Dressed for PanicbyJBEdwards©
Warning to the reader: This is a long story, and it contains many things, some of which you may not want to read. It contains: Interracial sex, a scene with nonconsensual sex, a gangbang scene, some group sex, incest, a lesbian scene, and finally at the end, a ménage à trois. This is my Valentine's Day contest entry. February is Black Love Month.
I knew I was different at an early age. My Mom is white, and my Dad is Black, and we live in an all white small town in upstate New York. It is an enlightened town, so most (but certainly not all) people tolerated our presence, and some of the parents of my classmates were friends with my parents.
Nobody cared when we were all little. Small children are friendly to everyone, and most did not notice, or did not care, that my skin was brown. As I got older I got questions born of ignorance, but not of malice. An example was "Do you get sunburns if you don't use sunscreen?" (I do, just in case you are wondering. And the sunburns hurt, too.)
As I got older, around the time of middle school, ugly behavior began to manifest itself. It started small. We girls would exchange valentines; the de facto rule of thumb was to give a valentine to every child in the class, so that nobody felt left out. My Mom used to buy the valentines by the bag, and I would laboriously write the first name of every child in my class on the envelopes, and put the valentines in them, and then distribute them in class on Valentine's Day.
As we got older, but not that old, girls began to get childhood crushes on certain boys. Boys did too, on girls, but that came about a year or two after the girls' crushes. The objects of the crushes typically got fancier valentines. Connected to this somehow, there were some of my fellow classmates, both some girls and some boys, who started to exclude me from their valentine lists.
The first such girl was Mary Beth. In 6th grade she gave a valentine to everyone in the class except for me. I figured it was an oversight, but it made me nervous. In 7th grade Mary Beth again did not give me a valentine, even as I continued to give her one. But in 8th grade it changed, and 5 close girl friends of Mary Beth also did not give me a valentine. I checked with my friends and all of them got one from the little clutch of racist girls.
I felt left out, and shunned. My Mom told me stuff like that happens in one form or another, to most girls and boys when you're growing up, and nobody can be more cruel than teenage girls. My Dad, who always called me by his pet name, had a different take. He told me, "It's the color of your skin. Babydoll, life is not fair. People are trapped by their hatreds and it poisons their souls. Be grateful you are not white in this country."
I found neither explanation comforting, and I did not even understand my Dad's explanation. Looking back, I now understand it only too well. As time went on, if your taste runs to girls with pigment in their skin (ie, girls of color), then I turned into a little beauty. Or so I am told.
As I gradually changed from a child to a young woman, I became curvaceous. I developed breasts of course, and they were larger than most. My body became the personification of an hourglass. My complexion cleared and my eyelashes were long, my lips were full. There was also a price to pay: my menstrual cramps were from Hell.
I spent hours with my hair. I wanted hair like my Mom, not curly and tight like my Dad. In New York City that would have been easy to accomplish: There are tons of beauty salons that could do things for me. In our upstate town, where I was the only black girl, I might as well have been from Mars.
As we got older, people no longer exchanged cheap, packaged Valentine Day cards. Instead girls got valentines from boys. My body matured into its current voluptuous state early, around 10th grade, and every single heterosexual boy in my school seemed to notice. But I was forbidden fruit. No boy ever asked me out.
When Valentine's Day arrived in February, I got two valentines: both of them from my close girl friends. Mary Beth, for example, got over 50. From then on, I viewed the arrival of Valentine's Day with dread.
My Dad was an engineer. He had a PhD and commuted to a larger town to work at a high tech company. My Mom was a nurse practitioner, and she worked in our small town, which is why we lived there. I had younger brothers and sisters, and she needed to be close to them. She did not want to commute. Also, she liked small towns.
My parents helped to supplement my schoolwork. I enjoyed school. I did well. In fact, I was valedictorian. The Mary Beths of the school were livid. In the words of my Dad, "Tough shit." I got into the best colleges, and I got scholarships.
Smart as I was, I could not stop the feel of dread when Valentine's Day rolled around. My Mom would always send me one, and in college it would be the only one I would get. I met other blacks in college, but we had such different backgrounds and values, we did not get along. I had some white girl friends, but once again no boys were interested in me, despite my good looks and what I thought they would think of as a hot body.
I began to feel irrational panic as Valentine's Day came onto the calendar. It was a brutal reminder of my social isolation, and the sexual lack of interest all men seemed to have with me. The panic was serious: I became short of breath and my heart raced. I saw a doctor, and his solution was some anti-anxiety medicine, or tranquilizers.
Valentine's Day became a powerful symbol of the social problems of my life: the isolation, the lack of interest in me from the other sex, my loneliness. Irrationally, perhaps, I fiercely dreaded the day's arrival. I understood now why suicides rise around Christmas time.
My best friend at college was my roommate Sarah. My name is Harriet. And yes, before you ask, I am indeed named after Harriet Tubman, although I have rarely told anyone that. Sarah gave me her wisdom regarding boys. She has considerable wisdom. She is wise beyond her years, and as you will see later in the story, she will do most anything for her friends.
"Boys want one of two things," Sarah began. "Love, or sex. Of course, the two are not mutually exclusive. Some girls they worship, and others they view as disposable quick lays. Most of us girls are some combination. Often it starts just with the sex, and then it grows into a relationship, until the boy feels trapped, and dumps us so that he can sleep around. Boys are programmed like that. They are reprehensible, but those are the cards we have been dealt."
"In your case," she went on, "You are forbidden fruit for white boys. They know they cannot bring you home to meet their parents. So they would only want you for the sex. They may want that a lot: some guys are really into forbidden fruit; it's perverse, and perverse can often be sexy. Fucking a black girl is more forbidden to them than things like ass fucking or public fucking, and the like, and plenty of them like that, let me tell you."
"But no boys at all come after me. Not even for gratuitous sex," I said.
"I know, Harriet. I'm getting to that. They are scared of you. You're too fucking smart. You're the best student in all of your classes, and don't deny it. Even as a disposable sex object, boys do not want to be humiliated by a girl. It's castrating. Plus, they probably think smart girls like you are too smart to be used as sex objects just to be discarded later."
"Jesus, Sarah, you have really thought this out. It's a lot of food for thought. One more question, though: Why do the Black boys avoid me, too?" I asked.
"I don't know, exactly. My guess is that they're from urban backgrounds, and frankly Harriet, you're more like me than you are like them. They're just not attracted to you. It's a cultural divide." Sarah was done, and her body language reflected it.
I'm actually not that black. Long ago some slave owner impregnated his slave. I don't know if it was consensual or if it was rape. Could it ever be mutually consensual with a slave, anyway? Their child was again a slave, a woman I'm told, and she was definitely raped by a white man. Her child was still considered black, even if she was only one quarter black. Being black is like a contamination: If you have some black blood, you're black.
When it gets down to me, I don't know exactly, but I am around 1/32 black. Still, looking at me, I look like a black woman. I could never pass for white in a society such as ours where skin color is so important. Culturally however, Sarah was right: I was white. In terms of physical appearance, there was no question: I was black. It was obvious to everyone. People like me are called oreos: black on the outside, and white on the inside.
I stared at Sarah. She spoke the truth. The truth hurts, but as the saying goes, the truth will set you free. I said, "Sarah, I've never had sex. I've never even kissed a boy. I'm 19 and I know nothing at all about sex. I feel like such a loser."
Sarah then told me one way to solve my problem. Sarah was not just my best friend; she was a wise friend. Valentine's Day was approaching once again, and as it began to rear its ugly head, my panic began to rise from my stomach to my throat, ruining my sleep, attacking my soul.
Intellectually I knew my panic was bullshit. Valentine's Day is an artificial construct and is meaningless. But I also knew it was symbolic of my being unloved, undesired, shunned and unwanted. And the panic I felt as the day approached might be bullshit, but as far as my body was concerned, it was real.
Sarah's advice was, in essence, 'become a slut.' Make it obvious I was up for sex, with anyone, anytime. If the smell of available sex was strong enough, men would sniff me out, come for the pleasure, and then perhaps stay for the woman. It was an obvious solution, and yet it was one that had never occurred to me.
"But how would I do that, assuming I even wanted to?" I asked.
Sarah replied, "Get dressed. Susan and I are taking you shopping." Susan was a good friend of both of ours, and she always dressed to kill. She was of Italian ancestry and she was from the south shore of Long Island. She told me that's simply how every girl there dresses, and she saw no reason to wear jeans and sweatshirts just because she was in college upstate. Susan also had boys flocking to her like bears to honey.
Susan was a computer science major, and if they had an award for best-dressed CS student, Susan would have won it, hands down. But of course they don't. CS majors are geeks. Susan did not fit in at all, and everyone, including me, was grateful that she didn't fit in.
The girls ganged up on me. They bought me all new outfits, pressured me into getting my legs waxed and also my privates (I got a 'Brazilian wax'), and pressured me both to get and to wear a new perfume 'that works like Viagra for college men; they can't resist it.' It was what you might call a complete makeover.
Often they had to gang up on me. Especially they had their work cut out for them at the lingerie boutiques. They forced me to lose my conservative style 'fit for a nun' and to become more risqué. 'When a boy gets your clothes off -- and soon a boy will get your clothes off -- why not look sexy for him? Why look dowdy?' I could not argue with their logic. My only defense was that boys do not seem to want to get my clothes off, and sexy new lingerie is expensive. But they were trying to help me to change that.
When we got back to college, Sarah explained our shopping trip was only step one. Now she had to get indiscreet.
"Tell me what you know about sex," she said.
I knew everything, and I told her so. She asked detailed, embarrassing questions, and it turned out I knew much less than I had thought.
Sarah next asked, "Now tell me about your experience. Kissing? Hand jobs? Blowjobs? How far have you let boys go with you?"
I was ashamed and humiliated to tell her no to everything. I had told her before, but she had not believed me. Now she did. "Even no kissing?" I nodded, and began to cry. "No parties in high school with kissing games?" I told her there probably were, but I was never invited.
I explained I was the only black girl, or for that matter the only black child in my school. Plus, I was smarter than everyone, and according to my Mom that was off putting. My Mom told me to hide how smart I was, but I was singularly untalented at doing that. Anyway, the teachers all knew, and they conveyed it to my classmates.
"We need to educate you, my dear," Sarah and Susan said. "Have you watched porn to see how a blowjob is done?"
"Good God, no!" I said.
"let's start small," Susan said. "Tonight, Harriet, undress in front of your window. Keep your lights on, and your curtains open, so that anyone who looks can see you undressing. Get naked down to your panties."
"But you know my room, Susan!" I exclaimed. "I'm across from a fraternity. Tons of men will see me!"
"They'll only see you in they're looking and they're not. Why check out a girl's window if the drapes are always closed. Does any girl show off her body? Why look if you never see anything? But you won't know if anyone sees you or not. It's part of the thrill," Susan said. "Don't do it every night, do it on nights of calendar days that are prime numbers. Keep them guessing; it increases the thrill for them when they get a peek."
"Show her your secret video, Sarah," Susan said. Sarah blushed furiously. I just stood there. Had there been a thought bubble above my head it would have had two question marks in it.
Ignoring Sarah's clear embarrassment, Susan said, "Sarah's boyfriend and lover, Dan, is cheating on her with that little minx Juliet. It was my idea, but I convinced Sarah to give Dan a teddy bear with a secret camera in it. We now have a video of Juliet giving Dan a blowjob, and also putting out for him. It's fairly spectacular, too. The girl must be a gymnast or something."
"Juliet is on the gymnastic team," I said.
"There you go," Susan said.
"I'm going to dump the son of a bitch right after he takes me out for Valentine's Day. I'm going to fuck his brains out and give him the best sex he could ever imagine, and then kick him out and tell him never to come back," Sarah said, with venom in her voice.
It turned my stomach to do it, but I watched the video and I saw Juliet give Dan a blowjob.
I can't believe I said this, but I did. I said, "I need a boy to practice on." It just slipped out, I had not meant to say it aloud. There was a deep silence in the room.
After the long period of silence, Susan said, "I can arrange it. My boyfriend Steve knows lots of guys. A blowjob from a sexpot like you now look should be quite a prize."
"Yes, my dear. I'm going to make it a game, and the winner will get your sexual favors as a prize. Here's my plan," Susan said, and then she explained her plan.
Sarah was enthusiastic and called Susan a genius. I was in shock and just stood there. I was freaked out. There was no way I could use access to my body as a "prize." It went against the grain. Sexual access or performance was not to be "auctioned off." Quite frankly I was horrified by Susan's idea, even if she and Sarah were gung ho.
It was easy for them to think it was a great idea. They were not putting their bodies on the auction block. Being a prize made me feel like a whore. I explained this to them, trying to put my abhorrence to the idea delicately. I did in fact greatly appreciate how much they were trying to do for me. I felt pathetic.
Susan was convinced this would work. So was Sarah. Then Sarah shocked me. She asked if it would make it more palatable for me if she too agreed to be a prize? The plan changed and morphed and finally we decided there would be two prizes: Sarah and me.
I was to be first prize, implicitly giving my sexual favors higher value, and Sarah was to be second prize. We both had to agree to be sexually available to whoever the winners were: we had to agree to give them blowjobs.
Sarah did not care about the anti feminist aspects of the plan. She saw it as revenge on Dan. She was not a slut, but giving a blowjob one time with an extra boy, that she was all in favor of. Indeed, she was looking forward to it, mostly because it would drive Dan nuts.
There would be an entry fee and the money would go to the local soup kitchen, so that everyone could think it was for a cause. And it actually would in fact be for a cause; I often volunteered at the soup kitchen, since I'm a good cook. I liked the idea of raising money for it, and that made the whole idea a little bit less distasteful.
There was a long discussion about how many boys would play the game, and who they would be, and whether or not Dan would be included. Dan was not to be included. Sarah was firm about that.
Susan said her boyfriend Steve could decide if he wanted to play. He wisely decided not to play, because he did not want to risk his relationship with Susan. Smart guy. But he helped her find enthusiastic boys who would play.
The entry fee was high, but the eight boys who played paid it happily. The game was poker, Texas Holdem. The winner of each hand had an extra benefit: He could choose a piece of clothing for one of us girls to remove. Before the game began, Susan had given me two martinis to drink "for courage." I needed them.
I had taken Susan's advice, and was undressing down to my panties in front of my window with my drapes open. And she was right: I had no idea if anyone saw me, or watched me, or even cared. I liked it. I felt sexy, exposing myself to the mysteries of the night around me.
I upped the ante and walked around in my room dressed only in my panties, increasing the time that boys could watch me, if they knew I was doing it, and if they wanted to watch me. I found it thrilling.
I had one large clue that I was being watched. At breakfast one day at the cafeteria, when I sat at a communal table where random people eat breakfast together, usually quasi comatose as they try to wake up, a boy had a camera with him and it had a telescopic lens. He was showing his friends some pictures he had taken. He was from the fraternity that looks out at my dorm window.
The boys would look at the digital screen of the camera, then look at me, then look again at his screen, and nod their heads, and clap the boy with the camera on the back. It was pretty obvious to me what was going on.
The boys were snickering. I could not resist. I asked him, "What do you use the camera for? It looks like quite a nice one."
"The lens is a Vivitar 650-1300mm. Great for bird watching," he said.
Also great for watching exhibitionist girls like me, I thought to myself. I could not resist, and I said, "Do you have any pictures of some great birds?" His friends burst into uproarious laughter. He blushed, and managed to mutter, "Yes, but the battery just died."
His friends left to go to class, and camera boy (his name is Craig) and I remained at the breakfast table. "Do you have a picture of a favorite bird?" I asked, feigning naiveté. "Perhaps one with special coloring?"
"There's this milk chocolate bird I especially like. Unlike most birds, she comes out at night," Craig said, continuing our game of double entendres.
"How can you tell it's a female bird? Isn't the sex of a bird hard to determine from afar?"
"For this bird, it's fairly obvious, I assure you," Craig said, warming to our game and smiling broadly. I too was enjoying the game immensely.
"I guess you're right. It's the male birds that have a cacophony of colors." I beckoned him closer. I whispered to him, "Have you ever seen a female bird masturbate?"
"No, but I would love to," Craig said.