“Jackie, no. That is not a dress. It’s a glorified handkerchief. You can see my everything,” I object strenuously, only half-aware that I’ve already conceded to going to the party.

“That’s the point, sweet girl. You’ve got plenty worth showing and you should do it more often.”

I don’t budge, so she tries another tactic.

“Please go try it on. I just want to see it. I won’t make you wear it if you don’t want,” Jackie cajoles.

I know this trick. I might as well get in a shady van with free candy spray-painted on the side. Still, I put on the stupid dress.

* * * *

This is a bad idea.

This is a really bad idea.

This is a really terribly bad idea!

After an hour of playing dress-up with Jackie, deciding how to curl my hair, putting on a bit more makeup and generally reminding myself I’m a woman, I walk up the driveway to the football house. And yes, I’m wearing the handkerchief dress.

What can I say? Jackie is good.

Music and people are overflowing from the open doors and windows, but I shove past with a few quiet “Excuse mes”. No one responds and they only seem to get out of the way when I tap them on the shoulder. I guess common courtesy isn’t big at house parties.

I’m not even in the door yet and I feel out of place and ready to leave. Jackie made me promise to stay a half-hour, long enough to have a drink and try to relax. Easy for her to say five hundred miles away, safely behind her computer screen.

I continue to make my way around people and through the house, on the hunt for something to drink so I can fulfill my promise to Jackie and get the hell out of here. There’s a makeshift bar in the kitchen and I trudge through the crowd toward it.

“What can I get for you tonight, sexy?” a massive guy in a football jersey asks. He must be over three hundred pounds. I wonder if he has to turn sideways to walk through doorways. I step away to let the girl he’s talking to behind me pass by, except there isn’t another girl. There’s just me. His eyes are locked on me and I swallow down the lump in my throat.

“Ummm…”

Words. This is where most people use words.

Nope, I’ll just point to the giant punch bowl.

“Victory punch?”

I give him a quick nod. Who needs words, am I right?

“Nice choice.” He gives me an approving nod as he hands me my cliché red Solo Cup filled with the unknown bright red concoction.

They wouldn’t roofie a whole punch bowl, right?