When I was in college, I was friends with a bunch of guys who happened to be part of a fraternity. Their house was huge, and the fraternity was small, so I often stayed the night there after partying in what had been designated “Ash’s room” at the end of a hall in a spare bedroom. I’ve always gotten along better with guys than girls, and have long suffered the stigma that because I hang out with almost exclusively men, I must be sleeping with one or all of them, at once or in turns. And this stigma is applied by both strangers and my best friends. This is a story about strangers.
I was walking back with a few of the guys from a party down the road one night. A few of them made it ahead of the last guy and I, who was going slow with me because I’d consumed quite a portion of whiskey (so there, cowboys). Up to this point, I had had a wonderful time, listening to the boys sing their hearts out to sappy ballads all night, and was glowing from the fun. Apparently my relaxed demeanor and smile, along with my drunken sway, was enough to convince the douchebags that lived next door that I was some random that the guy with me had picked up at a party who was for sure going to sleep with him upon arriving at the house.
They were out on their veranda playing drinking games, several with forty ounce bottles taped to their hands. They were at least as drunk as we were… Probably much more. They commenced with whistles and hoots, moving on to “Congrats, bro!” “Tear that bitch up!” I bristled, glaring at them, but D. muttered to ignore the assholes and keep walking, not wanting to attract the attention of campus police. I reluctantly moved along with him, but as I was moving down the steps to the house, I heard, “Just the next piece of frat trash to be set out at the curb in the morning.”
I shook off D.’s arm, leaped up the steps, and strode across the lawn. “What did you just say?” I said, trying to sound neutral.
They stared. “What?” one answered, with the same offending voice. He steps out of the cluster of guys.
“Oh, I was just wondering if you could clarify what you just said to your friends about me.” Still a sweetish tone, trying to get him to admit it.
“I didn’t say anything, you crazy bitch.” He comes down the steps, stalking toward me.
“Hm. See, I know what the fuck you said, I was just wondering if you would have the sack to say it to my face, you piece of shit.” Nice tone is gone (obv), and I accompany this with a sharp jab at his chest with my finger. At this point, D. has noticed that I’m gone, heard my rising temper, and has come dashing up behind me, stepping quickly between the asshole and I just as the guy knocks my finger away.
“Easy, we’ve all had a lot to drink. Let’s just deal with this in the morning, if we’ve still got a problem.”
“You need to keep your bitch in check, bro,” he snarls, and I fucking lose it. I duck under D.’s arm and positively dive for the other guy’s throat, claws outstretched, ready to wreak havoc on his prettyboy face. D. catches me around the waist as soon as I slam into the guy before I can get a good swipe in.
“Crazy slut!”
“Fuck you!”
“Yeah, dude, don’t fucking call her that.” Angry face-talking happens, bros pull douche-fratboy away, and D. turns me to march me back to the other house.
Assface decides to do that oh-so-mature cough-to-say-something maneuver. “Slut!” And I rip out of D.’s grasp, whirling to connect a solid right hook. They all go apeshit, and I end up thrown over D.’s shoulder and hustled back to the other house before I get us both beat to hell. I fought and kicked the whole way until safely inside the house, screaming epithets the whole way.
Perhaps it wasn’t the most graceful solution, but the ache in my hand the next day was so worth it. Fuck catcallers.
