment, but we’re currently trapped by the dense throng around us. Rick isn’t letting us get a word in edgewise though, and has a hand on each of our backs, pulling us in close to yell into our ears.

 

“You girls look hot as fuck tonight!” he shouts, leaning back to nod at us as if he thinks that’s a genuine compliment. I just smirk scornfully and pull away from him.

 

Rick’s reputation as a womanizer doesn’t escape us. In fact, it’s on full display right now. He’s far too drunk to regulate himself, to be coy or in any way charming. Of course, this is Rick’s usual MO: drunk off his ass, expecting that every woman he talks to is equally affected and will just be drawn in by his good looks. He is handsome; I have to admit that. Chiseled features, broad shoulders, dark eyes. I had even had a bit of a crush on him my first few days of college, when I had met him at a party. But after sobering up, I found him incessantly boring. It’s late, and he hasn’t found a girl to take home yet, so of course he’s here. I think he expects us to be flattered.

 

Morrigan looks ready to walk away, and I nearly am as well, but an idea is taking root in my head. A wicked, beautiful idea. Not more than a day ago, Morrigan and I had been driving back from an impromptu hiking trip a bit outside of the city when we passed one of those chain sex shops on the highway. I pulled over without a thought, imagining only that it would be a bit of a gag for us to wander through an “adult” store. Or maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe that small voice in the back of my head had different intentions. The part of myself that had been awakened at 16 when I saw Lucy Lawless in full latex in some dumb comedy movie and realized that that’s who I wanted to be when I grew up. Because instead of goofing about dildos or browsing outrageous porn titles, I went straight for the line of leather-crafted toys in the “BDSM” section of the store.

 

I had played it off as a joke. “For a costume,” I said as I picked out a crop and a paddle and some cuffs. Maybe Morrigan believed me—we have a shocking number of costume opportunities in college—or maybe she was equally intrigued. She nodded along and picked out a few items of her own for our “costume.”

 

“Maybe you can use it on Henry,” I suggested jokingly.

 

Morrigan nearly choked at that. Her straight-laced out-of-state boyfriend was certainly not the type.

 

The bags had been discarded in our dorm room and forgotten about, but my mind is lingering on those bags now. My imagination is vast, and I can envision a myriad of tortures to inflict.

 

“You guys wanna come back to my place?” Rick asks, swaying on the spot and pulling me from my thoughts. “I got some beers.” I nearly snort at that, at this drunken idiot trying to entice us into sex with a few lukewarm Natis.

 

Morrigan makes a face and begins to say something, but I stop her with a hand on her arm and lean in close, speaking into her ear.

 

“Maybe . . . ,” I say, just loud enough for her to hear. “Maybe we ought to teach Rick a little lesson.”

 

Morrigan shoots me a questioning look. She isn’t sure what I’m suggesting, so I turn to Rick and put a hand on his chest. I step in close, crowding him, and his mouth snaps shut.

 

“That sounds fun, Rick,” I purr, putting my lips against his ear. I run my hand down Rick’s arm, bringing it back up to brush my nails across his jawline. Rick goes absolutely rigid, in more way than one, I notice when I glance down at something nudging my thigh. “Morrigan and I are gonna go get our bags. Meet us by the door.”

 

Rick’s eyes widen, and he nods frantically, sputtering something incomprehensible. He tries to adjust himself discreetly, but fails in his drunken state, and I hear Morrigan make a disgusted sound. Morrigan starts to protest, but I grab her arm again and start driving her through the crowd. I lead us back to the bathroom, where it’s a bit quieter.

 

“You’re not planning on going home with him,” Morrigan asks indignantly the moment we’re in a stall together.

 

“No, I’m gonna take him back to our room,” I say, shrugging. Morrigan furrows her brow. I continue, “And test out some of our new toys on him”

 

Realization crosses Morrigan’s face.

 

Bridget,” she replies darkly, narrowing her eyes and giving me a look I can’t interpret. I’m not sure whether she’s intrigued or aghast.

 

“Rick is a cocky fuck who thinks that all he needs to do is call us hot and ply us with gross domestic beer to get his dick sucked,” I explain hastily. “Who expects that just because he’s acknowledging us, he’ll get to have some bullshit coed threesome with us. He thinks he’s hot shit, Mor, and I can’t fucking stand him.”

 

“I’m on board,” Morrigan answers immediately, a bit out of breath as she nods frantically. “I want to do it. Let’s do it.”

 

For a moment I feel as if I’m plummeting. All it took was Morrigan’s confirmation of my insane plan for it to become more concrete, more real, and therefore far more intimidating. My chest is tight and my throat feels thick, but I nod at Morrigan, trying to psych myself up.

 

“Fuck yes,” I whisper, still nodding. “Let’s do this.”

 

I reach for the lock of the stall, but Morrigan cries, “Wait!” I look back at her. “What’s the plan?”

 

I cock my head. I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. My sluggish brain begins to assemble a plan, a plan even the mere contemplation of which starts to make me feel warm in my core.

 

“We get him to come back to our dorm,” I answer, wary of the shuffling pair of feet I can see from under the next stall over. “Make him think he’s scored and then . . .” I think about it for a moment. “I’ll tell him that we got some new toys at a sex shop that we want to try out.”

 

“Fuck,” Morrigan whispers but steadies herself in the next moment. “Okay, then what?”

 

That’s as far as I’ve gotten. Past that, I have almost no reference for what might come next. Sure, I’ve seen pornos, but I know perfectly well that those bleached, well-lit, highly edited scenes are far from reality. Lucy Lawless didn’t prepare me for this.

 

Or maybe she did. Because dumb comedy movies aren’t the only time I’ve seen Lucy Lawless clad in leather and destroying the men in her path. I think back to my childhood, to my mother’s favorite campy TV show, to the tight leather outfits and the implements of torture and the many, many scenes of men bowing to a superior specimen’s undeniable might.

 

“Just follow my lead,” I reply.

 

We share a glance, a moment of reassurance. I feel a bit funny, but I think Morrigan does too. Everything around me feels unreal, like a dream. It might be the late hour, or the booze still in my system, or the anticipation of the fantasies in my head, but when I walk, I feel almost like I’m floating. A single-minded resolve falls over me, and the effect is quieting, peaceful, but also a bit frightening. I’m not sure what I’m more afraid of: failure or success.

 

Morrigan follows me, and we feel almost in sync as we leave the bathroom and head toward the door. Rick is there, leaning against the wall, chatting to some other girl. When he spots us, he looks like he might have forgotten about us entirely. I think that maybe we should just let him go, let this other girl have him. But then he is making up some excuse about the girl being in his econ class and discarding her outright.

 

“You gir-ladies ready to go?” Rick slurs, again putting a hand on my back. It makes my skin crawl, but I step in closer to him.

 

“As great as those beers sound,” I say to him, dipping my chin and looking up at him with wide eyes, “we actually want you to come back to our room.”

 

Morrigan follows suit and slips into Rick’s personal space, putting her hands on him.

 

“We don’t want to keep your roommates up all night,” she says coyly, tossing her long, sweet-smelling hair over her shoulder.

 

Rick’s eyes widen, and he just nods like an idiot. I don’t wait for him to overthink it; I’m moving out the door and down the stairs before he can say anything. Morrigan puts her arm in mine, and we begin to lead the way. Rick follows us, telling us that we walk too fast and then attempting to make crude small talk.

 

“Everyone says you girls know how to party,” he laughs at some point. “But I didn’t think they meant like this.”

 

“Well, we’re best friends,” I giggle, playing along. “Best friends share everything, don’t they?”

 

It’s too easy to get him back to our dorm. We sit him down on the futon crammed under the raised twin mattress and turn on a movie on the television. I order food to be delivered and make some black tea. I tell Rick that I want him sobered up; I want him to remember this night forever. He grins like a wolf in the sheep’s den, not realizing that this is the lair of something far deadlier, and takes the food and the drink and consumes it all. We watch the movie, eat our food, and snuggle into the couch. And when Rick starts to grope us under the blankets, we fawn, and we purr, and we sigh breathily.

 

After an hour, his words are no longer as slurred, and his vision seems to have straightened. He’s no longer paying attention to the movie—I don’t suppose he ever was—and instead has his mouth on my neck, sucking like a leech. I pull him off me and ask him if he’s sobered up yet.

 

“Come on, baby, when are you gonna let me fuck you?” he says inconsequentially, instead of replying to my very real question. I’m on my feet in an instant.

 

“Actually,” I say, looking at Morrigan seated on Rick’s other side, exchanging a devious glance with her, “Morrigan and I stopped at a sex store yesterday, and we bought a couple of fun new toys that we’d love to try out with you, Rick.”

 

Rick perks up, and by the look on his face, I can tell that he thinks he’s hit the jackpot. I smile at him and move across the room to retrieve the shopping bags.

 

“What did you girls get?” Rick asks playfully, thinking this is going to be some sort of game. Maybe he imagines a vibrator, or some lingerie, something cute and harmless, something involving Morrigan and me desperately trying to please him.

 

I crouch down, putting the bags on the floor and kneeling beside them. I shift through them, looking for what I want, as Morrigan watches me with wide, expectant eyes.

 

“Do you want to fuck us, Rick?” I ask girlishly, blinking up at him.

 

Rick grunts like an animal.

 

“Yes,” he groans, hand slipping below his belt line. “Fuck yes.”

 

I fall onto my hands and knees and crawl slowly, sinuously, toward Rick. I lick my teeth and stare up at him with hungry eyes, glancing down at his crotch and the bulge once again growing there. Rick groans some more, incomprehensibly, and I settle myself between his legs. He begins frantically unbuttoning his jeans, and I almost want to laugh at how far his expectations are from reality . . .

 

 




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