After weeks of begging to see you again, you agree to let me come to your Super Bowl party so I can make food and serve you and your guy friends. You draw up a menu and send it to me in advance. It's suspiciously messy, but I'm desperate to see you again, so I put my worries in the back of my mind and get ready to go. You have me wear a little pair of booty shorts and a cropped team jersey. I'm uncomfortable in such skimpy clothes around strangers, but I do as you ask. When I arrive, you tell me I'm to do anything your friends tell me to. I start to worry, but agree, and you show me to the kitchen, where I begin preparing made-to-order nachos and hot dogs for you and your dozen friends. I bring out the first batch of nachos with gooey canned cheese sauce, chili, and sour cream to your friend Sean.

"Get on your knees and serve them properly." He commands. I do, lifting the paper container with both hands and offering with my head bowed. "I wanted jalapes, you dumb slut." He sneers as he takes the nachos, drenched in cheese sauce and other components, and smashes them, crunching and oozing over the top of my head. Nacho cheese drips down my perfectly styled hair. My head drops deeper in shame. I've fallen for it again. You invited me here just to humiliate me in front of your friends, and I'm going to endure it, because I want you so badly.

"Go make them right," Sean commands, but before I can stand and comply, he grabs my arm- "Oh, and Lisa, don't forget to keep your stupid little hat on the entire time."

My face blazes red as I hold the nacho basket in place, stand, and carefully walk back to the kitchen to try again.

Determined to get it right, I emerge with the proper order, hat still in place, chili and cheese dripping through my hair like disgusting highlights. Holding it in place with one hand, and the correct order with the other, I lower to my knees and offer again. "So you CAN do something right." Sean says. He pats me condescendingly on the head, smashing the chips and cheese in further. I start to get up.

"Aren't you forgetting a proper thank you for your lesson in good service, Lisa?" You say from across the room. "Tell Sean how grateful you are for his correction. And don't forget your manners again tonight."

Back on my knees, I beg Sean's forgiveness and thank him for correcting me so kindly. He nods, but his attention is already back on eating and watching the game. I get up and get ready to fulfill the next order: Four hot dogs with extra cheese, chili, relish, ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise. I toss my "hat" in an excessively large trash can so I can prepare them while wondering who on earth would want to eat something drowning in all of this mess. I'm nervous, but very careful to follow directions exactly. I don't want to end up wearing this. I pile it all on a paper plate for Phil, a tall, lanky guy next to you on the couch.

Kneeling, I present beautifully, as I learned with Sean.

"Very nicely done!" Phil applauds. "Now that I'm seeing what I ordered, though This looks repulsive." A Vice grips my stomach. "I don't want to waste any of the food Evan was kind enough to provide, though. Hmmm You look hungry!"

I open my mouth to assure him that I am not, and he seizes the opportunity to quickly grab a dripping hot dog and shove it in. As it doesn't come close to fitting all at once, so quickly, he winds up ramming it into my face, smearing the soggy bun and condiments all over as he does. I realize there is no winning this game. I'm going to be slowly and tortuously trashed despite my best efforts to avoid it. I'm left with a hot dog sticking out of my mouth and a face covered in a disgusting concoction, complete with bits of soggy bun. I kneel there, three hot dogs left on the plate, looking absolutely ridiculous and awaiting further instruction.

"Wow, you're really bad at eating hot dogs." Phil chuckles. We better save the rest for later. He opens the front of my jersey and stuffs one in the cups of my bra. It spills out and slops down my stomach. "And I liked you better with a hat." He says, turning one upside down over the nachos already crushed into my hair. "Get up." He commands. I stand in front of him as he takes the last dog, opens my shorts, and shoves it deep into my panties.

The other men are laughing, pointing, shaking their heads at my plight. I walk dejectedly, and with some difficulty, back to the kitchen, dreading what might be next.

The slop on my head falls to the floor, and I pick up what I can and throw it in the garbage before washing my hands and preparing the next order. Two beers. I sigh with relief, and bring them to John, a balding man, with a dad body and clothes to match. I present properly and he absently takes one, sets it on the coffee table before taking the other. It's cheap beer that I can already smell on him. He shakes the can thoroughly, and aims for my face. A blast of cold, wet foam overwhelms me as the room erupts with laughter. Foam dripping from my face and hair, I feel utterly degraded but somewhat relieved that the pressure dislodged some of the mess I've been wearing. Now wreaking of cheap beer, I tell him thank you, but before I can get up

"Oh, Lisa, be a dear and try to mop up some of that beer mess on the floor." You say. "I'm out of towels. Just go ahead and use your jersey." I sigh and slowly remove my now stained and wet jersey, mopping up as much as I can, on my hands and knees and then standing. "Put it back on. No one wants to see what a desperate whore you are." I reluctantly oblige, the sopping wet fabric sticking to my skin as I trudge back to the kitchen, and read what's next.

"Put the rest of the party food and supplies on the trolley cart and roll it out to the living room." This is it, I think. I roll the cart into the living room to find a wading pool waiting for me. On the TV, I see it's halftime.