The Lie (14 page)

The morning after
the first big party of my sophomore year brought with it the worst hangover I’d incurred in some time. It also apparently brought with it the third black girl I had ever fucked, who was asleep in my bed. I was overwhelmingly certain I didn’t meet her at the party as neither Kappa Kappa Gamma nor Chi Omega possessed any members who were anything other than Caucasian. My memory of the night was spotty at best and seemed to cut off at a certain point in the night that must have preceded my meeting of the black girl and the learning of her name, which remained elusive to me after several seconds of actively attempting to recall it.

She was positioned so my comforter covered one of her arms and the lower half of her legs, leaving her ass exposed. It was tight and muscular in a way only a black girl’s ass can be. I slapped it. She woke up, semi-startled, and seemed to have a better memory of the prior night’s events than did I, or at least she remembered or knew my name, because she called me by it.

My erection was obvious to her as I kind of rolled her over and tried to jam it into her asshole, which was a shade of purple only a black girl’s can be. She laughed at my attempt and got out of bed, exposing her whole body to me. I wished I’d had any memory of what we did the night prior. I was too curious to care about offending her, so I asked how we met, where we met, what holes I put my dick in, et cetera. She was candid in her response, explaining that she’d met me as I was stumbling back to the Alpha Tau Omega house. I had asked her pointblank if she wanted to fuck and explained to her that I hadn’t fucked a black chick in almost a year. She knew who I was and had heard that I had a big dick, which she complimented me on, so she figured why not? She further explained that we did not use a condom but, as the first person in her family to go to college, she had no intention of having a life-ruining child, so she let me cum in her asshole, which I wish I had some memory of.

She put on her clothes, explaining that she had a morning class she couldn’t miss. I asked her what she was doing later in the day, my thirst for black ass still not slaked, and she explained to me that I was the first white boy she had ever fucked, and although it was kind of fun she would probably never do it again. Fair enough. She left without me ever knowing her name.

I remained in bed for no more than five minutes, sniffing the place where her pussy had been to try and trigger some memory of the night’s events. This endeavor was fruitless. Then I took a shower and thought I would see what Kyle had planned for the day. We hadn’t seen much of each other since coming back to school and I was curious to know if he and Heather were still doing well, hopeful that they weren’t. And it was with one thought of Heather that a switch was thrown in my brain to start the slow release of memories from the prior night.

I was at the party. I drank to excess. I watched Greg show his tattoo to two girls and then do a keg stand. I had to piss so bad I almost did it in the Phi Gamma Delta living room. And then, like a ray of light parting the clouded mess of my mind, came the most crystal-clear and crucial memory of the night. I wandered into a room I thought was the bathroom and witnessed Heather sucking the dick of a guy from Pi Kappa Alpha, who I think was named Brian Johns or something. I thought about it a second, third, and fourth time to ensure there were no missing moments in the memory, no errors in the identity of the parties involved, and there were none. I held in my mind a first-person account of Kyle’s cunt of a whore girlfriend sucking another man’s dick.

I have never sung in the shower in all of my life, but that morning I almost did. As I left the Alpha Tau Omega house and walked toward campus the sun seemed to shine a little brighter, the birds seemed to chirp a little sweeter, the sluts on campus seemed to be a little less whorish, et cetera. It was shaping up to be one of a handful of days in my life that filled me with the kind of anticipation and excitement that makes your anus tingle ever so slightly.

When I got to Kyle’s room I found his roommate, whom I had not yet met. Clearly already knowing who I was, he introduced himself and was immediately forgettable. He explained that he didn’t know where Kyle might have gone, offered me some marijuana, and told me I was more than welcome to stay in their room and wait for Kyle’s return. I declined the pot and accepted the offer to wait for Kyle. This, it turns out, was a mistake. Whatever this douchebag-in-training’s name was, he was one of the most annoying people I have ever met. In the ten minutes it took for Kyle to get back from wherever he had gone, his roommate was able to fire off no fewer than two hundred and fifty questions about fraternity life, in an unrelenting barrage of “dudes” and “bros” that made me want to kill him.

Luckily Kyle returned. He was curious to know why I was there and I was eager to tell him. I wasn’t sure I wanted his roommate around when the information was divulged, not knowing what Kyle’s reaction would be and not knowing how the leaking of such information might further affect Kyle if he chose to ignore my information—or, worse yet, to stay with Heather even after knowing of her infidelity. So we went outside.

There in the courtyard of McElvaney Hall, at some time approaching one
P.M
., I told Kyle in no uncertain terms that Heather, his whore of a girlfriend, had sucked another man’s dick, possibly to completion—of that I couldn’t be sure—at a fraternity/sorority party the night prior. Understandably he required my recounting of every detail of the night to substantiate my claim, most of which I was able to deliver. After exhausting all of the possible alternate truths—it was just a girl who looked like Heather, she was just resting her head in his lap, the whole thing was a lie devised by me to trick Kyle, et cetera—Kyle eventually succumbed to what he knew was the truth. His girlfriend had sucked another man’s dick, maybe to completion.

I asked him what his course of action would be and he explained he needed to think about it. I suggested immediately getting a slut to suck his dick, recording this event, explaining to Heather that he had made her a special video and wanted to show it to her in front of all her sorority sisters, and then doing just that. He was clearly too upset by the revelation to see the humor and justice in my plan. He thanked me for telling him and apologized for ever doubting me. Above all, he said that he valued the longstanding and honest nature of our friendship too much to have questioned me. He didn’t know what his reaction would be, but it would happen soon. He said he needed to have some time alone to figure things out. I obliged.

I had only one class that day, a business management class that was to come later in the afternoon. I spent the few hours before that class sitting on a bench near the student center performing an experiment that I had come to be entertained by. I merely sat on the bench and waited for a slut to approach me based only on my identity. It took roughly twenty minutes for the first such slut to make her approach. She sat next to me and pretended to hold a conversation on her cell phone that contained as much laughing as possible and the admission to her imaginary friend that she was single. It was a rare approach but not unique. She let her fake conversation play out for a few minutes, then hung up, making sure I knew her imaginary friend was female by bidding farewell to a “Jennifer,” not realizing this was the one piece of information that allowed me to conclude the conversation was disingenuous. How often do you use people’s names when saying good-bye to them on the phone? The answer is never.

After hanging up, she turned to me and apologized for being so loud, then began the obligatory “Hey, aren’t you Brett Keller? I saw you at a party last week, my dad knows your dad, you used to date my cousin,” et cetera. Because I didn’t want to be late for class I cut through her routine and explained to her that I knew she’d sat on the bench next to me because she wanted to fuck me, or rather because she wanted to believe that I wanted to fuck her, and that I was more than willing to reciprocate if indeed that was the case. Although she was slightly offended by my directness, she wasn’t so offended that she denied my request to go to the nearest men’s room and let me cum on her tits.

Once in the men’s room I surprised her by pissing on her tits instead, which was more than difficult with an erection.

That feeling was
fucking worse than anything. It was like the back of my neck was on fire, like my whole face and head had been put in a microwave and then my stomach was ripped out through my asshole. Brett telling me Heather sucked some frat guy’s dick was easily the worst feeling I had ever had. Little did I know that bitch would be the cause of worse feelings yet to come. I’m surprised I didn’t puke or pass out; both seemed possible. That was the first time I had ever been cheated on, that I knew of, and it was by a girl I loved more than anything. The worst part was, I couldn’t get the image out of my head of her sucking some asshole’s dick. I knew exactly what she looked like when she sucked my dick, so it was very easy to just put the biggest crooked-baseball-capped frat-guy-douchebag I could muster on the receiving end. As luck would have it, that’s exactly what my roommate was, and I immediately told him to get the fuck out of our room when he said, “Hey, bro, what’s going down?” He could tell I was more than a little pissed off, so he left without any hassle.

I just sat there staring at the fucking wall, spacing out. I went over everything I could possibly think of that might make her suck some other guy’s dick. We hadn’t been seeing as much of each other as we had our freshman year, but I thought we had worked out a decent schedule. She had time for her sorority bullshit and we still got to see each other a few times a week. I thought everything was fine. I really couldn’t bring myself to think it had anything to do with our relationship, which meant it could only be one thing: Heather was a fucking slutty, cock-hungry whore who would suck a cock for shits and giggles, which is the absolute worst realization to come to about the girl you love.

And then of course there was the outrage. I had fucking humiliatingly borrowed money from my best friend to pay for an abortion for this cunt. I mean it was for me, too, but she wasn’t asking anyone for money—she left that up to me. I helped her through it, I was okay with us not having sex for a long time after it, and she repaid me by sucking some other guy’s cock. Would that asshole pay for her abortion?

I just kept going back and forth from overwhelmingly sad to overwhelmingly pissed off. Then I’d get mad at Brett. Why’d he have to tell me she was sucking dick specifically? Couldn’t he have just said he caught her cheating on me? But that wouldn’t have been enough. I would have forced him to tell me everything. He probably spared some horrible details about how she had one hand on his balls or some shit that she doesn’t do when she sucks my dick.

And then the possibility that I’d never fuck Heather again set in. That was worse than all of the other shit—well, almost worse than thinking about her choking down a frat guy’s load. She was the best sex I’d ever had and I didn’t want that to end ever really. But what was I going to do, share her with every frat house at SMU?

Then, of course, I started wondering where she was at that exact moment. It was sometime right after lunch, and all I could think about was Heather naked in some guy’s shitty frat-house bedroom getting fucked in the ass or something, maybe even against her will, or worse yet actually enjoying it. I thought at the very least she went home with the guy whose dick she sucked and was probably naked in his bed. Even if they weren’t fucking, she was naked with him and they probably had fucked.

And I had no immediate recourse. I couldn’t find her. Even if she was at her sorority house I couldn’t go in her room. I tried calling her about fifty times and her phone was either purposely turned off or out of battery. So I just had to wait until she got around to calling me before I could do anything, which actually in retrospect was a good thing because it gave me a little time to cool down. Who knows, though—maybe it all would have worked out better in the long run if I had been enraged when I talked to her. Maybe I would have said something that would have made her never talk to me again and everything would have turned out different. It’s all academic now, I guess.

So around five or six that night she finally called me. She said, “Hey babe, I got like fifty messages from you. What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

It took every ounce of self-control I had not to call her a fucking whore over the phone. I said, “Yeah, I just, I was really missing you last night and when you didn’t answer my first few calls today, I started to get worried.”

“That’s not like you.”

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. We just had like this crazy party last night and I ended up getting seriously drunk. So I stayed at the house.”

“Oh. You want to get something to eat or hang out or something?”

“Sure, when?”

“Right now, if you’re up for it.”

“Okay, let me take a shower and get dressed and I’ll come over.”

“Sounds good.”

“Love you, babe.”

It was so hard to fucking say, but I said it. “I love you, too.”

I really had no plan when she showed up. Somewhere deep down there was a small part of me that just wanted to ignore it. Just pretend that I didn’t know and keep the relationship that I had with her. But I couldn’t. I did know. Over the course of that afternoon she had probably swallowed seventy gallons of frat-guy semen in the porno that kept playing over and over in my head. I couldn’t ignore that. I couldn’t be thinking that every night she didn’t spend with me. It would have driven me insane and I knew that.

She knocked on my door. I let her in. She tried to kiss me. I pulled away, able only to think that the last thing her mouth touched was a frat guy’s cock.

She said, “What’s wrong?”

I said, “How was the party last night?”

I thought I could make her nervous or get some corroboration of Brett’s accusation that was independent of me confronting her. I don’t know why I wanted that, but for some reason I did.

She said, “It was pretty fun, but I was seriously like the most drunk I’ve probably ever been.”

“Who was there?”

“Just the usual people. Andrea went, some other girls from my house. Why?”

“Any guys there that you might have known?”

“Yeah, there were a bunch. What are you doing?”

“Talking to my girlfriend about her night. What are you doing?”

“You’re acting weird.”

“I know you sucked some guy’s dick.”

And she froze.