He was slipping off my skirt, caressing my hips. He said I was a birch fir(1). His birch fir.

1. Birch Fir was what the desirable girls from the university were called. It meant something beautiful and unattainable. I was a Birch Fir for a day(a), until it was quickly discovered that I was, indeed, attainable.

a. That day, my Birch Fir day. It was early in my sophomore year, and a typical late October day filled with sun, clouds, wind, cold, warm, leaves, flowers of the fall variety, chipmonks and squirrels. I kept tripping over acorns, and occasionally one would be thrown at my head by an errant squirrel. Maybe not errant. Maybe a squirrel experimenting with gravity. The Sir Isaac of squirrels. When I wasn't slipping or swiping acorn debris out of my hair, I was sneezing. Seasonal allergies. Yet, I looked beautiful that day, in that way that only an 18-year-old who’s slipping and swiping and sneezing can look. I was in full-bloom, as it were, this day being the day of my ovulation. Perhaps this was why the squirrels were throwing acorns at my head.

Boys were hiding in piles of leaves and garbage cans, under benches, trying to get a look up my skirt as I strode across the campus to the library. I could hear them rustling, the leaves and the garbage, and the boys undid their zippers for a quick pull-and-release. Because this is what they did when they saw a Birch Fir.

As I entered the library, I was grabbed from behind. A hand over my mouth muffled what would have been a scream. I was quickly blindfolded, hands and feet bound, and carried to a rusty van. I know it was rusty because I could smell the iron. Although I can’t imagine no one saw me, no one came to my rescue. The rustling stopped, and the acorns stopped, and I was carted away.

A few minutes over bumpy roads that felt suspiciously like the gravel parking lot of a certain building, I heard the back van door open, and I was dragged out. Wherever I was it was relatively quiet except for the sound of a tv tuned into the Oprah Show. I was placed on my back and not too gently on a flat circular surface that I imagined to be a small table like one would find in a hotel room. Rough hands pulled down my tights and pulled up my skirt, and ripped my underwear at the seams. The same rough hands pried open my vaginal lips and inserted a cold metallic cylinder with an irregular surface that was slightly thinner than a penis. A different set of hands cut my shirt off, and sliced open the front of my bra. I heard what sounded like pants unzipping, and then some adjusting of the cold metal thing as chino-clad legs slipped between mine, kneeling on the table, and then the unmistakable flapping of a guy jerking off. The table seemed a little unsteady until the owner of the other set of hands tried to balance it all out by leaning into the table and placing the left hand hard on my breast. The guy flapped and shoved and groaned, “Birch Fir, fucking goddam cunt-hole Birch Fir, I’ll teach you to walk around like that and not want to fuck.” He was leaning into the metallic cylinder shoved into my twat, which was a bit uncomfortable, and I began to squirm. The owner of the other hands leaned over me, long fine hair tickling my stomach as the right hand reached down to play with my clit. With all the pain and excitement and perceived danger that seemed really like a lack of danger I suddenly started to feel my clit swell as my back arched to better position myself for the mysterious right hand. I gasped and then I groaned and thrashed as I started to come, deep wet waves pulsing through me, while I was splashed and showered with hot thick jism. GODDAM, he screamed, YOU’RE NOT A BIRCH FIR! Thus I was found out and enjoyed a very sexually active fall semester.