This chapter is a fusion of stories that I have published previously. The events, people and places are from my actual, true-life experiences, with allowance for fallible memory, dramatic license and storytelling economy. In Australia, from where this emanates, the academic year runs from February until November.
Effable (adjective): (1) capable of being uttered or expressed; from the Latin effari. (2) sexually attractive; from the Old Norse fukka.
Mayday”Lady Stutfield: Ah! The world was made for men and not for women.
Mrs Allonby: Oh, don’t say that, Lady Stutfield. We have a much better time than they have. There are far more things forbidden to us than are forbidden to them.” (Oscar Wilde)
When I was younger my family lived near a large forest. I often hiked there on my own. I loved my solitary rambles, but one in particular stays in my memory. It was a hazy summer day, the weather was hot and humid, the atmosphere heavy and unsettled. The terrain was unfamiliar, dissected by sharp ridges, precipitous ravines and jagged escarpments, which turned more torturously rugged the farther I penetrated.
I was thinking of turning back, until I passed over a high crest and beheld a breathtaking sight. Before me the ground fell away into a narrow, deep valley full of gnarled, scrubby eucalyptus trees and strewn with massive outcrops of weathered basalt, some almost the size of houses. The winding track started to fade into the undergrowth so I didn’t continue downwards; but awed by my surroundings, I sat on a log and took it all in, for what seemed like ages. It was an eerie, trancelike experience. There was not a breath of wind, and I recall no sound at all. The usual cacophonous chorus of insects and birds had strangely been silenced. I felt dislocated in space and time, as if transported to another, more ancient world.
Eventually, reluctantly, I had to leave. Afterwards I spoke about the valley to my friends. None of them recognized it from my description. And while I would spend many happy hours and days trekking in the wilderness, I never found that valley again. Sadly, a few years later, much of the area was cleared to make way for a housing estate. So wherever it was, that magical place is probably now lost forever.
Yet to this day, I wonder if it had actually existed, or if it was just a waking dream, induced by the oppressive conditions, my fatigue and an overactive imagination. But real or not, I like to think that my secret valley is still there, somewhere, awaiting the return of a wide-eyed girl who has, in a sense, never stopped searching for it.
In fact, all my life I have been seeking something that always seemed out of reach. This has impelled me to constantly push myself, to pursue new challenges, to expose myself to novel experiences and sensations, to open my mind to fresh insights, to discover my strengths and test my limits. So when I began studying at university and living away from home (because the campus was too far away for commuting each day), my extended horizons expanded my opportunities to explore unfamiliar paths. And where those paths might lead, I had no idea. But that was the point.
I moved into a residence known as Lakeside Hall. It is actually three multi-storey apartment blocks connected by covered walkways, which provide accommodation in twin-share rooms for around two hundred students. It is far from luxurious but has a good reputation. Because it is run by an autonomous collective, it is less regulated (and, one might say, more permissive) than most of the colleges. The fees and charges are very low; but as a result there are no full-time paid staff. All residents contribute, with a roster for catering and housekeeping duties and peer support programs. This collaborative philosophy and ethos of self-reliance may deter many applicants for admission, but it strikes a chord with others, as it did for me.
I had not exactly led a sheltered existence before this; but life at Lakeside opened my eyes to a more free-spirited and subversive campus culture than I’d known. I enjoyed the vibrant, creative energy of this new environment, and my transition from the quiet, cosy nest of a small town and school to the glamour and clamour of a large city campus, from living at home to the communal lifestyle of Lakeside. And I thrived in academia. I have always been an overachiever. My nerdiness quotient was high back then. (Still is.)
I tried to stay true to my boyfriend. Mark and I had been a couple for two years; and my teenage naïveté had led me to believe our relationship would last a lifetime; but it did not survive separation. He decided to stay in our hometown, as a result of which we were living far apart. I believe he resented the fact that I no longer clung to him. So I had no strong pangs about our splitting not long afterwards. Indeed, to be honest, I felt a little relieved to be cutting one of the ties to my adolescence.
Meanwhile, although we had been assigned at random I got on well with my roommate. Pretty, petite and perky, Stephanie was also a wild child. The first time we met was at an orientation seminar, and she was wearing a canary-yellow string bikini, blithely oblivious to the attention she received. At any rate, that was the impression she gave, as when she’d wander topless through the corridors of the mixed-sex dormitory. Yet notwithstanding her diminutive stature, playful disposition and pert libido, Steph was tough and fearless. She hated being in any sort of comfort zone. However, she wasn’t like me. She had no need or desire to test herself. What she sought was sensation. She wanted to live each moment of her existence as intensely as possible. This took her to some strange places; and I eventually followed, out of curiosity although to this day I’m not sure why I stayed.
In any case, high spirits infused everyday life at Lakeside Hall. There was more of the exotic, the indulgent and the transgressive than was to be found at most campus residences. One example of this was the annual themed party called Mayday, held (of course) in May. Throughout the year Lakeside’s dolce vita featured lots of parties and other festivities, but Mayday was the celebration of sensuality and sexuality. The motif this year was “Naughty Nightie Night”. Twee appellative notwithstanding, it was one of those affairs which had given “Lakeside Hell” a reputation for dissolute depravity on other parts of the campus. And it’s not like the notoriety was entirely undeserved, even if the disapproval was inspired (I believe) mostly by envy. Past themes had been, with varying degrees of clueless cultural insensitivity — “Angels and Devils”, “Board Shorts and Bikinis”, “Arabian Nights (Sheiks and Haremgirls)”, “Vicars and Tarts”, “Santa and His Helpers” (starring the ever-popular Ho-Ho-Ho’s), and so on. In other words, these parties were essentially an excuse for us women to loosen up and let go, strip down and show off.
Although obviously the event didn’t need to be publicized, there was some advertising and it was deliberately provocative. The flier for the Board Shorts and Bikinis had read: “For the gents, Hawaiian/Bali shirts and Bermuda/cargo shorts are recommended. For the ladies, bikinis are mandatory.” That was never going to be enforced, for sure; and the distributors of the handout lamely passed it off as a joke.
The party went from noon until some time in the early morning. We (girls) turned out in our most slinky, seductive lingerie; and while not everyone got fully into the sensual spirit, most of us did. This was a high-stress time in the university calendar, with assignments coming due and exams approaching. So it was nice to take a break from the increasing workload, to look and feel supersexy and ultrafeminine, to revel in being female. I wore a skimpy, charmeuse, floral-pattern teddy with garter belt and stay-up stockings. The latter were not my standard style… but neither was being out in public in my undies. Stephanie was delectable in an ensemble of lilac-coloured demi-cup bra and panties of delicate lavender mesh, both decorated with little pink and purple camelias. We wore matching black lace chokers. Most of the males were elegantly attired in Bond-style tuxedos, or garbed in Hefner-style smoking jackets. So perhaps the gender contrast was sexist; but we weren’t pressured into anything, and no one took it seriously.
Nobody at the party brought partners, at least not officially. It was a sort of house rule. This allowed us to mix and mingle. It also suited me because I was not in any sort of serious relationship at this time. I had decided to avoid entanglements for a while. However, Steph soon hooked up with a guy named Jack. He was instantly likeable, handsome and easy-going with a wry sense of humour; but there was something disquieting about him. His stare lingered a little too long on the lingerie-clad forms all around him. He complimented me on how sexy I looked, which might seem innocuous but came across as just a bit sleazy. That’s because even dressed as we were (slutty, if you will), engaging in “normal” social interaction, looking good and feeling great, we didn’t need or want to make a big deal of it. That’s why no one (except Jack and one or two other guys) felt the need to comment, apart from an initial, flattering “You look great!” Those girls who wished for special attention won it with more provocative poses and suggestive words…. which was fine. Self-confidence comes in multifarious forms.
But of course I said nothing about this to Steph; and around mid-evening she found me and suggested that I stay away from our room for the next couple of hours. I had no problem with that. She had Jack in tow. The straps of her bra were already dangling unhitched, so she didn’t need to say anything more.
By now the goosebumps were beginning to rise on exposed skin, so everyone was moving indoors, where it was more crowded, more noisy and more intimate. I was growing quite aroused. I have worn a lot less on the beach, but in this setting, in undies rather than swimsuits, and with only half the partiers in the déshabillé state, there was an erotic intensity that you really don’t feel in the briefest bikini. After a while I found Devraj sitting alone on a sofa in a quiet corner, with a forlorn expression.
I knew Dev from my schooldays. We had served on the student council together. (I was the president, it may not surprise you.) He was slim and good-looking with unruly hair and a lyrical Sri Lankan accent. He was intelligent yet somewhat introverted and socially awkward. He was sharply dressed as one of the James Bond wannabes, but seemed uncomfortable, even flustered by the sight of all the lingerie. Seated there with me in my little nightie, he went out of his way to appear nonchalant… and naturally achieved the opposite. I wondered if he stayed on at the party because, like myself, he’d been temporary dispossessed by his roommate. We talked for a while, then mingled more.
Some time after midnight I returned to our room. To my relief, Stephanie was alone and asleep. She was sprawled face-down, naked, on top of the sheets and blankets. Encircling her wrists and ankles were faint lines, clearly rope marks. Criss-crossing her back and bottom were faint red streaks the width of a trouser belt. Instead of her lace choker, her bra was tied about her throat. She didn’t wake when I entered. And in the morning, when she saw me glancing at her skin where the signs of last night’s fun and games had faded, she responded with an impish grin and a mischievous wink.
The two of us had good times together; but once a month Stephanie would vanish for the weekend, returning late on Sunday night or even Monday morning. One time she came back on crutches. She’d fractured an ankle on one of her escapades as a member of a club devoted to adventure. This was composed entirely of females, with around fifty active members. Its guiding philosophy was a form of hedonism, to celebrate “the outré”, going beyond what’s normal and safe, with “ultimate” sports and unconventional challenges. But though she invited me to join, I wasn’t interested, because its raison d’être seemed to me to be more thrill-seeking than adventure-loving. Indeed the club was, as much as anything else, a way to prove that women can have balls as big and brassy as any man’s… at least metaphorically.
Steph continued trying to entice me into the club; so I finally agreed to accompany her to one of their Saturday night gatherings. It had a culinary theme — “extreme cuisine”. A few guys were invited, and they wore dapper and debonair dinner jackets, while we ladies dolled up elegantly in cocktail dresses. The menu featured an appetizing assortment of creepy crawlies, bugs, grubs, worms and spiders, boiled, baked and battered. I was proud of the fact that I was far from the first to start heaving and retching. But no one actually vomited.
An activity later in the year was a jaunt in the wilderness; but I had other plans. Anyway, I was suffering from a mild cold. Steph returned on Sunday evening with the sorts of scrapes and scratches that you’d expect from two days and one night in the rough; but though not intensive, they were extensive, on parts of her body I wouldn’t have thought would be exposed. I didn’t ask at the time. But later, when she informed me that they’d hiked naked the entire way, she appeared a little offended by my reaction to the idea of being in nature au naturel. I hastily explained that it’s my skin that’s sensitive, not my morality.
Soon after that, the academic year reached it climax with more assignments and exams. Things went well, the year ending with me very pleased about my performance. I had decided on a career path in meteorology, specifically atmospheric physics. I’ve always had a strong interest in astronomy, and hoped to translate my specialty to the extraterrestrial sphere. For the summer vacation I stayed with my parents. And when we returned to Lakeside Hall as newly minted sophomores, Stephanie and I remained together as roommates.
Some things had changed. Most importantly for this story, Steph had passed Jack on to me; and against my better judgement I took him in… literally, in fact. And herein hangs a tale.
***One night we were sitting in Lakeside Hall’s main lounge, a dozen of us, guys and gals, cross-legged on the carpet or reclining on beanbags, sipping tea or coffee or cocoa, confabulating about life, the universe and everything else. The conversation ranged from the sublime to the mundane. And at one point one of the girls asked the males what it was like being in a campus population that was almost two-thirds female. Did they feel outnumbered, overwhelmed? There were a couple of trite replies, but the most thought-provoking answer came from Ted, who said how dull it must have been at that time — thankfully long ago — when women were a small minority at the university. Men are conformist, he claimed, while women bring diversity, excitement, colour and culture.
That men are conformist might be debatable; but Ted’s response stimulated a lively discussion. And it was Stephanie who proclaimed, loudly enough that it turned heads on the other side of the big room: “I’m glad I’m a girl.” We all smiled. She looked around with a comically quizzical expression. “What? I love being a girl!” Everyone adored my pocket-sized gal pal. She was the very essence of what I think Ted was getting at. At different times, or even at the same time, she could be a tomboy, a sex kitten, a girly girl, a flirt, a flibbertigibbet. And that’s the point she was making.
For the next few minutes, all us women listed all the wonderful things about being female, and why we might be the fortunate sex. (The guys mainly listened, politely.) It was not about why we are, or aren’t, better than men; and everybody acknowledged that inequality and prejudice and unfairness exist. Naturally we mentioned the gift of child-bearing, and of having emotional outlets that men are denied (or deny themselves). But nobody wanted to get mawkish.
When someone came up with a negative, some one else countered it. So when Maura complained that life would be easier with a penis, like being able to pee standing up, I heard myself saying how much I love my vagina. That raised eyebrows. “Multiple orgasms!” I ejaculated (so to speak). “Periods,” Maura retorted.
There was a brief debate, which the guys were dragged into, about which was nicer, to have a penis inside you or to be inside someone’s else’s body. In any case, everyone agreed that having breasts is a definite plus for the girls’ team. Then we moved on to the other fun stuff. For example the clothes. You can dress pretty, elegant, sweet, coy, cutesy, casual, grungy, whatever, looking good and feeling feminine. You have flexibility; you can go to the same party in dungarees or a chichi cocktail dress or a slinky bodycon. You can flaunt your sexuality in an itsy-bitsy miniskirt, in a barely-there bikini, in daring décolletage.
Perhaps coincidentally, this was the night before Mayday, which was a great time to be a girl!
This year’s theme was “Pirates and their Booty”. Everyone loves a double entendre. The intent was made clear in the official invitation — “Ahoy and avast, all ye brawny buccaneers and winsome wenches.” (I don’t write ’em. I just report ’em.) So being a mutinous strumpet, I decided to go as a pirate princess. With emphasis on cosplay chic rather than historical precision, I assembled a sassy ensemble: a short, mauve, ruffled, off-the-shoulder dress with lace-up corset, accessorized with red bandana, black belt and the de rigueur cutlass. After scouring the downtown thrift shops, I found a classically kitsch pair of knee-high black felt boots with oversized decorative buckles. Jack, meanwhile, resisted the temptation to present himself as Jack Sparrow, incarnating instead the legendary Calico Jack. (That was appropriate, since the real-life Calico Jack was famous for having two female crew members, Anne Bonny and Mary Read.) He did look dashing in his rococo regalia.
At this time, Devraj and I maintained our friendship; but he had made it clear that he didn’t want a romantic relationship. I was a little disappointed, even slightly and irrationally offended; and that’s probably why I steered my sloop in Jack’s direction… perhaps against my better judgment.
It was halfway through the night when Jack’s picaroon persona manifested itself in full. He decided I made a better captive than comrade, so he grabbed me, swung me around, tied my hands behind my back and slung me over his shoulder. He swaggered about with his hapless, helpless prisoner. I didn’t protest until he flipped up the back of my dress to display my derrière to public view and render the occasional slap. A couple of the whacks made me yelp. I feebly kicked my legs and heartily uttered sundry curses. In reprisal, one of the other freebooters joined in the fun by gagging me with my own bandana. And shortly after that Jack lowered me once more to the floor. He claimed he was getting tired; but he was robust and I was skinny; so I think he started feeling regret when his swashbuckling confrères had begun calling out things like “Show us her treasure chest!”
Yet he kept my hands bound for the rest of the night. When I got thirsty he held a goblet to my lips until I dribbled. And later in the night I was forced to join the “booty pageant” when a hundred or so of us captives were paraded around Lakeside Hall. All of us now had our arms pinioned behind us and we were tethered to each other with ropes around our necks. A couple of dozen of us were then put on sale at a slave auction, placed on a podium and sold to the highest bidder. And that might have been humiliating; but the organizing committee had the common-sense foresight to impose a maximum price, and the outcome was decided by the toss of a coin; so we all fetched the same ego-soothing amount. Still, when my turn came it was a bit humiliating after all, to have my fate determined by a coin toss.
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I was purchased by a consortium of four first-year students. They scrutinized me for a while before handing me over to Jack’s custody, with a sheet of instructions. Of course, I’d had some idea of what was coming as soon as I’d been captured. The slave market had been advertised beforehand. It’s just that I hadn’t expected to be part of it! For the next three days, starting the following morning, I was obliged to serve and obey my masters. I fetched and carried, cleaned their rooms, performed various other chores, and most importantly did exhibition duty as their trophy. I had to comport myself appropriately, in a little babydoll dress the first day, for instance. It was all innocent and innocuous, if rather embarrassing because we were in public; and when we ventured out of Lakeside Hall onto the wider campus I received a few odd stares. But at Lakeside everyone savvied the situation, and appreciated that the money raised from the auction went to charity. Also, this first week of May was swot vac — study without teaching vacation — so I didn’t have to attend classes. I was allowed plenty of time for academics but not for socializing. In fact, I enjoyed my three days as a slavegirl. As I trailed after my guys in servile silence, they got envious looks from other guys… and I got the same from some women.
Stephanie looked crestfallen at having missed out on the fun.
Now one of the other slaves was Emily. She was drop-dead gorgeous, one of those women you want to hate simply out of jealousy. But along with an angelic face, honey-blonde hair that cascaded over her shoulders, brilliant blue eyes that seemed to penetrate your soul, and a perfect body, she had a sweet, gentle, generous nature. She was unworldly and intellectual, she didn’t seem aware of her own resplendence, and she had the uninhibited exuberance of the innocent spirit. I first met her on the Naughty Nightie Night. She would look sublime in a potato sack, but that evening she was stunning in an orchid pink bra and g-string — basically three tiny triangles held in place by floss nestled between bare butt cheeks. And Emily was so ingenuous (or so she appeared) that she made it seem demure.
Jack was her brother, two years her junior, and she doted on him far more than he deserved. By now he and I were a (somewhat discordant) couple. Ours was the quintessential opposites-attract relationship, inspiring me to be more spontaneous and more passionate, even reckless, contrary to my normal prudence.
And therein hangs another tale.