Doors close with the most succinct of sounds, hard sounds that echo in your ears after they’ve slammed shut, or soft ones that only register a click as the handle finds its way back into place. I’m trying to remember, how this door ended up closed. Somewhere in between peeing and having my arm practically yanked out of its socket, I find myself here with dirty mops hanging like ragged strands of hair above my forehead and the smell of disinfectant and booze filling my nostrils. I still have my jacket on like a protective coating as if it would shield me against the cold in this room. Should’ve worn that jacket around my waist. As if that would do any good. I’m still thinking though, that there’s a way out of this room. A way in which, I can maintain the budding flirtation that has now exploded into this moment.  
 
"Just for a minute."  
 
Kissing doesn’t work, or whispers in between pulling garments that it’s too cold to remove.  
 
So smart. That’s what I thought at first. So smart and brash, greeting a stranger with a slip of the tongue into his mouth. He’s not really a stranger, not after all those pineapple malibus and quick exchanges of wit across the bar. Everyone saw that.  
 
“I’m no backdoor Betty.” I said with enough doubt to make him not believe me at all.  
 
“Do you want another shot? I’ll take one with you.” Had anybody else said that to me, I would have seen right through it. I’m no virgin ya know.  
 
Down the hatch, sliding through my throat into the pit of my stomach until it’s absorbed into the bloodstream making it impossible to tell which thoughts are my own and which are ones dissolving in the bottom of an empty glass. Anna was sitting next to me, checking her phone and waiting for the next drink. I think I’m being saucy now, shilling off enough encouragement to keep the banter going. But I have to pee and for once there isn’t a line for the bathroom. Maybe cause it’s a Wednesday. Girls always go to the bathroom in pairs, that’s a rule right? Doing otherwise would like, anger the Gods of sisterhood or something wouldn’t it?  
 
“I’ll be right back, gotta pee.” I said and I don’t know whether she heard me or not because it doesn’t seem to sink in when she says.  
“Okay.”  
 
For a smooth ride call Jason Feller. His cock is stellar.  
 
This is what I am reading as I try to balance over the toilet seat with an unpublished phone number that follows. I think I’m too drunk for this. I feel like I’m walking a tightrope over a pile of shit. I should have just taken the time to pull out the seat cover, which is stupid cause how is it that this tiny tissue of paper will protect me from the juice of some other drunken skank’s infected vagina? I think I splashed on the seat. Sorry. Who knew pulling your pants up would be this damned difficult, they came off easy enough.  
 
The hallway is like an aisle in an old library, with walls stacked up on either side of the landing strip in the middle. Six foot three and 225 pound of rock solid muscle might as well be another wall. No words occur until the wall closes in and pulls me into a hole inside. Anna should start to wonder where I am soon.  
 
“Just for a minute.” He gruffs in my ear, and figure I’ll allow a moment to pass by without opposition. Seconds start to seem like hours, and this aggression is becoming more than I can tolerate. Kissing him was nice when I could choose to slip my tongue in and out of his mouth. Now he's scratching my cheek with his goatee and the stubble around it. It smells like Pine Sol, and that is not mixing well with the pineapple malibus that have been swishing around in my gut for the last hour. Maybe I should have made myself puke in the bathroom. My arm is starting to hurt, and he’s too strong.  
 
“Just for a minute.” Those four little words are really starting to piss me off, they keep running over my own words:  
 
“I have to go.”  
 
Words getting lost in the realization that, its time to move while I still can. I slither through the crack in between his arms, to the door I don’t remember closing until I try to open it again. It slams shut with a crack and a hand above my head holding it there. All I can see is the high gloss lacquered paint on the shredded wood of the door. All I can taste is the pine sol in my mouth, my face pressing against the paint, and ask when flirting became so dangerous. Not out loud mind you, cause that would interrupt the grunting and the scratching against my cheek.  
 
How is this sexy? How is it that I am still wearing my jacket, but now my bottom has been stripped bare to remind me that I wasn’t wearing any underwear. Huh, that’s a clue misinterpreted as an invitation. One I never extended. The wall is closing in again, pushing on my back and keeping my head turned away from his. I’m thinking now that I shouldn’t have waited so long to escape, because the only way out of here includes a complete separation from me, and the destruction of my bravado. I’d give up the bravado for a flashing second of freedom though. Anything but this…  
 
I feel him, jamming against my thigh, hard as every other muscle under his skin. The stink of the cigarette and stale shots of purple hooters seems to be the only satisfying distraction and I take it willingly and without regret as the thing is exposed and forced in were it wasn’t asked. The painted, splintered wood makes patterns on my face with each hammering thrust, and the tears threaten to spill out and reveal me for the fraud that I am. If he knows how much it hurts, maybe he’ll stop. If he knows how much it hurts, maybe he won’t. I just freeze instead, like the word frozen in the air above us, hovering.  
 
“No.”  
Psychology says that animals can learn from repetition, so how is it then that some people never learn?  
“Please. Stop.”  
 
As if this fuckface understood anything about manners! Anna should be looking for me by now. She should be coming back this way any second and then he’ll have some explaining to do. In one more aggravated pump, it doesn’t matter. My backside is now covered in hot, thick goo that I could swear ended up on my leather jacket. Does he know how much that fucking thing cost?  
 
At least he gave me a towel to wipe away his shame. Too bad it does nothing but smear into my skin like lotion. He kisses me again, and I try to urge the vomit up my esophagus and into his filthy mouth to show just how much I enjoyed it. I pulled my pants up and like magic; the door was open again, held by his hand. I guess he’s not completely devoid of manners after all.