Someone’s parents were out of town; it was mid-Spring, and those factors combined with the impending close of the school year were enough to warrant a party. Kegs were obtained, liquor cabinets raided, parents’ drug stashes pilfered— no expense was spared in orchestrating one of those parties which is destined to take its place in the annals of local legend and be reminisced about well beyond one’s qualification for senior citizen discounts.
As is the case at such events, everyone was looking to get laid, but Southern social customs bound us to be irritatingly coy about the business. Throughout the night gender specific huddles formed and reformed as territories were claimed, plans hatched and revised, and the complicated formalities of teenaged mating rituals undertaken. (Or it seemed complicated then; now I know what the formula was: act like you don’t want it and you’ll get it. It was that simple, but the perpetually dancing hormones made it impossible for me to reason clearly.)
Invariably, there was always some girl (often the least attractive of the bunch) who acted as the moral barometer of her immediate clique, weighing in on the various romantic treaties circulating, and usually stalling them in committee out of her own displeasure with being overlooked by the male faction. As the tactics of these girls were more effective than not (the female brain being more developed in the area of higher reasoning than its male counterpart at this time in life), the politics of circumventing the gyno-guardian involved one of two approaches: someone putting the moves on the gatekeeper herself for the good of the team, or separating a potential partner from her pack. The latter of these two strategies was the preferred method, but neither of these plans were as well coordinated as I make out: only through the lens of memory does the picture take on a coherent shape, transforming the past riddles of courtship into a banal replay of nearly everyone’s shared adolescent experience. We acted from instinct, our brains saturated with primordial urges.
I usually fell into the role of the one who would act as a decoy for the good of “the team.” In truth there was no team. Any of my immediate friends would have gladly blinded every other guy there with a fire poker if he thought it would get him laid. I would have done the same, but I was always fairly sure that I wasn’t getting laid; I wasn’t the most popular fellow in high school, and at this stage in my life I’d only had one miserable, floundering experience with a woman. It had been so terrible that I didn’t even fantasize about it when I jerked off. Plus I had a better vocabulary than most of the other guys my age, and such a skill meant I was a good conversationalist, and thus a better distraction.
But things went differently at this party. I was more in a drinking mood, and reluctant to chat up the sober girl who was mothering the prospective females. The host of the party was into classic rock and not the hits of the day (quite a relief, considering this was 1990, when popular music in general just flat out sucked), and so I hovered near the keg, bobbing my head to AC/DC and Nazareth.
By the talk that circulated as beers were being refilled, I could tell that something of significance was afoot. The girl every guy wanted, a new girl at school named Carmen, was being extremely flirty with all the boys— those with and without girlfriends. It was causing quite a stir, and whenever a herd of young men gathered around the keg, the conversation drifted into a detailing of the various positions and techniques each potential suitor might employ if given the chance. The subject of the girls’ talk was understandably different: they were ready to kill the bitch.
My main reason in sticking to the keg and not floating amongst the other guests was that I wanted my fair share of beer. Remember: we were all underage and so we couldn’t just run out and get more when the keg dried up. Too many times I’d chipped in on the cost of a keg only to come away with fewer than three cups. I wasn’t about to let that happen on this occasion, and while I held my ground firmly for a greater stretch of time than what was probably advisable, I eventually realized my bladder was about to rupture. I recalled the ill fate of Tycho Brahe and topped off my Dixie cup of Rolling Rock before setting of in search of a bathroom.
The house was large, and every door seemed to be locked; if it wasn’t locked it opened onto a scene of couples making out or engaged in private conversation— I was greeted several times with hostile stares and a string of profanities. I finally stumbled into a dark bedroom where a beacon of light shone from an open door in a corner that led to a lavish bathroom which, judging by the Minnie Mouse theme, belonged to the youngest resident of the house. I entered, shut the door, and took a substantial piss— a release of the bladder so necessary and pleasant that I let out a little moan of relief. As I was shaking off the last few drops, I heard voices in the bedroom outside. I didn’t feel like being trapped in a bathroom while a couple fondled each other for hours on the other side of the door, so I made for a quick exit. As I entered the bedroom a guy’s voice said:
“What the fuck? Keck! Dude! You are just in time.”
Coming from the brightly lit bathroom into the dark bedroom, I had no idea what I was just in time for. The bathroom light illuminated four figures standing in a half circle, and after a few seconds I was able to make out that it was Jason, Brad, T.C., and Rick— friends of mine, certainly, but not close ones.
“I said you four was okay, but I didn’t say nothing about him.”
I looked to my right, and half dressed on the bed lay Carmen.
“Oh, come on,” Jason said. “Keck’s cool. What’s one more?”
I started to say something, but my heart had begun racing, and the room seemed wobbly.
“Well, whatever. But I told you it had to be one at a time.”
If Carmen was angling for popularity amongst the boys at her new school, she was on a path destined for stardom. But something in her voice had a tone more of resignation than eagerness. Her presence on the bed seemed obligatory, as though she were a contract player in some adolescent studio of sexual imagination.
“Good deal, but Keck—” Jason turned his head toward me in the faint light and spoke as he undid his pants “— you gotta go last.”
“Okay,” I said, and I leaned against the wall, completely disoriented by what was taking place. I, too, had dreamed of Carmen since she first appeared in school, and I had often dreamed of group sex with Carmen, but in my more typical fantasy which involved me as the lone male amongst a bevy of beauties. But opportunity arrived unannounced, and so I braced myself to take advantage of it anyway I could.
There was very little sexiness about the whole affair, though in retrospect it has taken on elements of appeal in my imagination that I know for a fact weren’t there at the time; Carmen’s open legs were not an invitation of willing acceptance that welcomed each boy a little closer to manhood— her panting cries of “fuck me” were not urgings to do just that, but rather a mantra to speed each guy toward a rapid finish. I had the notion at the time, though I am more certain of it now, that Carmen’s decision to be the center of a gang-bang was a direct result of her own desire to belong and be accepted. And that’s a pretty simplistic rendering of the whole matter, but the truth often is that simple: people want to belong and be important and be loved, and sometimes we go about getting what we want in weird ways.
I wanted all those things, too, and Carmen, but stressful situations are havoc on my digestive system, especially when I’ve been drinking. When the last of the four guys had finished and it was my turn— alas, less than 10 minutes had elapsed since I’d left the bathroom; I’d been watching the digital clock next to the bed to see how long it took each guy as a way to measure my own masculinity— I felt myself on the edge of puking, and I could not produce an erection. Carmen looked relieved, but that did not deter her from joining in the group mockery of my inability to step up to the plate and have sex in front of a bunch of other guys, like a real man.
“What are you, some kind of faggot?” she yelled as I lurched into the bathroom and unloaded the contents of my stomach into the toilet. I shut and locked the door and fell asleep on the cool linoleum floor, slipping out to my car before daylight, past the sleeping bodies strewn about the house. I spent the rest of the weekend worrying that my limp performance would make the gossip rounds at school, but I overestimated my own importance in the wake of Carmen’s feat: thrilled by tales of an orgy, the grape vine was indifferent to my inept presence during the act.
