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| It wasn't exactly that I wanted to be Debby Stein, although she
was the coolest girl I knew. I just wanted what she had. Experience,
for one and beauty, of course. She thought she was fat, but she
was just voluptuous, with black hair and almond eyes. Even with
a mouthful of braces, she was the most beautiful girl I knew,
and everyone knew it but her. She also had Jim, a handsome, sexy, talented boyfriend who adored her. Was that why I'd fallen for Jim's brother? Undoubtedly that had been part of it at first. But it hadn't worked out for me as it had for Debby. At parties, at nightclubs, she and Jim were always making out in corners. Jonathan had only kissed me once, and chastely at that. And now what Debby had wasn't enough for her. I didn't get it. "Do you think Eddie would be good in bed?" she asked me. She was eating a tuna sandwich at one of the round tables in the school lunchroom. "You'd know better than I," I said. I'd just turned sixteen and I'd only kissed four guys. I'd never had sex, never given a blowjob, not even a hand job. One time last fall when we were all sitting out on the terrace talking about guys, Josie made some reference to hand jobs, and made a jerking-off motion with both hands. Sandra burst out laughing and said, "Hey, Josie, what's with the two-handed action?" Debby laughed too, and Josie ducked her head. I'd said nothing–I thought you used both hands too. Josie had lost her virginity a month or two later, but I was still ridiculously a virgin. "But don't you think Eddie looks like he'd be good?" Debby asked. Eddie Chaney was boyishly cute, with a turned-up nose and apple cheeks. He had a penchant for Chubby Checker records and cheesy old horror movies and Zippy the Pinhead cartoons. He also had a girlfriend, but that didn't seem to bother Debby. "I suppose so." "That's what I thought." She gesticulated with her sandwich. "I've gotta fuck him." "But what about Jim? You'll hurt him." Debby sighed and put down her sandwich with a big bite taken out of one end. "I know. I told him I might sleep with Eddie, and he looked so sad. I told him he could do it with another girl if he wanted, but he said he couldn't think of other girls with me around. I suppose he won't be faithful once I go away to college." Debby gave me a sudden candid look. "If Jim and I weren't going out, would you want to go out with him?" "I think we all would." Jim was a gaunt genius who looked like Gene Vincent reborn. "But you are. Why do you need to do it with Eddie? You always say Jim's the best." "He is. But Jim doesn't like to go out anymore. He just likes to stay home when he's not at band practice. Eddie likes to go out and have fun. Besides, I can't stop being curious. I mean, variety is important. For example... Lydia, what's your favorite thing to eat?" I thought for a second. "A Whopper with cheese." "Okay, but if you ate a Whopper with cheese everyday, you'd start to get bored with it. You'd want to eat something different. Like, I don't know, filet mignon." I imagined the pickle slices bursting in my mouth, the salty cheese, the ground beef. "No, I wouldn't," I said. "I'd still want a Whopper with cheese." "Really?" Debby picked up her tuna sandwich and took a listless bite. Junior Little (whose real name was Peter–"Peter Little, ha ha!" Debby chuckled, "but his isn't!") was a twenty-four year old truck driver with a blond buzz-cut and an earring. The night we met him at a punk party in Ventura County, he wore a tight black vinyl jumpsuit, and Debby's eye jumped from Eddie to Junior. Pretty soon the cops came (the music was too loud); and Debby, Hillary and I ended up drinking 151 in Junior's car. When he went to take a piss, Debby turned to me. "Do you like him?" "Yeah, I suppose." I had to admit, Junior was cute–thin, blue-eyed, with chiseled features. "Go for him!" I'd hoped to meet someone at the party–I'd worn lots of mascara and red lipstick. Could I really go for Junior? But the second he returned, Debby's hand rested on his thigh and stayed there. I was angry–why had she told me to go for him when she was planning to? Junior dropped me and Hillary at her house, and he and Debby drove away. Lying in the sleeping bag on Hillary's floor, I started crying and couldn't stop. They are fucking this very moment, I thought. Debby is tearing off Junior's jumpsuit and hurting Jim. Hurting Jim! For sex! Given the opportunity, I'd do anything for sex, too–but I wasn't given the opportunity. My mascara was running, staining the pillow black. "Don't cry!" Hillary kept saying helplessly from her bed. "I'm a joke!" I wept. "Everyone's laughing at me!" "That's ridiculous." "See?" "Lydia, come on, that's not what I meant." I knew it wasn't, but that was how I felt–as if everyone but me was in on the big secret. I wanted to know what all the songs were about, especially "Come Now" by the Troggs, and "Teenage Lust" by the MC5. I felt left out, a teenage failure, while at that exact moment, Debby and Junior were enacting the mystery I would never unlock. In the lunchroom, Debby was eating cottage cheese and doing a cartoon of her adventure with Junior. They'd fucked, all right. They'd fucked on her living room floor, trying to keep quiet so her mother wouldn't wake up. "And you know what?" she said cheerfully. "I don't even want to fuck Eddie anymore!" She pondered the cartoon, then looked at me. "What sound do people make in cartoons when they're fucking? Besides 'uh uh.'" "How about 'oh oh?'" "Already used that." Then she snapped her fingers. "'Oof oof!'" And she wrote the phrase into a word balloon. "Does Jim know?" "Yeah." "How'd he take it?" She looked up. "At first he was depressed, but I said, 'Jim, you're better than him.' And he said, 'I thought I would be.' And we passionately fucked!" Everyone was passionately fucking except me. "I'll never get laid." "Of course you will. You're only sixteen." "You weren't a virgin at sixteen." "That's true." She shut her sketchbook. "Maybe you should change your posture." "My posture?" She wasn't going to be like my mother and lecture me about slouching, was she? "Don't cover your body so much. You're always crossing your arms, crossing your legs. Maybe you should do like Windy Ericson." "What does she do?" Debby spread her legs and leaned back. The other girls in the lunchroom stared in disgust. "Beaver shots." She resumed her normal seated position–feet resting on the table–and surveyed me. "Maybe it's your clothes. You have good dresses, but you really need a pair of fuck-me shoes." "Fuck-me shoes?" "I'll tell you what. Come to my house. I'll dress you up. We'll make you sexy yet." It was impossible to believe, but at least I had Debby, queen of sex, on my side. I, clad in a leopard minidress, sheer black stockings and green satin high heels, stood before Debby's full-length mirror. "You look great!" Debby said. "But quit standing like that." Josie adopted a spread-legged stance and put one hand to her hair. "Stand like this or something." I shook my head. "You never stand like that." "Do you want to get laid or what?" "Yeah, but I'd prefer not to look like an idiot." I turned to Debby. "Don't you have a different dress? This looks like something Sissy would wear." "Sissy gets lots of guys." "She's also a little twit." Sylvia stuck her head out of Debby's closet, where she was drooling over dresses. "I think Lydia's right," she said. "She can get laid and still look cool, can't she?" "Oh, all right." Debby went into the closet and rooted through clothes. I smiled gratefully at Sylvia and took off the dress. This isn't going to work, I thought. I can't stand like that and keep a straight face–it's just not me. But the next minidress was much better–brown snakeskin. "Turn around," Debby said. I did, tottering on my heels. "You have fabulous legs. And you're thin. I should be so lucky. I'm so fat." "No, you're not," Sylvia protested. "I am!" The phone rang, and Debby answered. "Junior! No, I have a date with Jim Friday night..." "Debby," I said on a whim, "Ask Junior if he'll go out with me Friday night." "Junior, do you want to go out with one of my girlfriends Friday? Of course she's cute! Lydia Finkle, you met her." She grinned at me. "You've got yourself a date." Josie and Sylvia grinned gleefully. I looked in the mirror, examined the curve of my legs, my feet in their fuck-me shoes. I wondered if this could really be it–my opportunity. "How old is he?" Mom asked as I nervously looked in the bathroom mirror. "Twenty-four." "That's too old for you." She flicked a lock of my hair from the front of my shoulder to the back. "We're just friends." I thought of what Debby had said: Junior had a huge dick and lots of stamina, but wasn't interested in girls other than sexually, so I shouldn't get too involved. I stared in the mirror till my face blurred. Freckles, glasses. Maybe he'll like me as a friend, not physically, I thought. Maybe he won't like me at all. A car pulled up outside. Stomach lurching, I kissed my mother goodbye and ran out the door–I didn't want Mom to see Junior's almost bald head, earring and vinyl clothes. I reached his car by the time he opened his door. Junior got out of the car and looked at me. Instead of tight vinyl, he wore loose black pants and a cotton shirt, which disappointed me at first but made him seem less threatening. I smiled, and when he smiled back, I knew everything would be okay. We talked freely on our way to the Nuart Theater. "I dressed like this 'cause I was afraid your folks might see me. I was gonna take out my earring, too. How old do they think I am?" "Twenty-four." "Debby told her mom I'm nineteen. I asked her, if Jim's my age, why do I have to be nineteen? She said her mom doesn't approve of Jim, and another guy his age would be too much. Think I can pass for nineteen?" I looked at his blond eyebrows, small blue eyes, refined nose and thin lips. His face had a look of purity to it, save for the buzzed off hair and earring. But his body was definitely that of a grown man–tall and rail thin, he exuded sex and masculine strength like no nineteen-year-old. "I think you better hide from Debby's mom," I said, smiling. "I'm over the hill, huh?" he asked, grinning. Junior stopped at a hamburger stand near the movie theater, bought a large Coke, emptied half in the parking lot, then pulled a bottle of Bacardi from the glove compartment and poured it into the cup. I drank liberally, and by the time we walked into the Nuart, my green heels were even harder to walk on than before. One of my least favorite people, the supposedly half-English Mick Hughes, was slouching against the candy counter. "You have a date tonight?" my friend Marilyn had grumbled at school today. "So did I, but that asshole Mick has an English paper to write. He always puts things off till the last minute." "Why do you go out with him if he's an asshole?" I'd asked. She'd shrugged. "He's not always an asshole." Mick had a funny, pushed-out jaw. His blue eyes, half-hidden by messy blond hair, never looked directly at anything, but moved distractedly around objects or people. I walked, with as much dignity as a drunk girl in too-high heels can have, toward Mick, who was definitely always an asshole. "Finish your paper, Mick?" I asked, unsmiling. He stuffed a handful of popcorn into his mouth. "That's right. How's Josie?" Last November Marilyn had lost her virginity to Mick. A few weeks later he'd deflowered Josie while she was passed out in the back of his car. Marilyn and Josie's friendship barely recovered. I must've looked ready to hit the guy, because Junior took my hand and led me into the movie house. Nosferatu had already started, but I paid little attention to the black and white people grimacing noiselessly on the screen. Junior put his arm around me, blew in my ear, kissed me, squeezed my thigh, and I–amazed someone so good-looking would do such things–responded. But I spent most of the film making my precarious way to and from the bathroom, due to all that rum and Coke. Each time, I looked in the mirror, and my red mouth smiled at me, the lipstick slightly faded from drinking rum and kissing Junior. I look...beautiful, I thought. Drunk and disheveled, but beautiful. Otherwise, Junior wouldn't treat me like this. By the time the film ended, I was much more sober, but I still couldn't walk in my fuck-me shoes. "Christ, these are uncomfortable," I said as we walked, Junior's arm wound around my waist, to the car. "I wondered about that. 'Is it the booze or the shoes?'" "A bit of both. I don't see how Debby can walk in them, even sober." We reached the car. "Debby has many talents," he said, unlocking my door. I'm nothing compared to Debby, I thought. He wouldn't even be here if she didn't have a date with Jim. "Many, many talents," I said. Junior hugged me and stroked my hair. "Hey, babe," he said softly, "I'm on the date with you, not Debby." I smiled, nodded, and climbed in. He didn't seem just interested in sex. Maybe he only treated Debby that way... but it couldn't be possible for a guy to prefer me to Debby, could it? We drove all the way to Ventura County, where Junior lived with his mother, a barmaid. We crept into the house, and Junior closed the door behind us with the tiniest click so as not to wake Mrs. Little. There was a snoring man slumped on the sofa. Empty beer cans littered the foot of the couch. Junior looked puzzled. "Guess it's one of Ma's boyfriends." He led me into his tiny room, which contained a chest of drawers, a few clothes on the floor, and the bed. On the wall were two large posters of Wendy O. Williams, lead singer of the Plasmatics, a moronic band my friends despised for its crunching pseudo-punk music and cheap shock effects, like blowing up TVs and cars in concert. Wendy O. was bare-breasted and sported a mohawk. "You like the Plasmatics?" I asked, surprised anyone who looked so cool could like them. "Seen 'em five times." I stared blankly at Wendy O.'s pointed tits. Then Junior reached for my hand and pulled me onto the bed. He kissed me sloppily, and before long he was lying on top of me. "It's nice holding you. And I like your glasses–the first girl I ever had a crush on had glasses." These could've been construed as lines, but coming from Junior, they just sounded sweet. At the same time I felt myself closing up, feeling suddenly funny at the thought of sex, now that his strong body was pressing down on me. "What is it?" Junior asked. "I just discovered I'm a little girl." "Mentally or physically?" "Both." Why did sex suddenly not seem uncomplicated? Why did I suddenly shrink from it, when I wanted it? He kissed my cheek. "I think you're not self-confident enough." That was the understatement of the year. "Debby's told you, hasn't she? About me being a virgin and all?" He nodded. "Don't worry if it turns sexual," he said. "It isn't important." "I guess it seems more important when you're inexperienced." "It's important to feel comfortable about it before you do it. Who knows? I might not be the one. After all, you always remember your first." His words reassured me. We lay peacefully, his body against mine, for a long time. Then he said, "We'd better get going soon or I'll get in trouble." "Really?" He seemed able to do anything he wanted without his mother minding. "I meant I might be in trouble if I stay here with you like this. My hormones are screaming at me, you know." "Oh," I said, astonished. And when he had driven me home and was kissing me goodnight, he said, "You'll just have to wear longer skirts, so I won't go crazy." My God, I thought. I must be sexy or something. As I crept in stocking feet up the walk, fuck-me shoes in my hand, it was hard not to skip. I tied up the phone for much of the next day, giving my friends a complete rundown of my date. When Sylvia called, her voice was eager. "Did you do it?" "No, but we sure kissed a lot." "Wow." Then I heard a click, and my heart dropped into my stomach. "Sylvia, I think my mother was listening." "Oh, no." "Hang on." I went in my mother's room. Mom was sitting on her bed by the phone. She was smirking. "How dare you eavesdrop?" I cried. She giggled. "Couldn't resist." "I can't believe you." "Lydia," she said, "Why did you tell me you were just friends?" I smiled ruefully. "Well, we were." Mom and I laughed. Thank God, I thought. If she's so amused, she must think me a good girl who'd never consider premarital sex. "I talked to Junior," Debby said. "He said you have amazing legs. I'm gonna get jealous." "Jealous? Of me?" "He really likes you." "But you have Jim." "That has nothing to do with anything." "Anyway, he probably likes you better." I didn't want to compete with Debby, but she could have any guy she wanted. Couldn't I have Junior till Jonathan decided to love me? One way or another, Debby would be out of town next weekend (visiting Boston University, where she would probably go next year), and I was sure by then I'd be ready to sleep with Junior. A week of phone calls and anticipation followed. Each night I sat by the phone, my eyes scanning homework but my brain not comprehending. Sometimes, I dialed Junior's number; and the line was busy, and I thought he must be talking to Debby. But I wasn't jealous–yet. Sometimes I hinted around the question of whom Junior preferred. "Debby's always asking that, too. I like you both. Hell, I'm just girl crazy." "That's what I was afraid of." "I'm not that girl crazy. I don't go drooling down the street." Jonathan seemed far removed from my life, though I still loved him. "I'm going out with a guy now," I told him on the phone. "That's nice for you. I like being single, but one should have the experience of not being single." As usual, there was no romance whatsoever in Jonathan's manner, nor any sign of jealousy. "I'm still sort of single," I finally admitted. "He's also going out with Debby." "Then you should stop seeing him." "Why? Debby and I aren't jealous." "Sooner or later, he'll like one of you better. He's putting you both in a bad position." Was this disguised jealousy? He sounded sincere enough, but I ignored his advice. "I hope you have a good time with Junior this weekend," Debby said Thursday when the bell rang for afternoon classes. "As for me, I'll be stuck in Boston. No sex for me." "You can always take care of things yourself," I said, grabbing my books and my empty lunch bag off the table. "It's not like I'm a guy. I can't jack off." I didn't understand what she meant by that. I'd been making myself come since I was eleven. This was like that time Josie got her hand-job pantomime wrong–but in this case, five years of solo orgasms attested to the fact that I did know what I was doing. Still, I couldn't bring myself to contradict Debby about anything sexual. I just nodded as if I knew what she was talking about. Junior and I were making out on the couch, the lights out and my glasses off. We'd just got back from the movies–Andy Warhol's Lonesome Cowboy and L'Amour. Junior gave me a kiss that I thought would never end, but would go on and on in waves until we had somehow slept together. When we pulled apart, he said, "What are you thinking about?" Softly I said, "If I wanted to sleep with you, would you show me what to do?" He chuckled. "Do you want to?" "I think so." "Are you nervous?" "Yes." He held me very tightly. "What about birth control?" I asked. "I don't have any rubbers. I could pull out." "No," I sighed. Four girls from my school were waiting anxiously for their periods, including Marilyn, and I didn't want to add myself to their number. "Are you sure there's no place open where you could get something?" "I'm sure. When was your last period?" "About two weeks ago." "So this is the riskiest time?" "Yep." We laughed mournfully and cuddled. "Do you want to go into my room anyway?" "Yes." So we did. I put my glasses on the nightstand, and he turned out the light. We kissed, and he pushed me down on the bed. "Do you want me to touch you?" he breathed. "Yes." He kissed me, slid his hand between my legs and rubbed–the first person ever to touch me there. Then he stuck a finger in. "Don't be so tense. Christ. You're so small, for a minute I thought I was in the wrong place." I giggled and relaxed. After awhile his hand got tired. "Would you touch me?" he asked. "Yes." He undid his belt buckle, and I, groping in the dark, unzipped his pants, found his cock and tentatively stroked it. I suppose no inexperienced girl really has an accurate idea of what a penis feels like, but the sudden presence of this large, warm mushroom object was in itself so fascinating and new that I didn't touch it much. Besides, a little fluid escaped from him onto my hand, and I was afraid he might come on me and soil Debby's dress. Junior began rubbing me again. "I think you want me inside you," he whispered. "I do," I said, feeling as though a magnet was pulling his pelvis to mine and wouldn't stop till they interlocked. "But we can't." "It was a nice idea." He vigorously rubbed me and plunged his finger deep inside me. He kept on and on, until I heard my breath fluttering, independent of me, my body acting on its own, and coming, and coming, and coming. "Oh, stop..." I whispered hoarsely, a heavy languor seeping into my bones. Then he held me, and we talked quietly. "Next time," I said, "If I get you a rubber, can we do it?" I expected him to agree instantly. "On the one hand it would be good, since I'm experienced and wouldn't rush you. On the other hand, I don't like using rubbers–it's like taking a shower with your clothes on–and besides, your first time should be with someone you love." "Debby always said that was a myth." "And that's another thing. I think I'm falling in love..." I felt the glow of anticipation. He was going to say he loved me, and while I didn't love him, it would be wonderful. He cared for me. He really did. "...with Debby. Even though I know she loves Jim." I thought I'd heard wrong, but then it made perfect sense. Of course it was Debby he loved. "And I do care for you, and you do excite me, but I don't want to hurt you. Devirginizing you would be a big responsibility–I don't know if I could handle it. And I don't want to wreck your friendship with Debby." "You couldn't possibly. Debby's been my friend far longer than you." "People do strange things for the opposite sex." "Not me and Debby." But already I felt a gnawing resentment. When I went out with Junior the next night, we spent plenty of time in bed, but again with no birth control. Afterwards, I felt radiantly happy. I loved finally having someone to share my orgasms with, and I no longer felt left out–but I still wanted to have full-on sex. The following Friday, I was armed with a rubber donated by Marilyn (who should've used it herself–she still hadn't gotten her period), but Junior's mom took the car, and our date was canceled. Junior had a date with Debby Saturday night. If only I'd been on The Pill when I'd had my chance. I wasn't going to miss another chance. Saturday morning, Marilyn picked me up on the pretext of tutoring me in geometry, and we spent the morning at the Van Nuys Planned Parenthood. Marilyn had planned to get a pregnancy test (the other three girls having gotten their periods the previous week), but she got her period at the clinic and decided to get The Pill too. We spent most of the morning in waiting rooms. Then I endured my first speculum exam. I was apparently an off size, so the female doctor opted for the next larger. "Have you ever engaged in intercourse?" she asked, shoving the metal between my legs. "No," I said, gritting my teeth and feeling like Julie Christie being raped by the clanking computer in Demon Seed. By one o'clock, our blood, urine, medical histories and vaginas examined and catalogued, a white-coated woman handed Marilyn and me two paper bags, each containing a two-month supply of pills, along with rubbers and foam to be used till The Pill took effect. It felt like Christmas. At school Monday morning, Debby was telling Greta what a good time she'd had Saturday night. "You could've let me go out with Junior Saturday night," I blurted. "Your date was Friday, mine Saturday." "But he couldn't get the car Friday." "That's not my fault." "But you could've gone out with someone else Saturday." "Jim was auditioning guys for the band." "You could've given me a break. I could have lost my virginity Saturday night." "It was my date." Debby's brown eyes blazed. "Fuck you." "Fuck you." "Wow." Greta said. "What a fight." Debby and I marched off in separate directions. I felt terrible. At lunch I said, "I'm sorry I acted like a bitch." She nodded. "It's okay." I hoped we really were okay. Debby was planning to take Junior to her senior prom, instead of Jim. I didn't understand why. As much as I liked Junior, I still thought Jim was the better guy–and I knew Jim was the one Debby loved, regardless of how Junior felt about her. I stared at them in my bathroom mirror–three huge, scab-like sores on my chin. I was constantly aware of them. They were impossible to conceal. They seemed to reveal the truth about me. Who was I to think I was a sexy young woman? I was just an ugly little girl. Debby had perfect olive skin, not like my pale face with imperfections, freckles, pimples. No wonder Junior didn't want me. I tried to call him each night, but he was rarely home, and when he was, our conversations were brief. I tried to set up another date, but he was never definite. Finally we did go out to dinner in my neighborhood one Saturday night. Afterwards we sat in his car outside my house. Playfully he fucked my mouth with his tongue, and I was so ready to do more. I told him I had condoms. I hoped he would drive me off someplace where we could park and have sex, even though I had my period. "I told you, I don't like rubbers," he said. "And I'm just not ready. It's too much pressure, to be your first. It should be special." I felt self-conscious about the pimples on my chin, like they were whole other personages in the car with us. When we said goodnight, I went in the house feeling lonelier than before. "What did you think he was going to do?" Debby asked on the phone the next day. "You had your period. How could he fuck you in his car?" I didn’t care if I made a mess of his car, and bled all over the seats. Nothing was going the way I'd thought it would. The Dickies were playing in Tarzana one Saturday night, and Debby suggested we make it a night with the girls. I agreed–a night with the girls was what we needed. Debby, Josie and I piled into Hillary's car, and we went to the boogie-idiot dive. But no sooner did we get inside than Junior appeared, in full vinyl garb. He saw me first and gave me a light kiss–then he saw Debby and pulled her into his arms. Hillary came up. "What do you think of that?" "It doesn't bother me." Hillary smiled. "Good. I was afraid your feelings might be hurt." But again and again, my eyes fell upon Junior and Debby, their roaming hands and wet mouths. I loved the Dickies–I had gotten their two albums for my sixteenth birthday. When their set started, I tried to lose myself in the music, but the crowd was violent and kept jostling me. After a particularly violent shove, I slipped on some beer and fell. Hillary pulled me up. I looked reproachfully at Junior, but he was busy kissing Debby. Josie and Hillary bounced to the Dickies, but the beloved music seemed empty. After the show, Debby left with Junior. So much for a night out with the girls, I thought, stony in the backseat of Hillary's car. "People will do strange things for the opposite sex," I said, and my voice sounded foreign. "Abandon their friends, just because a guy has a penis and her friends don't." "You're just upset 'cause you're in love with Junior," Josie said. "I love Jonathan. It's just..." and my feelings were so mean I couldn't articulate them. "Just the hate.” That night I sobbed in bed. I didn't fall asleep until four. It wasn't simply jealousy–I didn't really care if Junior fucked Debby night and day. I just wanted some affection too, and to be taken seriously. I felt inferior, inadequate. I felt as if they were both laughing at me. I wanted so much to talk to Junior, for things to be easy between us the way they had been at first. And Debby–I hated resenting her. But Junior hadn't been the only one to ignore me that night. The second Junior appeared, it was as if something switched off in her, as if she were supremely entitled to be with him, and my feelings didn't matter. She wouldn't even look at me–or so I thought. Debby and I didn't talk about what had happened when we saw each other at school on Monday. I didn't know how to talk about it. All I knew was that I wanted us to still be friends. A couple of days later, she said out of the blue, "I told off Junior for treating you like that." "You did?" "I said, 'You shouldn't have ignored Lydia.' He said, 'I was otherwise occupied.' And I said, 'I think you hurt her feelings.'" "Thanks." "After the prom, I'm not going to go out with him anymore. Anyone who's mean to you is an asshole." She grinned. "Besides, he likes the Plasmatics." I smiled gratefully. Greta came up. "Lydia," she said, "Did you remember?" I reached into my army jacket pocket and tossed her two condoms. She gave me a hot pink grin. "Thanks." "You need 'em more than me. Enjoy." In a few weeks the pills would take effect, and it seemed unlikely I was going to get laid ‘til then. But I still wanted to have sex with Junior, in spite of what had happened. Debby did take Junior to her prom, and she did quit seeing him after that. She dated a few other guys that summer, as well as Jim. One night when Jim's band was playing at the Whisky, someone tapped me on the shoulder. It took me a moment to recognize him, as his hair was a bit longer and he wore a floppy T-shirt. "Junior," I exclaimed. When he kissed me, I forgot how he had hurt me. Maybe he'll fuck me, I thought. His body pressing against me excited me as much as ever. Then he saw Marilyn. Soon his arms were wrapped around her chunky body, and his marvelous hands stroked her long blonde hair as they kissed on the dance floor. I didn't feel jealous–I just felt afraid for Marilyn. She'd had enough trouble with her last boyfriend. Marilyn and I shared Junior that night. Backstage he'd be kissing Marilyn. When I'd sidle up, she would casually stroll away, and Junior would take me in his arms. Amid kisses, I said, "Do me a favor. Don't be mean to Marilyn." He smiled. "I'm not a mean guy." "But you can be." "I'm sorry," he said. "No, you're not." "Yes, I am. I never wanted to hurt you." "Okay. But if you hurt Marilyn, I'll kill you. Promise me you won't." "I promise," he finally said. I didn't know if his promise was worth anything, but I hoped it was. Then Marilyn came back, and it was my turn to walk away. |
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12.07.06: Scarlet Letters -- in case it isn't glaringly obvious -- is currently
on an extended hiatus. The web has changed, we've changed, and
we're trying to figure out how we both fit together now, which isn't a process we want to rush. If you're looking for more current SL-related content, you can
have check out upcoming books from editor Heather Corinna and previous co-editor Hanne Blank, check out Heather's current sexuality sites, or explore sites through the femmerotic network. We hope to be back with you soon, as fresh, challenging and
unexpected as ever.
In the meantime, by all means, enjoy our years of past content,
all of which still remain in the public and subscription areas.
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