Thursday, April 17, 2003
My First Time
It was two or three days before Christmas. I remember my mother coming through the front door carrying lots of bags. One of them was from a toy store, and a huge box of Legos was about to fall out. I was upset because it was a Christmas surprise ruined. (Yeah, I was one of those kids.)
I was twelve.
My dad took me outside---I suppose in an effort to distract me from boiling over into some sort of tantrum (at that age, he probably should've smothered me with a pillow . . . seriously, I was a real prick). It was a foggy night, as was often the case with North Florida winter nights. We walked to the side of the house. Dad said he wanted to talk. I sat down on the air conditioner.
"I saw you go into the barn with what's-her-name the other day," he said.
"Jennifer," I said, giving what's-her-name a name.
Jennifer was one of the girls from the neighborhood. At the time, she was good friends with the redneck girl next door who was my age (Rebecca). Jennifer, Rebecca, another boy, and I had taken to playing Truth or Dare in Jennifer's attic after school. It was all very innocent. Somehow, during one occasion, I was dared to french kiss Jennifer. I'd never done that before, although I understood the mechanics. Still, when she put her mouth over mine, I froze up. My tongue stayed firmly at the bottom of my mouth.
"Where were you?" she asked.
Soon after, we'd arranged to try again. I think she had the hots for me, in her own, middle-school-girl way. She came over to my house on a weekend, and we snuck into the barn . . . apparently not so carefully. When we were inside, we had a long conversation about my apprehension about french kissing. So, nothing happened.
"What were you doing in there?" my dad continued.
"We were just talking." I didn’t know what else to say. And it was the truth, pretty much.
He went on for a few minutes about ins and outs of safe sex (yeah, I meant to do that). I don't remember much of the conversation, but the coup de grace went something like this:
"You can put your finger in there. You can put your hand in there. Hell, you can put your foot in there. But don't you ever put your pecker in her cunt unless you're wearing a rubber, okay?"
Pretty disturbing, huh? Well, I was infinitely more disturbed then than you are right now.
I eventually did the french kissing thing a few months later . . . with another girl. And that girl dumped me soon after . . . for a third grader. (No, I'm not even kidding about that one!)
Jennifer went on to become the neighborhood slut. She fucked several guys and earned a nickname . . . Kool-Aid. (A story I won't recount here.) I think she received a beating when her father caught a group of us hanging out in the attic after school one time. We didn't see her for a while after that. Actually, I think she was also the Treasurer of my high school graduating class. Maybe I'll find out next year, when they're trying to reach me for my 15-year reunion. (Christ.)
My dad? Well, he's still around, doing his best to smoke himself to death. Working on destroying a second marriage. Still drinking at 9 (or earlier) in the morning. Gotta love 'im.
I need to work up to this whole story-telling gig. Meredith referenced the safe-sex-talk line from my 100 things (now perma-linked on the upper left). I felt like the whole story should come out. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I didn't.
And, come to think of it . . . I think I may have been eleven when all this happened, not twelve. It was eighth grade, anyway.