Wednesday, June 17, 2015

It happened again today! This is the third time! What is going on!

It was lunchtime and I was rushing across the intersection to get to the bodega. I suddenly yanked off my jacket and just let it drop to the pavement behind me. All around, woman began stripping off their clothes and just tossing them aside, as if undressing in public was natural as texting on your cell phone. Unlike any of the others, I knew what I was doing but couldn't stop. The other women were oblivious, and would remain so for ten full minutes after they were naked.

This only happened to those of us on foot and in stopped cars; no one driving tried to make themselves naked, thank God. There were a lot of squealing brakes and honking horns, lots of men laughing and shouting, pointing fingers everywhere. This included males of all ages. Teenage boys were the worst.

I managed to remain in my bra and panties, but it was close. Twice my hand went up my back in search of my bra strap. The second time I unhooked it, but left it loosely snugging my breasts as I briskly walked. I was unable to hold it in place or influence it in any way. But neither was I forced to bare my breasts.

I entered the bodega and joined the queue at the deli counter. A man I didn't know moved up behind me and unexplainably reattached my brastraps.

"I'm Cooper," he whispered when I thanked him.

"I don't know why you just did that, but I am so grateful that you did," I whispered back. "Do you have any idea what's going on?"

"None," he said, distracted by the sound of approaching sirens. This was three times in a month and the police and rescue services were ready. So was the press and anyone with a cell phone. YouTube would be deluged with videos. The Internet would flood with thousands, maybe millions of pictures if this were widespread enough. The first time it happened, two square blocks and maybe a thousand women were involved. The event lasted two minutes.

The second time, (Sun, June 6) I removed my top, skirt, and brassiere in the movie theatre--that time I wasn't so fortunate—and the event covered four square blocks and victimized women tenfold. Mothers, daughters, teenagers, grandmothers ... anyone past their fourteenth birthday. The screams were ear piecing five minutes later, the panicked scrambling and humiliation was heart wrenching. Every woman affected but me was completely naked.

"Um..." He turned to face me. "I don't want to complicate your life more than it already is, but you stand out like Lady Liberty in the middle of New York Harbor." He indicated the half dozen naked women.

I recoiled as his meaning set in. Right now, no one but he seemed to notice my semi-clothed condition. The men were too busy ogling, photographing, and taking videos of the oblivious victims. That would change once the mass hypnosis or whatever it was ended. Then every woman present would see the difference between them and I, and the men too. I would become guilty by happenstance, a Typhoid Mary of clothing.

"Oh, God," I moaned. "Please no."

He shrugged, acknowledging my despair. "The better of two evils, Melissa. I promise not to look, if that helps."

I eyed him, frustrated. Then, as the first police car screeched around the corner a block down and attempted to block the intersection, I ground my teeth and reached back to unlatch my bra. I stopped, dropped my arm and re-crossed it over my chest with the other.

He gave me a wry, whatever you want look.

"No!" I protested. "I can't unhook it, Cooper!"

His amusement disappeared. "What?"

"It's like something wants me to be noticed," I whined. "I can't even uncross my arms.

He blinked, looking down at my chest. I have medium size boobs, but they weren't the focus of his attention. My non-cooperative arms were.

"Maybe something does," he mused. "Was it like this before?"

I nodded; mortified that he had put it together so fast.

"Both times?" he asked.

I nodded again, flushed red as an apple. He looked at me oddly.

"You okay?" he asked.

I was not okay. I was so far from okay I wanted to laugh. My underarms itched and it was hard not to squirm. He had me sexually aroused. Or I had me sexually aroused, I don't know which. It was horrible.

"Help me out, please?" I mouse-squeaked.

He laughed, mirthlessly and muttered. "This is the weirdest moment of my life."

"You?" I protested.

With no forethought or motivation, I lifted onto my toes and offered him my lips. He kissed me, stunned, and then really kissed me hard. A moment later, I was naked and awaiting the other shoe to drop, unlike everyone else.

Thursday, June 18th 1:45 a.m.

I have a confession to make. I asked Cooper to take me home afterward and spend the night. We had sex--if what he did to me could ever be construed simply as sex--and he is asleep beside me, snoring softly as I write this account on my iPhone. My old iPhone--my model 4S. I activated it online when I got home because my brand new iPhone 6 went the way of my jacket and skirt and top. This is a bonanza for retailers I bet. All the cell phones, purses, wallets, and outfits lost? The cost must be staggering.

I so adore this man. Which is unfortunate, as he is married and has three kids. He is here from Philadelphia for two days and leaves via Amtrak from Penn Station on Friday afternoon. I hate myself for screwing a married man. OK ... seducing a married man. His wife's name is Jena.

I glossed over his removing my underwear. I have never been so utterly embarrassed as I was, having someone I didn't know take off my bra and slide off my panties. I was naked then, like everyone else, goose-fleshed and shivering. He even told me to remove my shoes, which I did just as all bedlam broke loose. I easily retrieved my underwear and shoes, right there at my feet, but my top an skirt, jacket and wallet were gone. Even were I to miraculously stumble across my wallet, any money and credit cards would be missing. That was Rule One with each occurrence.

No ... Rule One were the sexual assaults.

The media went crazy. Every station, every web portal, every radio station, right up until we went to bed tonight. I couldn't stomach any more. It's so major a news event now, even the broadcast networks stopped pixelating over the images and showed us completely nude. Estimates are twelve square blocks and twenty thousand women and girls affected. Again, none below the age of fourteen or females driving cars. Unless they stopped. Then they stripped nude and drove on.

Cooper pointed this out to me: The second and third events happened twelve days and eleven days apart. If this isn't coincidence, the next occurrence should happen Sunday, June 28. He also said each occurrence began five minutes later than the predecessor. No one but Cooper seems aware of this. Why does he have to be married?

Tell me why I kissed him? And why did he kiss me back? That is not normal behavior on my part. Whether he normally kisses strange girls in their underwear is not a question I could ask. I will tell you that he kisses me like no one ever has before. And his cock is so BIG! Caucasian men don't have cocks that big! He is so big he made me bleed! And I don't mean just a little, either, my little friend. I bled much worse than I did my first time. I was so embarrassed. He was mortified.

I was stupid. I adhere religiously to the tenets of safe sex, but I threw all caution out the window tonight in the name of desire. I just had to have him inside me, bare as I was at lunchtime today.

I clung to him like a drowning victim when he came, absorbing every molecule of his sperm. He came and he came and he came. I forbade my fingernails to leave a single mark on his back, and I so craved to attack his neck and sink in my teeth. He plastered my shoulders and chest with livid purple bite marks. I am a walking piece of art. What he did to my nipples is considered a crime in some states. He did not do me anal, but he explored me extensively with his middle finger and made me sodomize myself the same way. A new experience for the girl who's done everything.

Listen to me. I sound like a slut! Or a high school girl, I don't know what is worse. Is there a difference?

Anyway, time for bed. I am relatively safe, I think--my period ended two days ago, so there is no chance I get pregnant. Not unless he had super sperm to go along with his super penis and testicles. That would be just my luck.

Thursday, June 18th

Just a quick note this morning: I EFFING HURT!!!!! LOL.

Noonish

I work for pigs! I do! I cannot believe that I am being docked half a days pay for not returning to work yesterday. My fellow employees did, it was pointed out to me.

My fellow employees were all in the building when the event occurred and had access to their clothing, I pointed out in return. I was in my bra and panties and my flats, for God's sakes! I was going to work in my underwear the rest of the day?

I couldn't go home and change (I actually could, I guess) and was only able to get into my apartment because I had left a key with my stay-at-home neighbor Mrs. Cartwright after the previous episode. So how is that fair? Victimize the victim--repeatedly.

I did not have sex this morning. The concept of a penis inside me was totally ludicrous. Cooper watched the news while I showered and it was disturbing. More disturbing, I should say. Hospitals overflowed yesterday afternoon with sexual assault victims. I knew some women were raped, it happened the two previous times also, but it was like Armageddon yesterday afternoon. The National Guard was mobilized. to help take victim reports. Not only that, of course, but it was planned on. Someone had seen it coming.

Twenty thousand women affected. How many of us raped, I wondered? How many were teens? How did this business have an arbitrary cutoff of fourteen years old? That was the strangest question; along with how did it know someone was behind the wheel of a car and temporarily exempt her? And what about me? What's special about me?

5:34 p.m.

On the subway heading uptown. Everyone is buzzing about how the event centered on the intersection of Madison Ave and East 36th. I was in the intersection. That's where I stripped off my jacket and top and skirt. I was at Ground Zero. How disturbing.

Also disturbing is the attention being paid us by men. That look of speculation in their gaze ... Were you in the event? Were you photographed or videoed nude? Were you raped, maybe? My fellow would-be victims see it too. This never-before look of fear and intimidation in their eyes. It could happen, right here in this subway car. We'd all be screwed. Literally.

6:44 p.m.

It just keeps getting worse. The apartment was empty when I got home. Never has it felt so abysmally vacant. I don't believe I miss Cooper so much.

What kind of name is Cooper anyway? Were his parents high on cocaine? Who names a baby boy a girl's name. I won't mention that when he comes home. (If only that were true.)

His wife is not Jena. Her name is Gwen, which proves my state of mind last night. Jena is my best friend. I would never cuckold my best friend. Can a woman be cuckolded? Is that a word?

I can't believe how slow this old iPhone works. I should never have upgraded to IOS 7. I got rid of it and bought the iPhone 5 last year just for that reason. I have now lost two cell phones, two outfits, two wallets, the purses containing them, and probably my mind. Thank God I was in the theater the second time it happened. I managed to lose nothing but my dignity.

I'm not Ground Zero, am I? It's ridiculous, but I have been dead center of each occurrence. On May 25, I was mid-town, delivering a package for my boss. (That boss, yeah, docking me for yesterday afternoon.) I had just exited the cab when I and every other woman in sight began to disrobe. I was horrified, but I couldn't stop myself from stripping down utterly naked on my way inside the building. That's naked, Diary, as in nothing left but jewelry: my rings, bracelets and ankle bracelet, earrings and the lizard in my belly button. I had not shaved in a week and that horrified me worse than anything else: stubbly underarms, thighs and between my legs. I was so unbelievably embarrassed. I was the only one, though. The rest of the girls and women breezed along without a care in the world ... until men began to assault them. Then it became a horror show. I was a fortunate one. Two men escorted me up to the client's office and left me there, clothed in one of their suit coats. Three times, and I haven't been raped. No one has touched me other than Cooper. I so want him to touch me again.

I am starving. I better order takeout. I need my phone for that.

8:40 p.m.

Cooper is spending the night. It distresses him lying to Gwen, but he wants every second available with me before he leaves tomorrow. Now he's in the shower. I am sitting cross-legged on the bed in my pajama bottoms typing. He took off my top and asked me to stay that way unless I have to walk in front of a window.

He loves my breasts. I have nothing but distain for my breasts, but I am so happy he likes them. For Cooper, I would stand in front of a window all night long, modeling my breasts for neighbors and passers by.

I was truthful and told him I could not possibly have sex with him tonight. He asked if I would consider having anal. I laughed, incredulous.

"Are you serious?" I asked.

I think he's serious, Diary. I am all butterflyie inside. That's not a word, I know, but that's what I am: All butterflyie. Let me think about something else.

Cooper thinks it's me. I'm being targeted, he says.

Melissa Burroughs? Please! I am not a runway model. I have no waist to hip ratio, and my chest, despite whatever Cooper thinks of it, is laugh-worthy. I am ten lbs overweight. I wear braces because my folks were too strapped with six kids to afford orthodonture. My breasts are noticeably different in size, and I have ugly, oval-shaped areola. My only gifts are my face and my persona of the helpless waif. I'm certain that's why Cooper came to my rescue. Men always need to help me; I looked perpetually confused.