The 7th floor slut lived across the hall from me and I didn’t care. At first. I had no interactions with her for the first month of freshman year. Admittedly, I was so nervous I didn’t have many interactions, period. Through the grapevine I learned she’d already slept with two guys on our floor.
Allie seemed to enjoy ignoring my, and every other girl’s, presence. I found her in the bathroom some mornings on her cellphone, smoking a cigarette, and shaving her legs at the sink all at the same time. And no, you’re not supposed to smoke in the dorms. I didn’t understand why she didn’t just shave in the shower. Nevertheless, I would see her with a leg propped up on the counter in what would have been an awkward position for anyone else. She never lifted her eyes when I came into the bathroom donning a froggie bathrobe, which bothered me almost as much as the fact that I wanted her attention. I wondered if she spoke to her roommate.
My curiosity about Allie grew, but I didn’t pursue it. Sure, I was jealous of her petite body and ability to wear crop tops, yeah, I was never that girl, but I focused on my studies. Rumor had it she would be on academic probation soon. I once caught a glimpse into her room as the door closed. She had two pairs of not-so-fluffy handcuffs hanging off her closet door, just begging passersby to comment. I didn’t. Turns out Allie and her roommate did speak to each other, but only when Allie was commanding Nina to leave because a guy was coming over, which was, well, often. These interactions escalated quickly, and Allie once dragged Nina out of the room by the hair, according to credible sources on the floor.
Allie became the girl you simultaneously hated, were afraid of, and wanted to be like — though you’d deny it to the grave. I had no access to whatever world she functioned within. My patience with her depleted when my roommate and I started hearing bodies slapping against each other at night. At first we made a joke of it. Around midterms it stopped being funny when I had an 8 am chemistry lab and I heard Allie’s rapturous screaming. It really couldn’t be that good all the time. The guys didn’t stick around long enough to find out what she likes! Every morning a different male emerged. There were rumblings that she was running a business. She didn’t have to go to school for that. Everyone was getting uneasy.
After weeks of nonsense, every girl’s patience on the 7th floor was wearing thin and it seemed I was voted to confront Allie. And yes, I was scared. Terrified, actually. It was much easier making fun of her privately. In the cafeteria one evening I approached her, my heart pounding. She looked annoyed and bored. I told her my beef and asked her if she could be quieter, or blare the tv or something. “No problem,” she said flatly. Could it be that easy?
No, it wasn’t. She was back at it, with overzealous mid-coitus vocalizations, the next night. My roommate and I stared at our ceiling. The two closed doors between Allie and me weren’t enough. But what’s worse was the next time I entered the cafeteria, Allie and other girls (she has friends?) yelled across the room “Here comes the virgin!” My face grew hot. I was a virgin, but why did that matter? More importantly, why did they think that? I was never embarrassed about it before. But I had felt this way before, many, many times:
Humiliation.
I looked down and pretended not to hear. This spectacle even embarrassed my friends.
During the next lovemaking session, I decided to bang on Allie’s door and offer her popcorn. The screaming stopped, but she didn’t answer. What had gotten into me?! Sleep deprivation may have been taking a toll.
The virgin bullying continued until everything came to a head one evening when I heard from the hallway, “Get out here, Mallory, I’m going to kick your ass.” My roommate and I looked at each other in disbelief and the foreign exchange students we were hanging out with started crying.
“Virgin, get out here.”
Doors were opening down the hall.
I don’t know what came over me, but I wasn’t going to live the rest of my semester, or life, in fear. To the dismay of my roommate and terror of the foreign exchange students I slammed open my door and said, “I don’t give a flying fuck if you sleep with everyone in Chicago, including the Lincoln Park Zoo, but I don’t want to hear it when I’m trying to sleep!”
I was expecting punches.
Silence.
Allie was peeking out from behind her own door. I had gotten to her. She thought I would just hide (and so did I). Trying to recover, she coolly strode across the hall toward me. “Stay out of my shit, virgin,” she said between clenched teeth. But the spell was already broken. I called her bluff. She knew it. I stood my shaky ground, staring at her in the middle of the hallway.
She advanced. I saw her hot pink nails flash before I caught her arm. In fluid movement I was backing her up to her room, my forearm at her chest. “You stay out of my shit.” And in that instant, the fury in my eyes and those words were directed at so much more than just Allie. I had never, ever, stood up to anyone before. Allie had the same misguided disdain in her eyes now as my tormentors before her, but the knot in my chest loosened.
“Stupid bitch,” she spat and slammed her door in my face. I was angry, but exhaled, feeling lighter after winning a battle against myself. The comments stopped after that, but they would have lost some of their power anyway.
Natalie A. Drozda is a lover of nature and words, pursuing her PhD in Counseling. You can find her snorkeling/at sea when time and funds permit.
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