Remember when you were five and used to play doctor. “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine?” Sure you do. Here’s a variation on the game.

You tell me about yours and I’ll tell you about mine. I’ll even go first.

I was a good girl. I went to an all-girls high school. We were all good girls, except for Joanie who rumor had it she did it in summer camp when she was 16. I didn’t know if I could still be her friend after I found out.

My entire sex education came from the movies. In the 50s, even married couples had to sleep in separate beds in the picture shows. If they did “it,” they just showed logs burning in a fireplace. I never really knew if they did it or if it was just cold in their house.

Once when I was in college (an all girls college) my girlfriend and I hitched rides to Florida over spring vacation. Hitch hiking was safe in those days. So was sun tanning, eating red meat, and smoking cigarettes.

On the way down, we wanted to take showers but we didn’t have enough money for a hotel so we found a nudist colony, “Nature Loves You,” that was real cheap. We showered, then stayed in the bunk so we didn’t have to play volleyball tout nu and have other things bouncing around besides the ball.

I’d never seen a guy without his clothes on. My father had split and I didn’t have a brother to sneak looks at. My big Nature surprise was seeing a man with nothing on. Actually, it wasn’t such a big surprise. I couldn’t believe that that small silly dangling thing is what all the fuss was about.

Then I was 18 ½ and in love. After four years of the two of us doing everything but… I thought he’d leave me if I didn’t do it. It seemed every time I turned WNEW on the radio, Sinatra would be singing “All or Nothing at All” about my situation.

But oh what was going through my mind. An illegitimate child, I’d be shunned by all, have to give the baby up for adoption and find work as a waitress in an all-night diner in a factory town far away from everybody I knew. I’d change my name to Roxy, peroxide my hair, and serve coffee and pancakes to guys named Rocco and Big Dick who’d call me Baby Blue Eyes and ask me out for a beer and after.

I’d be like Barbara Stanwyck and Joan Crawford in the movies— a gum chewing, wise cracking smart-ass, one who would do things so that one day I’d own the diner. And one day my son would buy the diner to add to his restaurant empire never knowing I was his real mother. But I would know because mother’s always know things.

Even worse, the love of my life would suddenly think I was a whore and leave me for Susan, the girl with big brown eyes and the biggest boobs in our dorm whose father owned half of Texas.

All these thoughts went through my mind in seconds.

But I did “it” anyway, and worried if I was doing it right. Then I worried because I wouldn’t have clean underpants to wear in the morning.

What was it like for me that first time? You ever hear Peggy Lee sing “Is That All There Is?”. But the first time I tried to ride a bicycle it wasn’t as easy or as much fun as when I know how.

How come, especially after the first time, boys are so happy and girls are so worried? How come boys tell everyone (except their parents) and girls don’t tell anyone (especially their parents).

In 1962 when the pill became available everything changed. From stories my younger girlfriends told me, they needed more than two hands to count their experiences. Some even needed more than their fingers and toes. A few of my girlfriends needed adding machines. But by the 60s I was married and had kids. As a wife and mother, the only pill I ever needed was aspirin.

I realize everything is different today. Sex tapes, cybersex, sex scenes in movies and cable, politicians who used to expose things about their rivals now expose themselves. From hang out to hook up can be as fast as getting a burger at a drive through. Middle school kids know more than I do.

I can’t believe I’m turning into a prude after three husbands and six children.

What’s private anymore? Not even me or this blog!

I’m convinced there are no virgins over 16 anymore, except in MY family. But like they’d tell me?

What’s your story? No names please to protect the innocent and the not so innocent.

How was your first time? Was it good? Were you scared? Did it hurt? Were you drinking? Was it just blah? Or was it weird? Do you not want to remember? Were you in love? Do you still think about it—about him? Did you marry him?

If you’re still waiting to do it for the first time and need some advice— I’m here.

 

You’re just a button click away– and I’d love to hear from you.

About your world, your family, your joys and frustrations, growing up, growing older, even recipes–even though I stopped cooking–by request–years ago.

Goodbye until next time…

Hope your day turns out as well as I hope
(but doubt) mine will,

Gingy (Ilene)