PART ONE i – the Party

  "You're my little sister. You… gave me some pybook. Let me borrow… girl clothes. Before I graduate? You're gonna have to teach me to walk in heels. No joke. I thought it'd be the same thing as my cowgirl heels. Its not. I have one cheap pair, buried deep in the back of the closet. I'm scared of the damn things."

  "You afraid you'll get whistled at? You got the legs, hun."

  "No, Light. I'm afraid I'll actually break my damn ankle. I learned how to wear low heels. Real heels? Scary as hell."

  "Its like swallowing a… well, it just takes practice. I was a dancer. I'm used to walking around on my tiptoes, up on the balls of my feet for hours when I was little. So, I can wear tall heels. Dance in them. Walking? Easier than dancing. Your calf hurts at first. Then? Your calf tightens up, and they don't hurt anymore. Girls that aren't like us, you ever see one with amazing calves? She wore tall heels a lot."

  "I don't know how to pick… office clothes. I'm going to need a css in that, too."

  "I'll take you shopping, for librarian dresses. You'll be fine, Hurry."

  "Thanks."

  "So… how do you do… nice girl flirting."

  "Well. You kinda don't do anything. They know not to stare, and leer. They look away, before you see it. You have to figure out, that they were looking, and turned away. You have to feel it. Nice guys don't give you that hard stare, to see if you stare back. The best you get? This tiny little smile, that's it."

  "Fuck me. I need a microscope."

  "They don't run up, and ask to see your tits. Smack you all bold on the ass, and wait to see if you sp them, or smile. Then act all smug. Yeah, I knew you'd like it. They don't do that. They want you just as bad, but they hide it. You don't really see it. You… feel it."

  "What does it feel like?"

  "Your tummy does flip flops. You get warm and tingly all over. Like butterflies, before a big game."

  "We got over butterflies before a big game, in junior high, I thought. I'm just excited to get out there now."

  "Well. I don't get butterflies for a game, Light. Its just another day at the office now. But, when I'm noticed by a nice guy I got my eye on? Butterflies. You share this quick, little smile… and that's all it takes to set them off, fluttering in your tummy."

  "Hmm. Maybe I got that when I was young. Before my first couple car dates. Its just a day at the office now. I'm excited for game day. No more butterflies. Is that what makes me a slut? I have to pretend I'm shy."

  "I don't know. A lot of people can see through fake. Most girls, and some guys. Even if your guy doesn't pick up the fake shy routine? One of his buddies will, and tell him. Or, make his move, because he knows. Its just like a good girl, faking being confident. Its an act."

  "So, how long does that… shy, little smile, dance go on. Before you make your move. Or, I guess you're waiting for him to make the move. You can't make the move, or you're a slut."

  "I grew up with all boys, Light. I'm like them that way. I got to hear them giving each other advice. What lines to use, how to py it off. Problem is? Very few guys like a girl like that. You make all the moves? They think they have to get back on top of you, and turn the volume up on being in charge. It doesn't work. I need something different than most of you regur girls."

  "What?"

  "Most guys think a guy letting a girl make decisions, make moves? They feel… challenged, belittled. You stepped on their gss ego they oh so carefully have been building up. The girls, and the guys… think that guy that likes it, and lets it happen? Is… weak, or feminine."

  "You like Wizzy. He doesn't look or act very feminine to me."

  "That's my take on it. The few guys, that don't mind it, and even like it? To me, they're actually stronger, and more manly. They're not intimidated. They don't care that I'm tall. They have no issue, with me deciding things. Their ego isn't made out of gss. Those regur guys? To me, anyways. Their masculinity they put out, is kinda fake. Brittle. Easily offended and the gss breaks. Wizzy? To me, is much more masculine. He's not afraid of a tall girl, or if I choose where to sit."

  "You don't talk all dippy around him either. Most guys like that. Lord knows, I do it enough. The more I do it around Wizzy? The more he rolls his eyes, and doesn't talk to me."

  "Wizzy isn't intimidated by a smart girl. He likes it. He requires it. The geeks call him a geek, and he's proud of it. If I know something he doesn't? He doesn't have to strut around and act like a jerk, to be the man or whatever that act they all pull is."

  "Okay. So you are different some way. From the rest of us girls. You're not just a tomboy, like some of us. You actually are one of the guys, in a lot of little ways."

  "Yeah. And I'm not ashamed of it. Part of being a… good girl?"

  "Yeah."

  "You're willing to wait. Until the right one comes along, then? Once everything is kosher… then you can have fun being bad. But, just for him. No one else. He trusts you, that the bad fun? Is just for him. No other boys. Us girls? Are horses to farm boys. Some guys, like riding a wild one. Show the other guys, how tough they are. That they can stay on, and enjoy that ride. The ride that the other boys? Are scared of."

  "Oh. Farm bad boys. Gotcha."

  "I guess. Other boys? Want a nice trail horse. They care about the horse actually likes them. That its sweet and friendly. They know not to be rough with it, like you have to be to ride a wild one. They know how to be gentle, and that horse will walk them anywhere they want to go. Wild horses? Run away, and you have to go to the neighbor's fields and find them, and catch them, and bring them home. A nice trail horse? Pffft. Its waiting at your front porch every morning. He brings his feed pail to your door. When he jumps the fence? Its just to be standing outside of your window. Its sweet when a trail horse misbehaves like that."

  "But, if you want to ride fast, dart around trees, and show off… you got a sweet trail horse."

  "Oh. Not all of them. My barrel horse, for instance. Big, handsome boy. He walks right up to the other wilder horses, and nudges them. Tall, big fnks. Rippling horse muscles. He wants to run at the front of the pack. He's not scared of galloping so I can rope stock and bring them in. We jump fences and trees. He costs a little extra, and he's harder to find. Worth every penny though. When we're all out riding in the woods, and there's a bck bear around? You find out who has the horses that aren't scared. My horse? Stays between me and the bck bear. Some of those scary horses do, some don't. Not all piss-y horses are actually brave. Some are fraidy cats. And while a lot of gentle trail horses are fraidy cats? There's a few, that won't leave you."

  "Boys are horses to you."

  "Yeah. I'd rather have one great horse, than a barn full of… whatever. My barrel horse? He pulled firewood when we were camping. The other boys, that had tough looking horses? Pffft. Either stood there and wouldn't try something new. Or worse, broke. Breaking, is when they jump and buck. Nervous, don't know what to do. Mine? Just homes in on my voice. He trusted me, he loved me. Mommy wanted him to pull a heavy tree down for firewood for a big fire? Whatever mommy wanted, was fine with him."

  "Hmm. Your sve."

  "No. My friend. When we were camping out, and it rained? I could stand him over me, and trust him. I could y him down, and get up to him with a bnket. You can't do that shit with a horse you don't trust. Other kids, mostly wanted a horse that was expensive, looked the part, and they could brag about. Not me. This isn't some… grass tractor. This is my friend. My horse? Wanted to serve me. If I would have tried to sell him? He'd have run away and tried to find his way home."

  "You give him treats, right?"

  "Anything. He got more sweet feed than any two expensive horses in the winter. I only had to feed and care for one horse, not a line of them. He got anything a horse could like, and more. I knew what his favorite music station was. He liked it. I could tell. He saved my life once, from a bull."

  "Really."

  "Yeah. I didn't know this one bull was in this one fenced pasture. He was coming, and getting close. I didn't have my zapper. I didn't have a whip to scare him with, a stick… nothing. Too far to the fences. No trees. I was fucked. He's figuring out, getting closer, I don't have anything to be afraid of. Only trick I had? Throw dirt in his face. Jump him back. But, that trick was wearing out, as I slowly made my way to the nearest fence line. I was shit on toast."

  "What happened?"

  "I yelled for help. Try to scare this piss-y bull back, and try to get a farmhand nearby to help me. My horse came up over the hill like a shot. He jumped his fence, to get to me. A horse can't square off with a big bull, and fight. But? They can come in, rear up, and give them some hoof. Then run away. They can gallop faster, and they can turn on a dime, and between speed and twisting turns… stay away. He kept that bull busy. I made the fence. Then? My horse jumped the fence and nuzzled me forever. He loved his mommy. He saved my life. He risked getting horned by a big bull, too. No wild horse, that you beat to ride will do shit like that for you. Yeah, been fun babe, but you're on your own."

  "How do I make my horse listen?"

  "Carrot and stick, hun. If you're smart, you go the long route, and train him with carrots, as much as you can. Then, he wants to listen. If you're dumb, or you listen to retards… you beat him with a stick."

  "Hmm. I find one that's been beat with a stick, then I give him yummy carrots. He eats out of my hand."

  "When you're standing there, and you got carrots? Sure. Miss carrot day? Starts acting up. Or you get a horse trained with the stick, and you never use one? He'll walk all over you. You get a carrot horse, and you use the stick on him. Oh, he listens, but… he just does the bare minimum. You want a young, fresh horse. Then? You break him yourself. Earn his respect, and his trust. Then, if you picked good, and knew what you were doing… that's where the golden horse comes from."

  "Well. I guess I'm just a box of carrots now, ain't I."

  He rubbed her hair.

  "What's the stick with a boy? I guess you shut his tap off, and bitch and nag until he quits his shit."

  "Dear? There's no easy answers. A little bit of stick, and way more carrots. My best advice. But… I'm on my second horse in two years. I guess I really don't know."

  "I can tell you all about how to attract a boy, how to nd him. What to do with him, when you have him bagged and tagged. That? Is about the extent of my expertise. Hell. I just found out. That if I do manage to nd a guy I like, that just happens to be nice. I obviously have no idea what to do with him."

  "Sis? What you… do… with a nice guy? Its not so much what you do, its more what you don't do."

  "Yeah. Found that one out quick. Don't swallow a nice guy all the way in. The bitching starts the next morning. Where did you learn that? I'm like, you sure liked it st night, asshole. There we go. Goddamn it, these boys all like big, fast quads. I'm a quad! Sit down, shut up, hang on and enjoy the ride. Put your seat belt on, I wanna try something."

  Little lightning talks like this sometimes, and I used to think it was part of the Lightning Show? I came to realize, it isn't. She's honestly talking and gabbing, about the weather, about deep throat on a boy. Whatever.

  He coughed, and seemed like he choked on nothing but air. I asked sweetly if he was okay. He covered it by saying his drink went down the wrong way. I smiled and winked.

  "They're both nice guys. Wizzy and my Army guy. You gave him the wet sloppy I taught you on the carrots, right?"

  "Yes dear."

  "Why didn't he run?"

  "Dear? I can't answer for you."

  "I… am content for you to speak for me a lot of the time."

  "Well, cough it out. Then say something, dear. She's… genuinely concerned."

  "Light? Most guys, love a bad girl. Ooh. I'm sure to get some. The badder the girl? Oh, the more fun the ride. The more experience? Aha, the more tricks she can do."

  "Me."

  "Most guys. Guys without enough experience, want that. You'll teach a new guy how to ride like a pro."

  "Yep. I'm a good horse."

  "Yeah. Now, some guys. Been around the block, and are looking to find a keeper. Every guy's different. They want a bance, between bad fun, and less track record. Your guy, Army boy. He doesn't know you from the bars. He doesn't know you from the sports mixers. I kinda know what happened. Guys are coming up to him. Oh, you snagged Little Lightning. Whew, heard they named her right. Lightning in a bottle, that one. She's wild. Fshes her tits at the bar, and man you should see her shake her ass on the dance floor. Oh boy, you nded a good one. Look at them legs! And the outfits? Man, like unwrapping a Christmas present. I ain't had her myself yet, but I heard that blow job, like having a car battery hooked up to your ears. Another guy? Swears that she'll bring a friend over, to stay all weekend, if she likes you. Man, did you get a live one. Can… you get me her number when you're done with her? I'd appreciate it. Do me a solid, bro."

  Lightning made a little sniffle, then that was it. Her voice came out all steady and even.

  "If I wear potato sacks? You boys aren't half as interested. If I wear sexy clothes and show my legs and tummy? I get talked to. If a girl just ys there, he fucked a dead fish. I ride them right? They love it. Why do guys ask girls to see their tits, if they count it against the girls, when they fsh them. Everyone likes to watch a girl that can actually dance, and yeah, all real dancers know… there's something very sexual about good dancing. This is what we want. I do it? Now I'm wrong for it. Its not fair."

  "I think, you might be missing… nuance, dear."

  "Well. What was wrong about what I just said. Which one."

  Damn it, she had him again. He was speechless.

  "See? Its just me. Other girls can ride a different one every week, they still get to py nice girl, with four times my mileage. Other girls fsh their tits, and shake their ass at the bar on the dance floor, and I'm penalized for dancing better. Wizzy, do you have any idea what some of the girls do, at some of these townhouses for the boys? Its shameful. And that should mean something, coming from me. They get a better report card than me, though. I can't figure it. I won't set a foot inside that… damned… kitchen table club townhouse. Those girls, they… do anything, with anybody and everybody. They don't get called names. They get boyfriends. I feel like I'm answering more questions right on the test? And the teacher is ughing, and giving me a lower grade. Just to be mean."

  "I heard about the… kitchen table club, hun. And I don't wanna go there either. And no, even without Hurry, or you… I ain't gonna touch one of those girls with a ten foot pole. I wouldn't fuck one with another guy's dick."

  "See? I'm getting cheated, somehow. There really is something wrong with me."

  "No, Light. There's not. Hurry? Why don't those girls at kitchen table townhouse, get a bad report card? She's kinda right about that. Why isn't the hairy troll over there, phone girl. Why is she torturing Lightning, instead of one of them."

  Now I'm stumped.

  "I'm obviously not the expert in these matters. But you're right, and she's right. They really should get bad report cards, and… the hell is going on anyways. See? You guys wonder why I all but stayed out of the game. I obviously can't figure it out. Yeah. The kitchen girls, get to pull train, and Lightning gets crucified for fshing her tits."

  "And what about pool table girl? Wizzy. I average one a month. Maybe, a good month here or there, a few more than 12. 15 or 20, tops. More like 15, I think. Pool table girl? There's a back room, where the pool table is, at this one dive bar. She took 20, in a row! One night! In… public! No one says a word to her, she has a steady guy now, takes her skank ass out to wine and dine her and all that shit. And she treats him like a bitch."

  He looked at me.

  "Well. I guess you don't go to the bars. Or you'd know. Joke is there, that's likely not a beer stain on the green felt on the table."

  "Hurry? Why can't you focus phone girl's attention on pool table girl. Then, she can go camp out in front of her apartment, and yell slut out of a bullhorn every morning. And leave poor Light alone."

  Lightning answered that one.

  "Oh, no. The women's rights twats will rally around her. Its not her fault, its those men. She's just a victim of the… what do they call it? The fucking Patriarchy, or whatever the in word is with Right's women's csses this year. I don't follow that shit, I actually like boys. I don't want trained to hate them."

  He looked at me again. I shrugged.

  "Yeah. She's about right."

  "I take my boys? One at a time. Not whoever happens to be in the pool room at the moment or wanders in for the free show. How am I a slut, but she gets to come back from that shit. I thought my mom threw me in the mud. But. I guess it wasn't mud. The stink of the pig shit won't wash off me. People can smell it. There really is something wrong with me."

  We both told her there's nothing wrong with her, and there is something wrong with the kitchen table club girls, and especially with the pool table girl.

  It has to be some kind of rape, molestation, or exploitation. She bmes herself. She's stigmatized. The 20 guys that pulled the pool table train? No stigma. The girl? No stigma. The kitchen table girls. Its like a goddamn whorehouse there. No stigma on the girls, and the guys never get accused of anything, much less stigmatized. They strut around like they invented sex.

  "I haven't been here much over a full year yet. Why can't I start being… good. Whatever that is. Then, a year from now. Maybe… it'll be different. I have to wear regur jeans and T shirts, right? Jogging shoes only."

  Christ. She's really stuck in development. She's serious. This is some 10 or 12 years old girl's view of the difference between a good girl and a bad girl. A good girl? Has a good girl hair do, wears good girl clothes. Talks sweet and demure. Covers her mouth when she giggles or ughs. Keeps her knees together sitting down, in skirts or in pants.

  I can't even open my mouth, really. Adult women with degrees read Retards Monthly. Wear your smart gsses to the office. You'll look smart, so people will act like you're smart. Next thing you know? You'll just feel smart and you're on your way! Whee!

  Girls py dress up, and it doesn't end when they grow up. Put your bad girl clothes on, py bad girl. You'll feel bad, and its delicious fun. Another stelr and award winning article in Retards Monthly. Wear your smart girl dress, and you'll be successful in the office, and be taken seriously. I could just puke. There's girls running around that don't work out, just buy the workout clothes. They diet down to sticks, and act like they're "fit". Ugh.

  "Honey? Its not just the clothes I wear. I can wear… this get up, and I still don't get… unwanted attention. Although, my normal jeans and T shirts, I guess that does set the tone for the st two years, starting year three. But… its more than that. I slept with two guys, in two years. I go without between them, rather than just ride for fun."

  "I guess I talk like a slut, too."

  "I don't know. How many times have you heard me make sex jokes, talk about sex open and honest. I do it. I even do it some, at parties. Its my actions, and my track record, more than my hair or my clothes or what I say or do. And, believe it or not? We have a pretty wild romp. Where do you think all the bite marks and scratches and boot heel marks came from. I'm still a nice girl next morning, I've still got a nice guy next morning. I guess, because its all just for him. No other guy knows, and if it does get out? Just him, so. Good girl. And before you ask, no, I don't know how girls do trains and still get to act like nice girls with show boyfriends."

  "So. I missed my chance to be good. I'm… stuck like this. My mom… wins."

  I tried again. I feel like I'll never win, but just like Wiz described going to a single A school, that had 10 too many students one year that the census happened… they were doomed to be essentially a single A school, stuck pying all double A districts. Perpetual underdog athletic programs, and no way out of it. That's how I feel trying to crack this nut. I'm stuck in a game I have no way to win.

  "Honey? You don't tell anyone, ever. If you don't tell someone, someday. This will never end. The biggest part, is just telling someone. Someone who you trust, that's safe. For you? That's me. I won't make fun, I won't make jokes. I can't know, but I strongly suspect. That whatever it was, wasn't your fault. And even if it seems to be? There's probably your mother at fault, for something."

  "I hope so."

  "Most people, that something horrible happened to? They all admit, that more than half of it got better immediately. Just from telling someone. Then, there's trust. You keep talking about it, going into more and more detail every time. Until the butterflies go away. And… most of the… answers, what to do about it? Become clear. You? Are more in charge of this, than you know. All you have to do, is start talking to me. On a schedule. It starts to go away, just from that."

  "But not tonight, okay? I'm having fun. Pretending I have half of a nice guy for a half of a boyfriend. Can't I just keep pretending all night?"

  "Sure. I'm dressed up like a bad girl. I'm just pretending to be a bad girl. You wanna pretend you're a good girl, sharing a good guy? Have fun."

  "Thanks."

  "No problem."

  Conversation was finally gotten off track, and onto lighter subjects. Once again it was all forgotten, until the next failure. Which will happen again, because I won't take no for an answer. I feel as if, that if I simply treat this like an out of css therapy project? I'll slowly figure out how I did it, once the nut gets cracked. I'll have the beginnings of some kind of real insight into how I accomplished the crack, and I can then try to refine my technique. I'll probably need this skill ter on in my career one day. I'm learning off Wiz. Do more of the work now, then you can enjoy it ter. And after I get my nut cracked, I can compare my technique that worked with others I can read about. Every therapist has their own toolkit, and its what works for them.

  "Hey. Hurry."

  "Yes, Light."

  "Am… I allowed to drag my half of my boyfriend in and make him py ping pong?"

  "Yes, dear. Have him in at a respectable hour. No new bite marks, no new scratches."

  "Am I allowed to… be on his shoulder?"

  "Hmm. Yes."

  "Can… I kiss him?"

  "Define kissing."

  "I don't know. Kisses just happen."

  "No tongue. No kissing below the belt."

  She looked for all the world, like a very young girl who just got permission to go miniature golfing, out with her friend that just got her license. Her mother must be a piece of sewage filth. She's so eager for someone to set some reasonable boundaries for her, and she's just itching to be told what to do. She's just not sure who she should choose. Most people that give advice shouldn't. Most people that should? Won't. Wiz is lucky. He found his mentor, his zen master. I'm all the poor girl has, and I might not be up to the task. Observing other girls and their ways? Ain't working, that much is clear. I operate on the principle that I at least, probably can't do any worse.

  Wow. Light on her feet now. Mood lifted, like I gave her some medication. He looked at me, with the look. Go, I Bluetooth-ed him. He dried himself slowly, putting this off, as if it were some great chore. She was humming and buzzing around. Dressing for ping pong in Lightning's world was a pretty quick affair. She needs nothing. She can walk around in her wet underwear and hey, its a party. Before I have to suggest wearing some clothes? I waited. Her finger is on her lips, tapping. Thinking. She looked at him, then down at her pile of clothes. She finally picked up her shirt.

  I can read my best friend, my little sister's mind practically. Sometimes, anyways. Like now. She knows she can run around in nothing but her wet underwear, and it'll be fine. No boy here will put his hands on her without her consent. If they do? She can handle it, or another guy will handle it for her. If one of the boys gets drunk and weird, the others take care of their own and drag them off. No big university wants to be the one with "the scandal" in the news. Their coach shitting nuclear bombs, handles it.

  Sensitivity courses? Work in some situations. Other times though, its perfectly clear that there are no one size fits all solutions. A nice little film about an hour long with a boring voice over and bad acting was shown to all the students. You might as well have pyed a fucking cartoon. The guys ughed, the girls ughed, it was silly. The athletes hadn't left the room yet, and the boys and girls were imitating everything not to do in the film, ughing. Then before out the door and down the hall? They switched. The girls were smacking the guys on the asses, and the boys were dancing like they saw a mouse, and squealing "eek! Sex harassment! Sex harassment!"

  The high and mighty lord of all that's holy and unholy both, the athletic director himself? Threw his papers up in the air in frustration, and actually bonked his head on the desk several times. I was standing dutifully with my coach, at his side, his adult, his aide. I got to hear the athletic director's muttering, well, at least what popped up enough to be audible.

  "Well. There's 60 grand well spent. Goddamn consultants and their stupid focus groups. I could have bought the kegs for their mixers, and got better results. The fuck do I do now…"

  The football coach? Broke into a run. I could have sworn I heard something quite colorful come out of his mouth as he pumped furiously out the door to catch the athletes, all of them. Distinctly sounded like "fucking idiots", but I couldn't be sure. None of us, and that's one coach at least if not an assistant coach or someone like me, the coaches trusty aide decamp, one or two from each and every team at the University. None of us were sure if the football coach meant the athletic administration, the people they hired to piss the money away and make things worse, or maybe he meant the athletes themselves. No one had the balls to ask.

  He caught everyone, and you could hear his booming voice coming from a ways off. He marched them all, his team and all the others right back in. The boys, the girls, everyone. Even the football mascot was there, mercifully in street clothes or it would have simply been too much. He's got a nice, easygoing way with the students, all of them. Must be his Dale Carnegie course on Winning Friends and Influencing People, a standard course, naturally, that all former Marine drill instructors surely have to pass in order to be fully sensitive to the emotional needs of the young Marines under his command.

  "You! Will all sit the fuck down, and we'll go over this the proper way now! Now? We have been shown the incorrect way to handle this situation. Now? We all know what not to do. I have no goddamn idea what the correct way to handle this is? And I don't fucking care! We'll do this my way! Is… that… clear!!"

  When it wasn't loud enough of a "yes sir" in perfect unison, he did it louder. He promptly had their attention. He next instructed them how to sit. To turn off all cell phones, and if he heard a single electronic beep, some lucky proctologist was going to make a killing, digging cellphones out of all their asses, just so he was sure he got the one that beeped by default. He yelled "now stay like that!". Then, he lowered his voice to that of a church mouse, and told the athletic director?

  "And that? Is how you get their goddamn attention. Sir."

  "All right! During the next I don't know and I don't fucking care how long? We're going to go over this. Entire athletic programs? Have gone down the goddamn toilet, all because the entire program, wisely, rests squarely upon your shoulders! When you are on the field? Somehow you all sense without being told… its inappropriate to smack the cheerleaders on the ass, on television! Amazing. And why? Is it because you're all intelligent, sensitive, young adults of the highest moral caliber and fiber? Hell no! Its because you all know I'll break my goddamn foot off in the ass of the first motherfucker that tries to embarrass me on television like that!"

  "Now! No one, not one of you? Is going to like a thing I have to say. I… don't… care! No one, I can guarantee it? Is going to like how I say it! Like I give three goddamn shits, what you assholes like, and how you like it! I will not ask you how it is going to be? I will tell you how it will go. If it does not go that way? You all know, and if you don't believe me ask any football pyer about it… I will reach right down your goddamn throat and pull your little asshole out through your mouth! Have I established where I am coming from?!?!"

  A resounding "yes sir!".

  "Great. Problems exist in this world. Its not a perfect universe. Mainly? Because God didn't ask my opinion billions of years ago when he created things! Every problem? Has a solution. Every… single… one of them. I will tell you, what the problem is. Then? You will know what the problem is. Then? I am going to provide the solution. Then? Like goddamn magic, you will then know how to handle it when it occurs, because it will happen eventually. It will work, it will work every single time. I guarantee it! Am I making myself clear!"

  Wow. According to the attention he was holding, it was clear. They didn't know what the problem was, and did not know what the solution was, but by god they were waiting on it.

  "Now. Here's the problem. Young people? Like to have sex. Young cocks like to go into young twats, and that's all there is to that. No amount of anything, is ever going to keep you young people from fucking. I realize this. I was young once. I know. Hard to believe. We had toga parties, do you little assholes still have them? Wonderful affairs. You get to see boobies, and naked asses, and even a little cock now and then. You can accidentally step on someone's bed sheet, and everyone gets to see them in all the glory, the lord god almighty brought them naked into this world with. In case you're wondering? All the bed sheets you want or need, and nothing is allowed to keep them on. That's the fun of it. Damn things are peeking out, and falling off all night long, best fun you ever had. You don't believe me? Try it, you'll all be drunk and fucking in no time. How it worked for us, anyways. Your mileage may vary. See? No one wants to stop you from having fun, and no one can stop you all from fucking. Gd we got that established."

  The athletic director's mouth hung open at such a frank and honest discussion.

  "Now then. The entire free world, and more that's not free? Knows that you college boys and girls? Are getting drunk and fucking each other's brains out! Hell, they expect it. If you leave this university, with anything still cherry on your body? Your own goddamn fault, and no one else. There is a cock for every twat, and a twat for every cock, the good lord did provide for us to procreate, in his infinite wisdom."

  "No, the problem is not the drinking and the fucking. The problem? Pregnant athletes. For the love of god, you all maintain a 2.5 GPA in something, I'm sure you can fathom that jizz shot into a twat makes babies! Pregnant women fuck their hips up! Football pyers can't change diapers on the sidelines! Does… not… work! Wear fucking rubbers! Rubbers? Also prevent aids, herpes, syphilis, and whatever else comes along next week. Its a rubber! Put one on! Then use it! They should have covered this in third grade."

  "Moving right along. Accusations of… sexual assault, rape, and whatever else they decide to call it next week. Brings down entire programs. Just one is enough. Now I'm going to tell you all right now? I'm not just talking to the cocks in these chairs? You little twats get the tampons out of your ears, too. Every goddamn town across America? Has some pce called, usually… make out spot. Cherry Buster Hill, Cock Block… whatever! Young people? Go there to fuck and drink! If you have a twat, and a cock asks you to go to a pce called… appropriately enough… Cherry Buster Hill, what the flying fuck do you think is supposed to happen there? No shit."

  "Here's how rape prevention works. Wear some goddamn clothes!! That program failed miserably, and you young dies insist on walking around in your goddamn underwear! Whatever. But for the love of god and all that's holy in this world? How in the fuck do you wear nothing but your underwear, out in public. Then? Agree to go to a pce called Cherry Buster Hill. In your underwear! Then? Get drunk! Alone with a young drunk cock! What in the hell did you think was going to go on, you fucking nitwits! Because that's the missing half of these goddamn educational seminars! How can someone get a 4.0 in a Nursing degree, and can't reason that stump-er out. Gee, I'm in my underwear, in public. I'm shaking my little ass in public! Some cock? Invites me to go get drunk, at Cherry Buster Hill! How in the hell did this happen? Wake the fuck up!"

  "Not done with you twats yet. Here's practical rape prevention. If you find yourself alone, drinking, with a bunch of guys? You're a goddamn moron! Oh, they're my friends. Oh, this. Oh, that. Stick it up your ass, we've known from the beginning of time, that booze and young kids? Bang it just happens. We have now covered how to prevent the so called date rape. Now? I'm done being sensitive to the needs of you ever so sweet and innocent young dies, and we'll get right into the hard topic. Actual forcible rape. Actual sexual assault. You know, cave man rape, the real deal."

  The athletic director looked like he was about to die.

  "Now then. Who the fuck here doesn't know what rape is? Raise your hand so I can break it off and stuff it into the orifice of my choice! You're all 18 or better, you're all passing something with a 2.5 at a major university. So? You all know what forcible rape is! Now I need a volunteer, to demonstrate what an unwanted sexual act is. Any hands? I need a twat up here, now!"

  No girl would raise her hand.

  "You? You just volunteered. Get the fuck up here, and stand right there. Move it!"

  The girl scurried up, and stood rooted where he pointed.

  "This? Is a young girl. She? Is at a party. Now, we got our drunken twat we need for our demonstration, what the hell is missing? Oh. That's right. I need a drunken cock. Uh… you. Yeah you! You look like a fucking halfwit, you're perfect. Get your ass up here… good. You're only half as stupid as you look. Now. I will demonstrate, with my visual aids here, what an unwanted sexual advance looks, and sounds like. You? Put your hands on her tits."

  "But…"

  "Put your hands on her breasts! Now! You? Like it never once happened! You'll live!"

  The athletic director looked like he was about to have an apoplexy.

  "He's a drunken halfwit. He? Is touching her boobies. It happens. Now, watch and listen…"

  He reduced his voice to the little church mouse squeak again.

  "Missy? Say no. Compin. A drunk boy, is doing something you don't want to happen. Open your goddamn mouth and say something, please?"

  She said nothing.

  "Little girl? If you don't open your mouth and say something? The drunken halfwit, with the intellectual capacity of a wet fart because he's been drinking all weekend? Has no idea there's a problem. Say something, would you?"

  She started saying something along the lines of… please no, stop that.

  "Not bad. Louder!"

  She did it again, clear and loud.

  "There! That? Is an unwanted sexual advance! I will show you, how to handle it! Now, not all of you are completely fucking retarded. Some of you? Actually manage to appear suspiciously like something evolved past the primates. You… you… and… yeah, you. You? Get up here. All three of you big, strong guys."

  They did.

  "You? Grab his left arm. You? Grab his right arm. Lift him up! Come on, you assholes move 350 pound linemen, you can bench press a small car, lift his ass up!"

  "See how easy that was? The police, call this… the swarm technique. You swarm all over the problem, and carry it away. You do not beat the problem, you do not carry him to the police station, you do not carry him to the news cameras! You carry him outside? And you lock the door. Problem solved!"

  The third guy asked what he was for.

  "You. Pick his ankles up. Get him up. Walk him out the door. You, the drunken halfwit? Struggle! Go on, struggle! You're a big, strong, drunken halfwit who doesn't understand why he can't py with boobies! Now? Carry his ass out the door, and come back in, and leave him outside! Do it! Move it! Now!!""

  They carried him kicking and pulling, bodily, out the door.

  "All right. Now? Sexual assault, is impossible. Ladies? Scream no, and call for help! Men that are still able to understand English? Go and carry the guy outside! Problem? Over! Now look. No police, no cameras, no reporters. And no goddamn cell phone videos all over the motherfucking internet!! And, if the same twat always seems to have the problem? We called that a cock tease, don't invite her drama queen's ass to the next party!"

  The athletic director's head was about to explode.

  "Now… you. You? Look about as bright as a rock. But? You have big thingies. What do you do, based on this demonstration? If you have a problem at some party? Hmm?"

  "Uh… yell for help…"

  "Excellent! Surely the first female brain surgeon. Well spoken, Missy. And… you? You look like the best part of you ran down your mother's leg, and it had the brain genes in it. What do you do, when you hear a female scream for help?"

  "Well… I grab some friends, and we go and… carry the guy outside. Oh, and lock the door."

  "Wow! Another brain surgeon! You two? Should get married, and send the kids here! Because they'll be bright enough, not to bring down a multi million dolr athletic program, that's 20 years in the making!"

  "Now. We might as well cover this one while we're here. It has come to my attention, that young people, see stupid shit on the internet. Then? They do it, and it kills them. Its always a challenge. This challenge, that challenge. The ghost pepper challenge? You will spend the next 8 hours crying to your mother for help, and no one can ease your misery! Don't be retarded. The word challenge? Is Latin on the internet… for… this, will, kill, you! Do I make myself clear? You assholes can all drop dead four years from now, off of university property, when it doesn't reflect poorly on us! If you get yourself killed, doing anything with the word challenge attached to it, on or off campus before you graduate? I will dig your stupid corpse up, and piss in your dead mouth, to show how much respect I have for your limited intellectual capacity!"

  The athletic director was hiding his face in his hands now.

  "All right. Booty bumping! Saw this on the internet, and I can't believe it, thought it just had to be a joke. I checked? No. People are retarded enough to do it. Example. You take alcohol, even beer… and you stick it up your ass! At a party! Apparently, what happens medically, is the alcohol is absorbed directly into your bloodstream. Every drink is something like 20 drinks! If you do this? It… will… kill… you! Dead athletes are slightly less useful to the university, so you're not allowed to die until you graduate!"

  "You might think this is a cock problem? Oh, no. The dies? Are taking vodka, soaking a tampon in it, and sticking it up their hoo-haw. Then? Wondering why they're dying! Best part? The emergency room can't even pump your stomach to save your worthless ass life, because you stuck it up your twat, and directly into your bloodstream! If you do, the vodka tampon challenge? It… will… kill… you!"

  "Now then… what do we stick up our asses at parties? Anyone?"

  No one raised their hand or said a word.

  "Exactly! Nothing goes up your ass at a party! Now, retards do this with cocaine up their ass, heroin up their ass, crystal meth up their ass. God fucking help me, I have been to a lot of wild parties in my younger days, and never once? Has the big fun been… hey! Lets all stick drugs up our asses, while people watch, and cell phone it and put it on the internet! I shouldn't have to go over this? But its happening. All over the nation! It will never happen here! And do you know why? Because there will never be cocaine, heroin. Methamphetamine… or any other dangerous drug, ever! Get drunk! Fuck your little brains out! Smoke all the hand rolled cigarettes you want, in the off season! No one gives a shit, and they expect it to go on! But… the police will be the least of your worries. I will personally? Kick your door down, and if I find any of that shit? It will go up your ass, and I will put it there! I will then pull your eyeballs out and skull fuck you twice!! I will then go directly to your parent's house, and kill them? To save humanity from the problems their breeding is causing!!"

  The athletic director was choking on… air?

  "See? I was young. I understand shit's going to go on. You all might decide some weekend? Hey, let's buy a goat! Lets all get wasted, and fuck the goat! Whee! Yeah, yeah… that? Just marvelous. But remember. Use common sense. Boys? Will wear condoms before lining up and fucking that goat! Girls? You will purchase an appropriate sized condom and put it on the goat, then have a ball. And if that goat seems like it is saying no in goat nguage? Three big guys better take the offending motherfucker and lock him outside! And no cell phone videos of the great goat orgy, on the goddamn internet!! Am I making myself clear?"

  A resounding "yes sir".

  "I can't hear you! Have I not been sufficiently responsible to your emotional needs?!?! Let me hear that you understand me!"

  A very loud, "yes sir", in about perfect unison.

  "Great. Gd we could have this little talk. Now? You are dismissed. Get the hell out of here…"

  The football coach lowered his voice to a church mouse volume once again, and tossed the piece of chalk he was pointing with, at the athletic director.

  "You can cancel the other three movies, should save over a hundred grand. I have a list of essential cost over runs, and that should cover it. I'll have it on your desk Monday morning. I got a stack of paperwork to get through, but that? Is how you have little talks with young kids. You don't ask them? You tell them. You clearly announce what they will do, and what they will not do. You don't fuck around with high school films. Christ Almighty. God save us from the goddamn internet, because none of this shit was ever a problem? Before the internet! Goddamn it, pulling train on cheerleaders, I understand. Do I approve? Hell no! But why put a felony in progress, on the internet? Is beyond me. If you have any further need of my services? You have my number, you know where my office is. Tell the president of the university? I didn't say hello…"

  Then the football coach just walked out, happy as a cm. Well, actually he looked fairly irritated, and he was muttering under his breath. But, if you knew anything about the guy? That was him having a great day. Its more or less about optimum for him.