Last Thursday the sun shone, the air was warm, and the apartment complex pool next to the sand volleyball court was clean. Swarmed in this space were a hundred or more men and women; college students with the day off. Nearly all the men had taken off their shirts. Most of the women wore bikinis. Each had a can or bottle of something, and they all laughed and touched and mooned. Trap boomed and screeched from overdriven speakers. To the untrained eye, it was something like a bacchanalian scene. But I–having been raised in church–knew that I witnessed the dark ritual seduction of innocent females seeking security.
The men faked good humor while the music hypnotized the women with its subtle lyrics of fornication and riches. They only did so because it was expected of them by the prospective papas at this impromptu security conference. The bumping propaganda lulled the women, and by this clever hypnosis and other unseen trickery the young men coerced the women to rub their bodies upon their oppressors. They only hung on the predators–as if each were a jungle gym–to see which man was strong enough to give a paternal hug, or some day hand his little girl an ice cream cone.
And so what about the beverages? What recourse had the poor, nearly naked, dears from this nightmare but to drink? How else to quell their fears of remaining unloved for who they were on the inside, or to drown their sorrows for having to pick from such a poor selection of future fathers who could not even manage a shirt?
Those women didn’t mean to wear bikinis around a bunch of sex-minded men instead of their dads. It was just bad luck.