The Trashy Virgin(16)

And the dumb lunkhead was so clueless, so down on his ability to read other human beings that he grunted.

"How about Insidious 2?" he said. "I saw Insidious 1, it was fuckin' amazing."

I almost backed out then, unable to stomach the thought of Jock's  company and a horror movie combined together. Because I hate horror  flicks, I hate worms crawling out of eyeballs, ghosts that come back  from the dead, that stuff bores me. So my mind spun furiously, trying to  think of something else.

"Mmm, how about Star Wars? The new one, have you seen that one?" I  asked. I honestly couldn't think of anything, and besides, hadn't it  gotten great reviews?

But Jock snorted.

"Naw, I'm not into intergalactic shit. Insidious 2 it is," he said with  finality, overruling my suggestion. I gritted my teeth. This was gonna  be bad, I'd have to force myself to stay in my seat, it promised to be  three hours of torture. But at least there'd be movie popcorn with heaps  of butter, I could feast on that and make myself feel better.

But when I showed up at the theater the next night, Jock looked  disgusting, his face slightly red, broken capillaries in his nose and  cheeks. What the fuck?

"Hey," he grunted. "Let's get tickets."

And the answer was immediately clear because his breath reeked of booze.  Holy shit, this sucked. I was going to suffer through three hours of  some shitty movie with a steaming human pile next to me, a dude who  stunk to high heaven through every pore. This was going to be bad, and I  braced myself for the worst, really expecting things to go downhill  before ending in a ball of fire.

And as I expected, it didn't get better. When we stepped into the  darkened theater, I looked around quickly, hoping there were some fellow  movie patrons. I'm not sure what I was thinking, that these folks could  save me from a bad experience like strangers standing in the way of  harm. But the place was empty except for one old dude sitting in the far  right corner near the door, bent over and elderly. I huffed,  exasperated. This movie was so bad that no one was coming to see it, it  was probably a huge box office bomb and I'd been forced here because of  myself. Shit, I only had myself to blame, and mentally cursed again.

And Jock didn't make the waiting easier. He was so dumb that steam started to pour from my ears dealing with him.

"You're so pretty," he grunted, shifting around in his seat and stuffing popcorn in his mouth.

"Thanks," I managed while leaning away. Because the alcohol smell was  killing me, Jock must have downed a forty before the movie, it was like  sitting next to a rag soaked in Jim Bean. I wouldn't be surprised if he  spontaneously combusted, there was so much alcohol.         

     



 

"Yeah, real pretty," he grunted again. "I like it," he said, seizing one  of my brown curls in his fingers. I shuddered at what was happening,  but at least he was touching my hair and not my body. I couldn't  actually feel his hands on me, thank god.

"Uh, thanks," I said, none-too-graciously. "Would you mind letting go of  my hair? It kinda hurts," I said shortly, my neck twisted way over so  that I could maintain as much distance between us as possible.

"Oh sure," he grunted. "No prob." And he let go, my curls bouncing back  like springs. Thank god he hadn't touched my body, I'd scream if he so  much as laid a finger on me.

But fucking Jock just wouldn't leave me alone. Because once the movie started, he began pawing me like a crazed animal.

"Come on, Katy," he panted, his big hand on my thigh, squeezing. "Come on, give it up, I know you want it."

I was incensed. When had I ever indicated that I wanted it, that I was  attracted to this douche? So I twisted away, my torso twisted in an  effort to maintain distance, skin crawling. But Jock was insistent and  his fingers dug into my thigh, cold and clammy, making me wince.

"Stop," I hissed, literally contorting myself in my efforts to get away.  But a particularly loud scream rang out from the movie and my words  were reduced to a muffled "mwmwmwwm." What the fuck? Had Jock chosen a  horror flick because the screams on-screen would drown out my own? Holy  shit, he was one messed up motherfucker.

And the douche just wouldn't give up.

"You want it," he grunted. "I know you want it, I've seen you looking at me in class, you want it."

I was angry now, really mad. Jock McMahon wasn't my type at all with his  bulging steroid build, the slick of oil on his forehead, the small  patch of acne on his neck. If I'd been looking at him it was because I  was turned towards the blackboard and Jock just happened to be in my  way, his hulking frame like a huge dog that refused to budge.

"No, I don't want it," I hissed, still trying to squirm away. There  could be no mistaking my anger now, I'd said the word "No" quite loud  and had literally slapped his hands with my small ones, making sure he  knew that I wasn't into this.

But some people have never been told "no" in their lives, and Jock was  one of those idiots. He let out a harsh laugh before grabbing me around  the waist and dragging me into his lap, planting his face between my  boobs, lapping at the creamy flesh.

"Oohhh fuck yeah," he ground out, "I love a girl with huge tits and baby, yours are the best. Mmmph! Yeah!"

I screamed then, literally let out a full-on shriek, but it was just my  bad luck that someone was screaming on-screen at the same time. So no  one heard, not our fellow guest, not the theater workers, my cry of fury  and hurt drowned out by movie sound effects.

But I grew up in a trailer park and know how to defend myself, I come  with a set of street smarts like none other, and no fucking way was this  douche going to take me against my will. So gripping my keys in my  hand, with multiple pointy parts sticking out between my knuckles, I  punched the fucker in the nuts, making him shriek and clutch himself in  agony.

"Aieee!" he howled. "Oh my gawd, oh my gawd, I've been punched in the dick!"

But it was Jock's turn to be drowned out by the racket on-screen and I  took the opportunity to punch him once more below the belt, hissing,  "Fuck you mofo!" before grabbing my stuff and racing from the darkened  theater. Hell yeah, he got what he deserved, that lunkhead had been  mauling me like I was a piece of meat, and that was no way to treat your  date.

But once I was in the theater parking lot, reality took over. Because oh  shit, Jock had driven me here so I didn't have a car, and I could hear  pounding footsteps behind me, Jock's agonized roars of rage and terror  growing louder. Furiously, I scrabbled for my phone, my only thought to  text Brent and Jake. I needed them to come, to save me, but it'd be ten  minutes before they could get here.

So I whirled around, eyes panicked, but it was too late because Jock was  on me. The dumb moron was like a lumbering monster, Godzilla with small  arms, intent on causing pain.

"Fuck you!" he roared, grabbing my hair.

My scalp screamed in agony as I shrieked, doubled over at the waist,  trying to get away, but my curls were clutched tight between those meaty  fists.

"Get away!" I screamed. "Get away from me!" I yelled again, twisting and  wriggling, trying to yank myself out of his grasp even while trying to  land a kick on him somewhere, somehow, without getting too close.

But Jock had two big handfuls of my locks tight in his grip, and I was  caught, my head stuck in a painful position with nowhere to go, and  worse, no one to see in the deserted parking lot.

"You're gonna pay for punching me in the balls," he hissed. "You fucking bitch! You punched my dick, you're a fuckin' goner."

And he let go with one hand, raising it and balling it into a fist,  ready to deliver a death blow on my head, crush my skull with one  massive pound.         

     



 

But suddenly I was yanked to safety and it was Jock who was a squealing,  a screaming mess on the floor, curled up like a baby, tears streaming  down his cheeks.

"Please!" he shrieked. "Please nooooo!"

I panted, stunned at the turn of events. What the hell had happened? One  moment, I was about to be beat to death in the parking lot, flattened  into a pancake as a result of Jock's rage, nothing but broken bones on  the floor. But instead, now I was encircled safely in Jason's strong  arms as Brent towered above the teen boy, his massive form looming over  the writhing form.

"Shut the fuck up," Brent ground out. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

Jock kept crying, his wails pitiful.

"I'm  – I'm Jock!" he whimpered, "Please no!"

Brent looked at him, disgusted.

"You're such a fucking slob, I don't give a fuck who you are," he ground  out, landing another kick to Jock's stomach. "What the fuck were you  thinking, treating a woman like that?" he grunted with another kick.  Jock was a mess on the floor, snot running down his nose, curled into a  ball wailing like a dead hyena.