missmarysuniverse: I.C.E.

Drake reaches over and puts his hand between my thighs at my skirt hemline and slides it quickly to my crotch. “I can’t wait to come inside you,” he says viciously as he rubs my pubic area through my panty hose. His eyes are wild and glassy as he leans forward then back in an agitated motion.

My heart begins to race, and I feel as though my blood is draining from me. I don’t know what is wrong with Drake, but I tell myself I need to stay calm. Is he going to rape me? I wonder. It’s Saturday evening, and I’m driving west on Central Avenue, headed to a restaurant that he has chosen. Drake Wesel and I are on a dinner date.

I’m Rhonda Thatcher, and I first saw Drake when my girlfriends and I went to The Classics nightclub for Friday’s Happy Hour after work. A male dance show followed happy hour, where he performed as a male stripper called The Golden Bull. He danced around our table. He was tall, high yellow, had dark thick eyebrows, a fabulous moustache, complimented with high cheekbones, long wavy black hair tied back, and beautiful brown eyes. I didn’t tuck any bills in his thong, but his physique looked brawny and provocative.

A week later, I was sitting alone at the bar in a neighborhood club in Landover, and he approached me and introduced himself. We began getting acquainted: he was divorced, I was divorced, and we both like to party; he was thirty; I was thirty-seven, and so on, for a couple of hours. We exchanged contact information and said good-bye. We had a couple of phone chats which led to this dinner date.

To be continued...