Non-fiction.
WARNING:
SEXUALLY EXPLICIT CONTENT & POTENTIALLY TRIGGERING
High School
In high school, (in the 80’s, pre-internet), no one talked about female sexual pleasure. Giving boys blow jobs was a privilege we were blessed to have. Yay! In fact the whole vibe was:
“You’re lucky to be with this guy at this party where there are no parents, just tons of floral upholstery and wine coolers.”
I didn’t even know that a boy, or a girl, could “go down” on me. Go down where? Do what? I don’t remember one friend ever mentioning the joys of reciprocal oral sex.
University Part 1
The movie 9 1/2 Weeks was released right before I started University, so everyone wanted to use food in their sexual play, it was the “in” thing, (watch the movie if you haven’t, it’s an 80’s classic). My boyfriend bought whip cream and honey, but we both just ended up feeling like barfing.
University Part 2
Later on, during that same first year of university, a different boyfriend became irritated with me when he couldn’t get his penis inside me:
“You’re gonna need a pencil thin dick to get in there!”
Wow. Your mother must be so proud to have such a poetic son.
Backstory: I was raped in high school and I hadn’t had a penis inside of me since then – which he knew. The next day he tried apologizing and I was like “Boy Bye,” except we didn’t say that in the eighties and I don’t remember what I said, but he and his penis were banished forever.
NYC
Later, at The Fashion Institute of Technology, I decided that my Advertising professor was perfect for me. Total dreamboat. I made up excuses to visit him in his office, we flirted and he blushed a lot. But he had morals, (damn), and he followed school rules, (rats), so he didn’t let anything inappropriate happen.
Now my Textiles professor was a different story, he wanted to sleep with me. He had an office a few blocks away, I think it was on 23rd street.
How convenient.
I remember him calling me at FIT’s residence, trying to convince me to have sex with him. His rousing pitch went something like:
“My wife and I have an arrangement, so don’t worry about it.”
Wait, first of all, you have a wife? Second of all, I’m pretty sure she did not sign off on this “arrangement.” I might have been young and stupid but I wasn’t that young and stupid.
“Boy Bye.”
Just One Drink
I was working my dream job ~ managing a vintage store ~ when one of the city’s most notorious bad boys appeared at the cash register. I quipped:
“You’re going to ask me out now aren’t you?”
like I was Lauren Bacall in a 1940’s film. He was uncharacteristically tongue-tied, not used to this level of confidence in a woman (granted it wasn’t real confidence, but he didn’t know that). We agreed to meet at the European cafe where everyone hung out. Word had traveled fast (pre-cell phones) and when I arrived early, staff and customers warned me about meeting up with him. I said:
“It’s just one drink, don’t worry about it.”
Because being in your early twenties is all about making the most deliciously dreadful decisions.
We drank wine and bantered, like Howard Hawks was directing our scene. Who was this new version of me? She was amazing. I liked who I was with him. I was more assertive. In the past I had assumed if a guy wanted to date me, I had to date them; like I had no say in my own life. But now I was trying to be pro-active and make smart decisions about men.
Insert Taylor Swift lyrics here:
“This is me trying”
For awhile it worked. I felt some sense of agency and that felt so damn good. Turns out the bad boy wasn’t so much bad as he was badly traumatized, in ways I only fully understood years later. We never stood a chance. In the end it was serious “Boy Bye,” so much so that my psyche blocked out almost the entire relationship, save for a few very tender moments. But what I do remember is that after being with him I completely shut down: No Men. No Dating. No Sex. It was extreme self-protection. Everyone said:
“You’re in your twenties, you should be out there dating & having fun!”
I didn’t care. No one was getting in.
Every once in awhile, when I’m least expecting it, a wave of grief washes over me and I mourn those years ~ Those Lost Years.
sparkledame 