“Love the bra,” Craig winks as I lose another hand, bundling my jacket closer. “Shit,” says Jenny, pointing to the Southern Comfort, “this bottle’s empty.” I stand up to get the second bottle from the kitchen counter, but I crumple into a heap on the floor. “Oopsie,” cackles Craig, “you’ve had plenty already.” Hobie hauls me from the floor and plops me back into the chair.
Craig’s dad owns the little trailer in the middle of the woods, he lets Craig use it whenever he wants. It’s early autumn, not cold enough for snow, but cold enough for a thin coating of frost to obscure the windows in the morning. We come out here nearly every Friday night instead of going to football games or pep rallies. Jenny and I shoplift bottles of booze and packets of sandwich meat after school. She’s a miraculous shoplifter, she never gets caught. I’ve even seen her shoplift raw hamburger. Craig’s dad leaves us a supply of beer as long as we promise to not leave the trailer once we’ve started drinking.
“Hey, you guys wanna get hiiiigh?” Hobie asks, drawing out the words as he takes an toke from an invisible joint. Pink Floyd crashes through the cheap speakers. Jenny says no thanks, then looks at me, expecting to hear the same. “I’ll try it,” I slur. Craig cackles again, laying down a hand of cards. Jenny looks bored, then pretends to take off her shirt. She gets up when Hobie returns with a baggie and a weird looking pipe.
I watch him assemble everything. Hobie looks at me very seriously and says “Baby, this is creeper weed, so be careful.” “Why is it called creeper?” I ask. Craig comes up behind me and runs his hands up my spine, “Cuz it creeps up on you, then BANG,” he lightly smacks the back of my head. Hobie shows me how to light the bowl. I take a big drag and hold it in a moment before coughing it all back out. “Here,” says Hobie, shaking a Marlboro Red out of the package, “it’s easier if you’re already smoking something.” We pass the bowl between the three of us for a few minutes. “I don’t feel anything,” I say. Hobie snickers.
“Let’s light another one,” exclaims Craig. Jenny is sitting on the couch, flipping through an old hunting magazine. She looks at me. “That’s a really bad idea, I think you should stop it.” Hobie and Craig look at me expectantly. “One more,” I agree, reaching for the lighter. Craig lets out a little cheer. We pass around another bowl. Jenny glares at us, then goes back to feigning interest in the magazine.
“Why is everything blue?” I ask. I wave my hand in front of my face, it’s the color of ripe blueberries. “Oh boy,” Hobie looks at Craig, “this isn’t good.” Hobie leads me to the sleeping bag on the floor, tells me maybe I should lay down. “You guys look so…little,” I gasp. Craig just laughs and cuddles up to Jenny on the couch. The music switches over to Queen. “Fuck me man, do you see that?” I grab Hobie’s arm and point at the speaker. “The music, shit! I can see it!” The notes roll out of the speakers and stick to the ceiling. Hobie just giggles, throwing his arm around me.
I hear moaning behind me. I look up at the couch, Craig and Jenny are mostly naked, but I can’t figure out why they look so far away and distorted. Hobie unzips the sleeping bag and maneuvers us both into it. I feel his hands under my shirt, searching for my breasts. He kisses me, then pulls down my pants. “I can’t move,” I whisper too loudly. “It’s okay, baby, I’ll do all the moving,” he replies as he sticks his cock in me. I watch the music dance around his head and I just laugh and laugh.
2 thoughts on “It’s too cold in the unheated trailer to play real strip poker, so we play imaginary strip poker instead.”
Sounds like a date rape scenario. Am I reading too much into it or would you say that’s an accurate assessment?
Nope, just a bunch of us who got together every weekend to drink, play cards and get laid. I can see where it does look like date rape though, now that you mention it.