A/N: The lyrics are from Ciara’s “Like a Boy”. Which my best friend, a hell of a feminazi, sings all the time. It’s the only reason I know them (and I may have gotten some of the wording wrong, so let me know). R&R, I'll buy you a Ferrari. (An e-Ferrari. Cough.)

DAB BELL. DAB BELL.

Come in drag. Do it for your ultra-conservative grandparents!

TONIGHT 10:30 P.M. (11 P.M. for non-Greeks)

AKR Basement

The halter top stops just above midriff, baring a flat, pale stomach. The top is dark violet leather, tightly laced up the front. Keep moving your eyes down, you’ll come across a set of four small, glitzy stars – stickers, trailing in an unmistakable line from the bellybutton to the matching purple leather hem of the miniskirt. It clings low to the hip bones, with cute, girlish pleats, but barely covers the ass of the person wearing it. I’ll be the first person to admit that it’s damn sad when black zip-up boots that come mid-thigh, courteously known as fuck-me boots in most circles, make you feel less naked than the rest of your ensemble altogether.

I should know.

I’m the one wearing it.

And yes, frankly, I’m very uncomfortable.

You know the feeling when you start to blink too fast, your mouth is dry, and your stomach clenches – painfully, all the nerves knotting together so tight your chest hurts? It’s hot as hell in the room, you’re sweating, but you can’t stop shivering? Your fingers start to shake, skin flushes, and you feel like everyone is looking at you? You just want to get out of there as soon as possible. Right? Like, you’d mow down your own grandma if someone gave you an inconspicuous out.

That’s me. At this very second. Back out of the way, Grams.

“Dah-ling, you look miserable.” I practically jump two feet in the air, I’m so startled by the shout in my ear. She doesn’t let me turn around though; she just slings one arm around my neck, with that dramatic drawl and a peck on the cheek. In my three inch heel boots, and her in tennis shoes, we’re the same height now. So when I shoot her a sideways glare, our noses practically bump. Sporadic flashing of strobe-lights illuminate her amused features beneath the black and gray-green army paint smeared all over her face. She’s dressed in drag, like an army guy, in camouflage fatigues, except the black tennis shoes. Her hair is pulled up and pinned under an army cap.

She is my best friend. Cheyenne. Under most circumstances, we look like an odd couple. She’s taller than me, at almost 5”10 (I’m only 5”7. Yeah, laugh it up), with what looks like a year-round tan (I’m vanilla pale), dark brown eyes (mine are bug-eyed green), and ADD style: all beads, necklaces, mismatched moccasin shoes, geometric designs and tassels – in every color under the sun (I’m not nearly as cheerful). Her thick black hair used to hit her waist (my mohawk is auburn-blond), but she chopped it off to her shoulders over the summer – supposedly just to spite her mother (her mom thought it was this weird thing about dishonoring her heritage). Tonight? We look even more different. She looks like a dyke, and I look like some tranny whore. I feel ridiculous.

You’re drunk. I mouth back. I’m not going to try to scream over the DJ’s music – blaring chart-topping “hits” as people move and grind together in the middle of the lounge. All the couches and chairs have been moved out, but the room still seems impossibly small. So many people. At least fifty, maybe more, and the party hasn’t even really started yet. It’s only midnight.

“…outside?!”

I miss three fourths of the question, leaning back against the wall. I’m standing behind a long plastic table; a large, possibly spiked bowl of red punch is to my left. Soda, beer, and water take up the rest of it. I’m supposed to be serving drinks, but luckily someone drags in a keg not thirty minutes into the party – so it’s not like I’m being bombarded with demands. Nonetheless, I shake my head to the negative at her question.

Can’t, I silently indicate, gesturing to the glass double doors that show the patio, and beyond that the rest of campus. It’s also littered with people, including the fraternity brothers who are in charge of checking ID. If you aren’t over 21, you get an X on your hand. I’m also supposed to have the balls to tell overzealous freshmen, my classmates, that they can’t snatch up a Bud Lite off the table. Like I don’t alienate enough people as it is.

I already know the rules. The guys, the real frat guys, most of them aren’t in drag. They look normal. It’s just us pledges who have to go all out – and I mean, all out. We’re not allowed to change, we’re not allowed to leave. We stand here and get humiliated while everyone else – the good majority in regular clothes – dances and has a hell of a good time.

“’Least…not…alone!” I catch most of that, and force a smile as Chey squeezes my shoulder in a half-hug. Yeah. I guess that’s something. I’m not the only freshman – Aaron, Luke, and Piero are here. Aaron’s tall and lanky, and looks awful in a white and blue sundress; he can barely walk in the tall stilettos. Luke’s in short-shorts and a red, padded lace bra – he keeps running one hand through messy brown hair over near the pizza table, and I wonder if he’s nervous, or just trying to pull nonexistent bangs over his eyes so nobody recognizes him. That’s what I’d be doing if I was him. He comes from a real strict background. But I guess I feel worst for Piero. He doesn’t even speak that much English. Guess he doesn’t need to, in knee-high pink boots and what looks like a can-can leotard. There are these hot pink feathers that kind of make a skirt over his crotch…but not really. The fishnets look nice on his legs.

He’s the only one who doesn’t look as miserable as the rest of us. He’s leaning over the chip bowl, in deep conversation with some chick who has really long dark hair. Who knows?

Effin’ foreigners.

There are other freshmen pledges. Around. All of us in drag, all of us in absurd amounts of makeup. I feel like I have a pound of eyeliner on my face. I probably look like a raccoon. I guess it’s better than a heroin addict.

“I look worse,” I mumble under my breath. So much worse. Chey has her ear shoved up against my lips, so she overhears what I say. Pulls away, leaving a smear of dark army makeup on my chin. Great. I start rubbing at it, trying to get it off even as she’s still oblivious, still talking -

“Nah, you’re…ly…est!”

“WHAT?”

“I…you’re…fin…the prettiest!”

I wonder why I can suddenly hear THE PRETTIEST, like it’s been screamed over a megaphone.

I realize then the song has ended.

People turn towards us.

I blink. I don’t blush. I’m just…blah. Like a deer in headlights. Or a fish, my mouth is opening, closing, but nothing is coming out. The goddamned lights are flashing, flashing, flashing and it reminds me of a million photographers at once.

AND! I’ve smeared military paint all over my chin, so it probably looks like I’ve been eating dog crap.

Great.

Just frigging…they laugh, like a rumble with a couple well-placed feminine shrieks of amusement…

…great.

And Cheyenne grins like this isn’t the most awkward situation in the history of mankind. Bitch.

A handful of awkward seconds stretched into eternity, and then Ieisha, resident chick DJ, starts up a remix of “Like a Boy”, informing us all over the mic that ‘this one’s for the ladies’. God. Oh God. Guys start filtering off the floor; I’m expecting the insults to start up instantly. God. And Chey’s squealing in my ear because, apparently, “this song is effing tight!” Yeah. Give me industrial metal any day.

C…I…A…R…A

“…and I mean all ladies!” Ieisha’s laughing, and I can see through the flashes of the lounge that two of the frat brothers are talking to her, and she’s nodding, one hand on the controls of the DJ panel. “Anybody in a skirt, get your ass on the floor!”

I can be a little slow sometimes.

But even I know what’s happening – as soon as Aaron gets shoved on the floor by two not-so-helpful frat guys who, hanging on each other and laughing, trade high-fives and point at the awkward kid. He looks petrified, and the spaghetti straps of the dress keep slipping down. Oh no freaking way…hell no!

I start backing away from the drink table, and I barely notice that my shoulders smack into the wall. Again.

Wish we could switch up the roles
And I could be that...
Tell you I love you
But when you call I never get back…

“Kist! She’s looking at you!” Cheyenne screams it in my ear, bobbing her head side to side. I refuse to make eye contact with the DJ. My eyes are firmly planted on the floor.

“No.”

“Come on!”

What if I…?
Had a thing on the side?
Made you cry?

“No.”

Would the rules change up…?
Or would they still apply…?

“KISSSSTEN.”

If I played you like a toy…?
Sometimes I wish I could act like a boy

“NO!”

I practically snarl it at her, and, catching my facial expression twisted up like…homicidal, Chey sighs. Gives me the finger, and slips off to join the rest of the girls – and those poor guys – on the dance floor. Thank God. Fuck this! I decide I’m getting the hell of here. I’m not an exhibitionist, I don’t want to be in the middle of the goddamned dance floor in a dominatrix costume from Hell. Fuck pledging. Fuck Greek week. Fuck fraternities! I’m done! I don’t usually curse, like, ever, so you know I’ve got to be really pissed if I’m dropping fuck every other noun. I rip a can of beer from one of the six packs and move – fast. I can’t go through the front door, so I’m going to go through the laundry room. I still don’t know the house too well – but I know enough how to back away from the drink table, keeping my eyes carefully down, not making eye contact with anyone. Chey can take care of herself.

Keep a straight face when you tell a lie
Always keep an airtight alibi
(Keep him in the dark)
What he don't know won't break his heart

I think I brush my fingers against the door – so freaking close – before I’m caught.

A hand wraps over mine, stilling my movements. He’s behind me, taller than me – most guys are. And he’s close, way too close. Blocks out the flashing of the strobe lights as he bows his head, lips near my ear.

“Why aren’t you dancing?”

I try to ignore the warmth of his breath against my ear, and the skin between my ear and my skull, how nice his hand feels over mine, how if I backed up, just an inch…

“Don’t want to.” Small words. Small syllables. Through gritted teeth, it comes out ragged.

His voice is a little ragged, too. Somehow I don’t think it’s for the same reason. I vaguely wonder if he thinks I’m a girl or something, but that gender-confused hope is quickly dashed, “You’re a pledge, Eiland. Who the fuck said you could want anything?” He knows who I am. He sounds amused.

I am not amused.

I guess that’s why I don’t keep my mouth shut. I snatch my hand away from the doorknob, and turn around – I mean, hell, the position is way too awkward to keep up this conversation. I’m practically kissing the door as is. It’s really hard to turn around though – because this guy doesn’t freaking get the whole personal-space-thing. Now instead of staring at chipped paint, I’m staring at someone’s throat. Even at 5”10, thanks to the boots, I don’t match up as tall as this guy. He’s got to be at least 6”2, and I’m breathing on his neck, and every time I do, his Adam’s apple bobs.

If I was always gone
With the sun getting home
(Would you like that?)

“Jolly Green Giant,” I mutter absently. There’s no way he can hear me over the music.

Told you I was with my crew
When I knew it wasn't true
(Would you like that?)

“What?”

I crane my neck up at him. He isn’t even wearing green. He doesn’t look like the Jolly Green Giant. Suddenly I’m not as self conscious. He actually looks like a heroin addict. Especially with the seizure-lights blazing. Lean where I’m just thin, white as…as Casper or something, staring at me from hollow sockets. His eyes are blazing, bright, tangled black hair dragging across his shoulders. Intense. That’s what he looks like. Not ugly, not gorgeous, just…just fucking intense. I don’t even know his freaking name. Is he in the frat? Yeah, probably. Scrawny jerk druggie.

If I act like you
Walk a mile off in yo’ shoes
(Would you like that?)
I'm messing with your head again
Dose of your own medicine

“Fuck you guys.” He blinks. I barge on haphazardly, indignantly, “I’m not doing it. This shit…it’s…it’s so not worth it!”

He smirks, dark eyes dropping from my face to my outfit, and back up again. I can practically see what he’s thinking. It was worth it when you pulled on this get-up.

“I’m not dancing,” I tell him, and my voice doesn’t shake. Great. Go me. “Kick me out, whatever, I don’t care.” I move to cross my arms over my chest, but Mr. Heroin-Chic beats me to it, sliding one arm around my waist – God. His skin is fucking hot compared to mine. I think he’s trying to drag me forward, but I’m not moving. One good thing about these boots? Awesome traction. He doesn’t seem annoyed, and steps forward. Bony hips are crushed together, pelvises almost touching, and his jeans are way too tight for how he’s feeling tonight.

I pull my head back, shoulders too, leaning my skull back against the door. It’s as uncomfortable as it sounds, and our bodies make this V shape. Erections pressed together, but torsos far apart. I will not think with my dick. I will not think with my dick. I will not think with my-

“Do I look like I’m complaining?” he asks me, and his voice is now definitely raspy. I’m starting to sweat. It makes the leather stick to my skin. It’s really freaking uncomfortable. Not as uncomfortable as the fact that this giant of a sexy junkie is leaning over me, that his breath is practically touching my lips, that it tastes like lemonade and liquor. That I part my lips, running my tongue over the underside of them, just for the flavor, that I know he’s drunk and wants to have to sex, and that he’d probably have sex with a mailbox if I wasn’t conveniently here, and that it doesn’t…really…

“What’s your name?” I manage to get out, but it’s more of a gasp than an actual question. He ignores me, he’s leaning in to kiss me. I know he is, I know he is, I know… “Your name, jackass!”

I’m almost panicking when I snap that, tearing my gaze from his lips to his eyes. The brightness dims with irritation.

Pause.

Pause.

I guess I figure he just isn’t going to tell me, when-

“Drew.” Then he kisses me, almost in the same breath.

I have a second to wonder if I should warn him about the goddamned army paint. Then, he’s kissing me…we’re…we’re kissing…close-lipped, for now. That’s when he does it. He runs something warm, damp, along my bottom lip – that’s his tongue. Oh God! I’m opening my mouth, just a little, before I can even form a coherent refusal. I’ve got a fistful of shirt with one hand, pushing back with the kiss. His bottom lip is trapped between mine, and my top lip is sandwiched between his. Our mouths press together, his tongue brushes against mine – I shiver, he pushes his tongue a little further into my mouth. I lick the tip of his, and the warm buzz provokes some sound, like a choked purr, from deep in my throat. Brushing tongues is like…like sucking on electricity. Mmm sucking…I stiffen in surprise as he grasps my tongue between his lips, sucking on it, pulling it into his mouth. I protest, wrestling my tongue with his, trying to pin it to the floor of his mouth. I can feel him grinning against my lips, and he steps forward, flattening me, with him, against the door. I run my tongue along the roof of his mouth, along his teeth, trusting, trusting he won’t bite.

It’s the hands that do me in. The arm around my waist is dangerously close to my ass, and the second; he’s running his fingers over my mohawk, sliding to my cheek, making soft circles against my skin. My throat…nails running down my stomach, leaving angry red streaks in their wake but – gah! AH! FUCK! His fingers just touch, just barely brush, my erection – and I’m screwed.

Not in the good way.

I slam my skull back against the door. Unfortunately, there’s not near as much room as before, but I do manage to tear my lips from his, dragging my tongue back into my own mouth. “Get off me,” I half gasp, half wheeze. Sounds like I’m having a fucking asthma attack.

He laughs, low in his chest, and it rumbles against mine. “Look, okay, okay, my bad. My ba-“ He’s moved his hand, he leans forward – like we’re going to go back at it. Hah!

Eff you, pal!

“I have to piss.” I blurt that out. Blurt it out because it’s the most unattractive thing I can think of. He’s still trying to get at my lips, but I twist my head away. So he makes do with sucking, licking, tasting my throat and oh God, oh God, oh God…my fingers are curling of their own accord. He doesn’t even answer me.

“A-a-a-are you…deaf?! I have to pee!”

No answer.

Ah…ah…ah, no…oh no…mmm…his tongue is God, and he’s sucking on my collarbone and his hand is massaging the base of my spine and it feels really, really good…

“I have AIDS.”

Pause.

HAH!

STD’s. Ruin the mood every time.

He snorts against my skin – even that feels good. “You don’t have AIDS.”

I don’t, but that’s besides the point. “You sound pretty confident about that,” I say.

His teeth worry a tiny bit of skin along my left collarbone as I give a noisy breath. “I am.”

“Fine.” I bite the tip of my tongue as he uses his mouth to tug at the strings lacing up my top. His cheek brushes my nipples – hard as hell against the tightly pulled leather. “Sure enough…” Gasp. “…that you’re w-w-wwilling t-to…” Remember to breathe. Breathe. Breathe. “risk pissing blood-and-pus-for-the-next-six-weeks?” It all runs together in one groan as his tongue slips under my top with a slow, long lick.

He hesitates.

NO!

I mean. YES!

He picks up his head from my chest, and he stares at me.

I stare back. He has a little gray smeared on his chin. Thanks a lot, Chey. I’m not very good at lying, so I don’t know what my face is saying. His expression is unreadable.

“What’s your deal?” he asks.

Silence.

Silence.

Then…

“Huh?” Intelligent response, I know. Shut up.

“I mean, like…” He leans his arm against the door above my head, so he’s kind of slanted over me. Staring down at me. “I think you’re hot.” He glances at my crotch, then back at my eyes. A slight smirk builds. Cocky druggie. Cocky. Ugh. Nice word choice, Kist. “You think I’m hot. Why are you fucking this up?”

Me?! I glare up at him, narrowing my eyes. Trying to think of a coherent sentence that doesn’t have to do with the fact that his lips are swollen and sexy, or the fact that he’s still got a hard-on. He looks really good horny. Well hell! I’m definitely not saying THAT. God! FOCUS, Kisten. FOCUS!

“Maybe because I’m not a man-slut?” Ooh. Good one. And true.

He raises an eyebrow. “You certainly look-“

“Well fuck you!” I explode furiously, loud enough to get a few glances. If we weren’t already. I start frantically shoving and pushing and slapping at him like a little fucking girl, balling up my fists and shouting incomprehensively for him to get off, get off, get off...until…until…

“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME, YOU FUCKING FAGGOT!” I’m screaming, everyone is staring, the music – paused - and Drew, startled, stumbles back. His hands slide off my body, and I shudder because now I’m cold. I stare, wide-eyed at him. Wide-eyed. And he’s mirroring my expression. The shock, then…the anger and-

He moves towards me. And I just chuck the can at his head.

I almost forgot I’d grabbed it, but I’ve never been more grateful.

I don’t even wait to see if the sickening crack is his skull and that can, or that can and something else. Part of me is screaming, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! The other part, the part I’m listening to, demands I run-run-run-run-run! I twist around. Yank open the door. And run.

If there’s one thing I hate more than pledging, more than hazing, it’s this: being gay.