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I go by a few names. Not like a criminal writing bad checks, wearing wigs, trying to stay ahead of the law. But I get called daddy's girl, sweetheart, angel, baby; I'm Patricia legally, Patty to family, Trisha to people I want to impress. I think Trisha has a little edge to it. You don't really meet strippers named Patty, but I bet you could imagine some chick named Trisha who gets glitter in her fur and shows her titties off to drunk guys.

That night, I was Trisha, freshly twenty years of age. For my birthday my best friend got me my own leather jacket after I gushed about how cool hers was. No patches on mine yet, those would come later. It still had that fresh smell to it. I remember thinking some BO and some sweat might give it a little character.

I'm pretty small, even for a hyena - barely five feet tall at the tops of my ears. A polite way to put it is petite but I know I'm just a runt. I don't have boobs. It doesn't exactly bug me since my mom doesn't either. But the jacket fit me so well and looked so fucking cool that I didn't care about how small and flat I was.

It only made sense that I break my new leather in at the biker bar on the edge of town. To me it was always that forbidden zone. My mom, the glasses-wearing living abacus that she is, has at times made a living doing the books for local businesses, bars especially. Computers are expensive but pen and paper - and the patience to work it all out - is cheap. Suffice it to say I have seen the inside of plenty of bars in my formative years, albeit from the back rooms. Bars don't intimidate me, or really interest me.

Maybe because I've never been inside of it, but that biker bar always excited me. The bikes are so loud, the chatter is so rowdy. I've heard about stabbings and there's always at least a few gunshots echoing from there every week. And it's not a party until the black-and-whites show up. I'd never been there before and it seemed like just the place to go to flaunt my fresh jacket. And when I was there, I decided I was going to get my cherry popped. It was a snap decision, given about as much thought as what I want to order when I go to Burger King. Being young, horny, and stupid - there's a deadly combination.

I wasn't sure what kind of reception I expected. I had toyed around with fantasies which fell basically into two groups: that I would be one of the boys, enjoying the revelry and the mischief, or I would be a princess and all those rowdy bikers would actually turn out to be fairly chivalrous. (I've always had a romantic streak.)

It turned out to be neither. I went basically unnoticed. Most of the bikers were too tall to even realize I was there. I did see a few exciting sights. I watched a German Shepherd get some teeth knocked right out of his mouth by a ram with a steel knuckle duster. Seeing that fan of blood spurt from the dog's mouth as he flopped unconscious against the floor, while it didn't make me wet or anything, was so primal and alien to me. The most savage thing I'd ever seen prior to that was my dad breaking his toe kicking the lawn mower when it wouldn't start.

The music was so loud. So fucking distorted and horrible. It was an otherworldly racket and I swear that the band was trying to wring the ugliest notes possible out of their instruments. But it was exciting. It was different to me.

Then I had a beer, and I didn't like it. I was not surprised by this. My friends all warned me that I wouldn't enjoy it and I didn't, but I still drank it all. When sipping didn't work I just gulped it down, four big chugs and then all that was left was a wad of foam in the bottom of the glass. I belched like a champ and everyone around me laughed. Somebody clapped me on the shoulder and congratulated me; then one of the bikers answered with a belch of his own so deep and resonant that it rivaled the noise some of the bikes made. I think it loosened some phlegm in my chest.

Even with my first taste of beer souring my belly, I still wanted sex. Looking back on it I'm not one-hundred percent sure what I saw in Darby. (That was the guy's name. Not that I'd know until much later.) I guess you could say it was beer goggles or naivety. Maybe I was just a dumb kid. All of the above?

When I saw him, a tall brown bear around a hundred pounds overweight, something just seemed to say in my head, this guy. A joke my single aunt likes to tell is that a woman has one of these and can get all of those she wants, with a gesture toward the crotch. I don't exactly wonder why she's single. But it's true, regardless of how trashy it is. I think I could have had basically any guy I wanted even though I'm flat. Guys like pussy. Most of them do, anyway. And I doubt there were any queers at the bar. Or, if there were, they were definitely keeping it on the down-low.

I sidled up to Darby and my arm slid around his back. Through his jacket I felt something stiff and recognized that it was a pistol. Where the show of violence earlier had just shocked and thrilled me, knowing Darby was packing actually excited me sexually. It made him feel so potent and virile. It also seemed stupid to have a gun basically pointing down his ass crack but that was how he rolled.

He slid an arm around me in turn. There was nothing clever spoken between us. I thought I would say something seductive but I didn't manage anything besides "Hey there."

"Hey," he answered. Had a pull on his beer. Scratched his jowly chin. Then he glanced down at me. "Wanna fuck?"

He was so much bigger and older. I had a tendency toward feeling like a small child even though I was an adult, but never more so than when that bear looked down at me with his unremarkable brown eyes. I just nodded, blushing. I thought about how amazing sex sounded when my friends tried to tell me about it. And I had seen some porn - sticky old magazines that belonged to my dad. We had a VCR but there was sure as hell no way I'd ever get a porno tape past my parents. Secondhand accounts and worn-out pictures were all I had to go on.

I never exactly pictured my first time as being on a bed of rose petals with my soulmate but I also did not expect it to happen in a bathroom which stunk of stale piss and probably worse, but I'm pretty sure my mind filtered that out for me. Darby smelled bad anyway. Body odor and gasoline is a curious smell. And when he kissed me - and god, the kiss was good - I tasted his bad teeth. Cigarette smoke, beer. I've never mentioned the fishy reek that was on his breath but based on some things I've heard, I think it's safe to say that pussy was on Darby's menu earlier in the evening.

I've never been kissed the way Darby kissed me. His tongue was like a side of beef in my mouth. Which admittedly is a fairly big mouth, given that I'm a hyena with big jaws, but I'm still no match for a grizzly bear. So much slobber. The stuff oozed out of my mouth; I couldn't seal my lips well enough to keep it inside, his tongue pushed my jaws so far apart. I couldn't even kiss back. And while he was kissing me, he had his fingers inside of me. That was almost awkward to me because it, somehow, tickled me and I didn't know how to react to it. Thankfully the kiss obscured my expressions, otherwise he might have been offended to see me grinning and hear my giggling.

His penis seemed monstrous to me. I guess on Darby it was one of those average peckers, a nice uncut thing; all of my friends talk about how cut boys are the best but something about seeing the fat, almost floppy hood of Darby's foreskin excited me. It was one of the last hints of excitement I felt that night, because shortly after I saw his penis, he penetrated me.

Darby mounted me on the sink. My butt cheeks were in the basin and it was cold, the faucet jabbed me just under my tail, but Darby's entrance made that pain insignificant. He never stopped to ask me if he should go gentle and it never occurred to me to ask him to use a condom. Looking back I guess it was assumed any girl going to a biker bar would be a slut and therefore have taken precautions of her own.

Even though I knew what made babies, I was too stunned by the pain to protest what was happening. I reminded myself that I had wanted this, had come just to get it. I clung onto the bear, whimpering as he entered me. Hot, bright blood stained Darby's penis. In that moment I swear I could smell it: the copper smell of blood, my virginity being ripped away from me. I squeezed Darby's doughy body the way I would have held on riding his bike with him. Slobber caked my cheeks and my chin, some of it mine, most of it his. His burly smell was thick so near to him.

I struggled to keep from yelping when his hips started to move. He was so plain and blunt about it and I felt like a drama queen. He couldn't see my blood for his big gut but something tells me he wouldn't have remarked on it. As it was he said nothing to me. The last thing he had spoken to me was his proposition, and I hadn't even answered him. I had just followed.

Darby was huffing, grunting. His teeth gnashed, big and yellowed and gleaming in flickering florescent lights. I felt odd. The pain in my vagina had dulled from white-hot to a mild glow, and I almost took pleasure from his girth, not so much his length. What buzz I had was long gone and all I felt was tired and disappointed with myself. Darby, still grunting and snarling, smashing his hips into me. The ride was almost over and that was good: I wanted off.

Then the bear's climax came and his thick white semen filled me. I realized what this meant but had no idea how to articulate it to this burly bear. As he grunted and crooned I felt the strangest feeling of satisfaction; I hadn't had an orgasm but the pleasured, dopey look on his face was kinda cute.

As he pulled out of me he said "Good pussy." Then I suppose I was leaking a particularly bloody slop of semen, because he laughed and said, "Looks like when you dip in the garlic butter right after the marinara." I said nothing. I just sat up in the sink, and I blushed hotly as I pulled my panties and jeans up. I made no effort to clean myself.

Darby moved into a stall and I awkwardly followed him. I was nervous, and I felt as immature as I really was; I was looking for some comfort from the guy who had just popped my cherry. Instead I watched as he wielded his now flaccid, bloody cock and pissed into the bowl.

"Hey," he said, "you need to piss too or something? There's other stalls. Unless you just like watching."

I didn't know what to say to him. I blurted, "What's your name?" I hated how meek my voice sounded.

He glanced back at me. I think if I had asked any other time he wouldn't have told me, but I guess guys are pliant after they get laid. He said, "Darby. Don't you tell anybody that."

Darby did not ask my name. I did not volunteer it. I watched him finish his piss, which seemed to go on for ages. He shook off, then turned to me, still holding his penis. It seemed like he was going to offer me a taste but I guess the look on my face dissuaded him; I can only imagine that I looked uncomfortably young to him at that moment. It wasn't very long after that that I lost Darby in the crowd of the bar. For all I know he could have been one of the departures, as bikes constantly came and went all night.

Then I went home, walking the way I came. It was close to dawn when I got in. I rinsed myself in the shower but didn't bother to bathe, and then I fell into bed. Despite my exhaustion I was too awake to sleep. Around seven in the morning mom popped into my room to ask how the party had gone - a little white lie I had told, and really, it was a big party - and I said fine, but I was tired.

Mom left me and after that, I got up, locked the door. For just a few precious moments I was able to push the worries about pregnancy and poor decisions out of my mind. I was still exhilarated in ways I couldn't figure out, still thinking about the savagery of what I had seen and been part of. I masturbated using my hairbrush's smooth plastic handle as a dildo. It took me five minutes to climax and when I looked at my brush, I saw blood on its handle. Cringing, I dropped it into my wastebasket with my crumpled-up shitty poems and Tootsie Roll wrappers, and then I curled under my blankets.

It was too much to think about. I was so afraid of being pregnant, wondering what my parents would think of me. Despite their antics, none of my friends had come up pregnant yet. Alone and defiled but fulfilled in some primal way, I slept, and I had a dream about Darby heaving and snarling over top of me.