Chapter 3: Tangled Threads

The sun’s warm glow bathed the bustling campus in a golden haze as I strolled beside Zoe, the whisper of my sundress dancing in the gentle breeze. Heighten that the light dress I was still wearing with nothing else under it. The weekend before the beginning of the fall semester, a seemingly tranquil afternoon would take a sharp turn, propelled by a mischievous gust of wind.

One moment, I was basking in a conversation about the upcoming school year, touching on the decisions leading to her enclosed in those lounge chairs to me expressing to do the same. The next, the wind, with its agenda, tore at the fabric, threatening to reveal more than I bargained for. Panic surged through me, my hands scrambling to salvage my modesty in the face of curious gazes.

Time spun on a broken axis, each second an eternity as I felt the weight of my eyes. Witness to my vulnerability, the onlookers added a layer of discomfort to the already mortifying scene. At that moment, just exposed to the wind, I was stripped bare of composure along with everything below my breast.

Then, with a deft maneuver, Zoe came to the rescue, coaxing the rebellious fabric back into place. Relief washed over me, leaving a lingering unease about the brief spectacle. As we continued our walk, the incident became a chapter etched into the narrative of walking away. Out of the earshot of others, she said, “The next gush of wind that arrives, just allow the dress to flow over the shoulders.”

But the unexpected guests weren’t confined to the wind as I shot her a nasty look. A nagging question from the other day at the poolside resonated within me. The memory of our encounter, charged with a potent mix of closeness and tension, refused to fade as I rode her face through that opening in the lounge chair. My anger towards Jennifer misplaced and misdirected, had found its target in Zoe, an act I now regretted with a gnawing guilt.

Looking into her eyes, I expressed my regret for forcing her to remain confined in that chair and exerted all my frustration and anger upon her helpless face. Zoe grabbed both of my hands and said, “Confined in those lounge chairs, I am nothing more than something for the person sitting on the chair to use and abuse as they desire with no regard to her life.”

Zoe’s eyes held a depth that belied their youthful surface. “Sometimes,” she said softly, “you connect with someone in a way that defies explanation. Like finding a kindred spirit. I knew from the start we could be great friends.” Her words echoed with a sincerity that disarmed me, leaving me both grateful and confused, tears in my eyes.

As we talked, the intricacies of our connection unwound like a delicate thread. There was a raw honesty in Zoe’s vulnerability, a willingness to share moments of darkness that drew me closer. She spoke of anger, intensity, and even a strange comfort in my presence sitting on her face. Her actions, a testament to her unwavering support, painted a picture of friendship than I could have imagined.

Back in our room, tucked away in the sanctuary we were forging, the air thrummed with unspoken stories. Zoe placed the envelope containing my application to start the process in that and others around the sorority female poolside my life at the mercy of the pleasure of the sorority lady that happens to be sitting on it. My questions about her involvement in certain activities, seemingly harmless yet risky, hung in the air.

She pulled me close, the gentle caress of her hands a stark contrast to the storm brewing within me. She placed several layers of tape over our signatures and around the seams on the bookcase from anywhere in the room. She told me, “It is important to spend a few weeks of classes to grasp college life before embarking on becoming nothing more than a sex toy for those sorority ladies.”

When my phone rang, it was Mom. Picking it up following some small talk, Mom said, “Received the message I just withdrew from the sorority earlier today. I couldn’t tell Mom about the complexities that led to that decision or that I spent nearly half of the night thrusting my naked body down on the very lady who is now my roommate outside of the sorority.

As I spoke with Mom, Zoe’s presence, a warm comfort beside me, added another layer to the commentary. Then I saw Zoe nudging her head in shock and confusion within me. The unspoken proposition of its unconventional nature and veiling implications cast a shadow of doubt over the future. I lifted my body and allowed her to position her body so I was sitting on her upper chest with her face in my crotch on the bed.

Another layer of complexity to the already bewildering equations of keeping my attention on the conversation with my Mom as she begins working my clit. Confiding in my Mom, I struggled to articulate the shift in my excitement about sororities. The real reason for my withdrawal, a knot of unease in my gut, remained unspoken. Finally, I admitted that it wasn’t the right fit, the truth a bitter pill to swallow.

I was using every ounce of me to keep my attention on the conversation and not on the pleasure she was giving me. I desperately wanted to end the conversation with Mom. She told me my younger sister wanted to talk to me about what she heard about the sorority’s female pool. The absurdity of it, the potential awkwardness, hung heavy in the air. The words that slipped out I didn’t want to say over the phone.

As the final hours of Saturday ticked away, tomorrow would be the first day since the night I sat on chair three that contained Zoe. Casting a shadow over the eve of my inaugural day at college, Zoe beckoned me to her side. To look at a series of emails awaited my attention addressed to Zoe.

Each emanated from members of the sorority, notably including Jennifer—the very individual who had recently sent me into a whirlwind of emotions during that fateful encounter at the pool deck, where she occupied the chair that held Zoe in a constrained state of security. As I delved into the messages, they unfolded like a tapestry of sentiments, each laden with vivid details that painted expressions on her face.

One particular message, however, caused my stomach to churn uncomfortably. Amid the narrative, Jennifer alluded to a desire to conceal her face in her menstrual blood. Perhaps in an attempt to shield herself from the repercussions of her revelations. The contents of the other messages ranged in tameness, but none quite reached the level of the shocking incident with explicit details too graphic to recount.

Closing the laptop, I couldn’t help but voice my concern, “That blood is dangerous to digest!” The contrast between my unease and Zoe’s seemingly composed demeanor was stark. She calmly reassured me, “As long as the eyes and mouth remain tightly closed until cleaned up, there’s no cause for worry.” The surreal calmness of her words left me grappling with the peculiarity of the situation as the impending mysteries of college life loomed ever closer.

Her words cut through the air with a chilling clarity as she uttered, “If, in a few weeks, you still desire to submit the requisite documents and undergo the screening process, willingly surrendering your existence to a state of insignificance—deemed disposable for their amusement and pleasure, even if it culminates in your demise.

Within the confines of that chair, I am reduced to nothing more than a functional component, serving the sole purpose of being a cog in its machinery and nothing beyond that.” The gravity of her statement lingered, casting a somber shadow over the implications of such a surrender, highlighting the stark reality of a life relinquished to a seemingly dehumanizing fate.

In the morning, Zoe and I made our way to the side dressing room, the very same one we had exited in the nude during the wee hours of the night a few days ago. The unsettling part for me was Zoe’s insistence that we traverse the distance from our room to that dressing room door without a stitch of clothing, all while the sun began its ascent on the horizon. I was a nervous wreck, consumed by the fear of being seen in such a state by anyone on campus. Upon reaching the door, Zoe effortlessly unlocked it by pressing her finger on the screen and inputting a code.

Inside, the dressing room hosted a gathering of several guys, each in various states of undress, preparing themselves to be selected and eventually placed into one of the thirty chairs based on their arrival times. Being a female in the presence of all of those eyes on my naked flesh sent me into a state of panic. I followed Zoe as we stepped away from the group of guys by saying, “They are not paying any attention to us.”

Zoe took a moment to explain her unconventional choice of arriving in the nude while opening one of the lockers to show me there was no way to lock it. She disclosed a pattern that unfolded during her initial visits to the locker room last semester. On multiple occasions, one or more guys had made my clothes unwearable or rendered them useless, even resorting to the shower area.