Student Association meeting, May 13, 2001 (posted on that date)

From The Campbell-Frank Record, vol. 67, issue 14 (May 13, 2001): An Interview with the New S.A. Vice President Today, our fearless reporter was able to spend some time with our new Student Association Vice President and ask some questions about her views and policies. Unlike her usual custom, the V.P. was actually wearing clothing this day, specifically an itty bitty leather bikini. We caught up with her between classes, while she was between her eighth and ninth orgasms of the morning: RECORD: Good morning, Miss V.P., are you getting together with President Burns and the other members of the new administration to plan for next year? V.P.: Oh, God . . . ohhhhh . . . w - what? . . . ohhh . . . RECORD: What are your views on the new Activity Fee? V.P. : Uhhhh . . . I th - th - think . . . ohhh! G - god! mmmm . . . Jesus . . . ohhhh . . . RECORD: I see you are very religious. Do you intend to bring a Christian perspective to your job? V.P.: J - J - J - Jjj . . . . ohhh . . . tchk . . . tchk . . . RECORD: Are there any inspiring words you can leave your readers with? V.P.: Ga -- OHH! OHH! GOD!! OHH!! OHH! RECORD: Um, Miss Vice President? Can you understand what I’m saying? V.P.: OHH! OHH!! OHH! Ohhh. . . Mmmmmm . . . Oh yeah . . . ​ Make that -- between her ninth and TENTH orgasms . . . . . . The last Student Government meeting of the year, but the first of the “new regime”, in the main lecture hall, the traditional venue, though because the entire Student Senate consisted of only 30 people, the place looked pretty empty. In the seats were the members, specifically the reps from every dorm, every student club, and a few chosen at large. Up in the front row, Mr. Rod Sykes, representing the B.S.A., or Black Students Association. Several empty rows behind him, the two sensing each other uneasily, was Lenny Jones, president of the newly-formed Africa Freedom Club, which had drawn off some of the more militant members of the B.S.A. To one side sat Mandy, cajoled into representing the Jewish Students Association (15 members), who, just to piss them off, was sitting next to and chatting with Abdul of the Arab Students Association (8 members). Sitting in front at a long table, facing the crowd, were the new S.G. officers, headed by the tall, dark and soft-spoken Brad Burns, with the new Secretary, Isabel Torelli, and the new Treasurer, Betty Hernandez. All the officers, that is, except for the new Vice President, Tami Smithers, who stood casually and nakedly behind the lectern, reading off the attendance, pencil behind her left ear, absently thudding the heel of her flexed bare foot against the tile floor. “Henry . . . Gail . . . Jeremy . . . Jeffrey. Hi Jeff,” Tami said, finishing the roll call with a nod to Jeffrey Dillon of the Photography Club, slouching good-naturedly way in the back. “Everyone is here. Remember the handout on Robert’s Rules and address all your remarks to the chair.” She had learned this ritual language from being Recording Secretary the past few months. ​ There were some things brought up on minor matters. Then Lenny Jones asked to speak and was acknowledged by the naked “chair”. “Miss Chair, I note that we still haven’t had a response to our request for funding for the trip to New York that was given to your predecessor.” This was a trip to see a rap concert in September which had been given to Tyrone, Brad’s running mate who was then busted for drugs at his parent’s house and expelled from the college. Tami checked her notes, her left breast jiggling as she absently used her pencil eraser to scratch just below one nipple. “That was referred to the B.S.A., because your group is new.” It was the rule that no new group could get funding until its second semester of existence. The naked girl looked up at Rod with a little smile, her breasts swaying a little just so. “Well?” ​ Rod hesitated, then said, “We are, uh, working out a budget.” “Where is it?” “Tami . . .” Brad said softly. His V.P. was supposed to run the meetings, not make decisions. But everyone knew this was just Tami being Tami. After getting over her initial shyness as Recording Secretary, the naked freshman had become more and more assertive and had gotten a reputation as a real pistol. “Um, we’re working on it,” Rod said. Tami knew the problem. Lenny was not a bad guy but was hot-headed and a little stupid. Rod was afraid Lenny’s friends would talk him into using the money to buy drugs. Or if they did go to the rap concert, they’d get wrapped up in trouble there. Tami left the podium, prompting another gentle but useless admonition from Brad. The only sound was her bare feet slapping on the floor as she went up to Rod and looked down. “Is that it?” Without waiting for an answer she grabbed the list of numbers from his lap and, to everyone’s surprise, hopped up on the wooden armrests of the chair next to him and walked on top of the movie-theater style seats, using the armrests as stepping-stones, until she stood in front of where Lenny was sitting. Everyone was speechless, except for Brad, who covered his eyes and shook his head, chuckling gently. “God, Tami . . .” The beautiful naked girl with the all-over golden tan bent over and handed the sheet to Lenny. “There. You can submit it to Betty now.” The young man in the Latrell Sprewell cornrows looked up and then quickly looked down again at the paper, speechless, trying without success to concentrate on it. Tami knew, as did some others, that one of the things that got Lenny upset with the B.S.A. was the fact that its President was involved with a white girl, and not only that, but a white girl who was always naked, showing as much white skin as it was possible to show. “Well?” Tami prodded him, standing with bare feet perched widely on two armrests, looking down at him with her hands on her hips, knowing that Lenny did not want to be seen giving any attention to this white girl’s body. ​ “Uh . . . I don’t know,” he said, not wanting to commit himself because he realized that in his state of distraction the numbers in front of him were not registering in his brain at all. “Well, then, get with Rod and work it out,” Tami said. Then she turned around and wiggled and jiggled her way back across the armrests, landing back on the floor in front with a loud slap of her feet and padding back to behind the podium. As Brad looked at the assembly and smiled and shrugged tolerantly, his naked Vice President got back to reading the agenda. “Next,” she said, looking at her notebook, “the Spanish Club wanted to talk about next semester’s cultural schedule . . . ” ​ And so it went, Tami conscious of being naked but also conscious of having fun running this meeting. Being naked was shaming, but it was not so bad because her mind was already in the near future. The very, very near future. In her mind she was already wearing clothes and did not really feel naked any more. Only 6 more days . . . The only time she was stripped naked again, mentally, was when Abdul said, in his stilted, polite manner, “I’d like to bring our attention to the highly offensive article in this week’s Record.” Tami blushed bright red. Everyone knew what he meant: that fake “interview” with Tami, convulsing in orgasm. Tami suddenly felt every inch of her nakedness exposed as she faced the assembly, once again felt the intense urge to hide behind the lectern. She felt a chill and goose-bumps broke out; her nipples became tight and erect, the floor suddenly felt ice cold beneath her bare feet. Clearing her throat, she said, “Uh, Abdul has brought up the . . . article in the Record.” Heads turned and everyone saw that the Record’s rep had conveniently left and was nowhere to be seen. Abdul continued, “I would like very much to propose that the Student Government send a letter of protest to the Record with a copy to the Dean.” The resolution passed unanimously, as acknowledged by the appreciative but cringing, naked V.P.