I was a “good girl” in high school. Being a virgin was a virtue if you
were a teenage girl in the 1950s. To “lose it” was a tragedy. Growing
up, we were told stories about the birds and the bees, the stork, and
even about fields of cabbage patches but I never could figure out
what went where.

When Joanie (I’m not using her last name in case her grandchildren
read this), eventually confessed junior year in high school that she
had “done it,”, nobody wanted to be her friend any more. We thought
it might be catching.

The movies were no help. Mothers and fathers in the movies had to
sleep in twin beds. If a husband wanted to kiss his wife goodnight and
she was in bed, he had to keep one foot on the floor. If we thought
something was “going to happen,” the movie screen jumped to a fire
blazing in a fireplace.

Even if a boy pleaded and said he loved me, I still couldn’t do it because
of my underwear. There was too much of it. “Those parts” of a girl’s
body were covered up and not allowed to move.

A bra had dangerous points. If a boy got too close to the points, he’d
be stabbed. Some girls couldn’t fill out the points, so they’d stuff their
bra with Kleenex. I only needed Kleenex when I had a cold.

Even if you had a body like Audrey Hepburn, you’d have to wear a girdle.
I remember being imprisoned in an incredibly uncomfortable virginity
protector girdle. It came with four long dangling garters for your stockings.
A “good girl” never went out with bare legs unless she was wearing bobby
socks. I always wore stockings on a date and heels unless my date (heaven
forbid) was shorter than me.

The underpants. More Victorian than Victoria’s Secret.

Over your underpants you wore a slip. It only came in virginal
white because we were.

The crinoline. At least one, possibly two, so your skirt would stick out
and you wouldn’t. And then your clothes.

By the time a 16- year- old boy tried to undo all your body armor, his
passion had already exploded.

If you had you period (frequently called “the curse”), you also had
to wear a sanitary belt and a Kotex or Modess sanitary napkin.

I wore all that on a “date.” Having a date for Saturday night was the
most important thing if you grew up in Manhattan like me. Maybe
teens who lived in faraway places like the Bronx were different.

Most dates I double dated with my best friend Dora and her date. Dora
always got the good guys. I got her leftovers.

I never went on a date to the malt shop with a boy like The Fonz. In
Manhattan, everybody lived in apartment buildings. No back yards,
no cars, and no malt shops. The only place to make out was in the
balcony of a movie theater, which had an extra benefit—you could
smoke. I saw a lot of movies but I really didn’t see them because I
wouldn’t wear my glasses on a date.

Dora always fixed me up with rich boys from preppy schools. We
went to fancy clubs at swanky hotels. They never proofed us because
we looked older. The bands played the fox trot, my dates danced too
close, and apparently thought if they blew in my ear, I’d feel romantic.
Ugh. Who told them that?

Even worse, we had to order a drink. I always ordered a Brandy Alexander.
It almost tasted like a malted. Best part of those dates was collecting
cocktail stirrers.

Dora and I made up a code for things we did and didn’t do.
I shall now reveal the code.

One was kissing.
Two was necking.
Three was petting above the waist.
Four was petting below the waist.
Five was going all the way.

Dora and I only did one and two.

We had no equivalent numbers for boys. We never considered
going anywhere on them.

The truth is, we never wanted to do “it.” We just wanted to
have a boyfriend and to be madly in love. Eventually I learned what went where and had six children.

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About your world, 
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Goodbye until next time…

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

Gingy (Ilene)