To Sail Beyond the Sunset (6 page)

“I did not say. But that was assumed in the hypothesis, I suppose.”

“Maureen, a pinch on the bottom is an expression of direct intent. Encouraged, it leads in three short steps to copulation. You are young but you are physically a mature woman capable of pregnancy. Is it your intention to assume full womanhood in the immediate future?”

The Serpent
in the Garden

Father’s question as to whether or not I was thinking about getting rid of my virginity upset me because I had been thinking about nothing else for weeks. Months, maybe. So I answered, “Of course not! Father, how could you think such a thing?”

“Meeting’s adjourned.”

“Sir?”

“I thought we had cured you of that sort of trivial fibbing. I see we have not, so quit wasting my time. Come back when you feel the need for serious discussion.” He swiveled his chair around to face his desk and raised its roll top.

“Father—”

“Eh? Haven’t you left?”

“Please, sir. I’ve been thinking about it all the time.”

“Thinking about what?”

“That. Losing my virginity. Breaking my maidenhead.”

He glowered at me. “‘Hymen’ is the medical term, as you know. ‘Maidenhead’ is from that list of Anglo-Saxon synonyms, although it doesn’t carry quite the curse that the shorter ones do. But don’t talk about ‘losing’ anything, when in fact you will be achieving your birthright, that supreme status of functioning female that your biological inheritance makes possible.”

I thought about his words. “Father, you make it sound so desirable that I should run right out at once and find someone to help me break my hymen. Now. Right away. So, if you will excuse me?” I started to stand up.

“Whoa! Steady there! If that is your intention, it won’t hurt to wait ten minutes. Maureen, if you were a heifer, I would say that you are ready to be serviced. But you are not; you are a human maiden faced by a world of human men and women, in a complex and often cruel culture. I think that you will be better off if you wait a year or two. You could even go virgin to your marriage bed—although, as a physician, I know that does not happen too often these modern days. But—What’s the Eleventh Commandment?”

“‘Don’t get caught.’”

“Where do I hide the French purses?”

“Lower right-hand drawer, and the key is in the top left pigeonhole, all the way back.”

I did not do it that day, or that week. Or that month. But it was not many months thereafter.

I did it about ten o’clock in the morning on a balmy day the first week of June, 1897, just four weeks before my fifteenth birthday. The place I picked was the floor of the judges’ stand at the race track in the county fairgrounds, with a folded horse blanket to pad the bare boards. I knew the area because I had sat up in that judges’ stand on many a frosty morning, clocking Father’s practice miles, my eyes lined up on the wire and his fat stopwatch in my hand—I had needed both hands to handle that big watch when I had first done this, at six. That was the year that Father bought Loafer, a black stallion sired by the sire of Maud S.—but (sadly!) not as fast as his famous half sister.

In June of 1897 I went there prepared, resolved to do it, with a condom (a “French purse”) in my handbag, and a sanitary napkin—homemade, but all of them were in those days—as I knew that I might bleed and, if anything went wrong, I would have to convince my mother that I was simply three days early that month.

My partner in this “crime” was a high school classmate, a boy named Chuck Perkins, a year older and almost a foot taller than I. I was not even in puppy love with him, but we pretended that we were (perhaps he was not pretending, but how is a girl to know?) and we had been progressively seducing each other all that school year—Chuck was the first man (boy) with whom I opened my mouth to a kiss…and from that I formulated another “commandment”: “Open thy mouth only if thou planneth to open thy limbs”—for I discovered that I liked it.

How I liked it! Chuck’s mouth was sweet; he did not smoke, he kept his teeth clean and they were as sound as my own teeth, and his tongue was sweet and loving against mine. At later times I encountered (too often!) men who did not keep their mouths and breaths sweet…and I did not open my mouth. Or anything.

To this day I am convinced that tongue kissing is more intimate than coition.

In preparing for this meeting I had followed also my Fourteenth Commandment: “Thou shalt keep thy secret places as clean as a boiled egg lest thou stink in church,” to which my lusty father had added: “—and to hold thy husband’s love when thou dost catch one.” (I told him I had figured that out.)

Keeping really clean in a house not supplied with running water and too well supplied with running children is not easy. But I had worked out expedients from the time Father had warned me some years earlier. One expedient was to sneak in extra washing behind a locked door in Father’s surgery. One of my duties was to place a pitcher of hot water in the surgery each morning and again after lunch, and to refill that pitcher as needed. This put me in position to do washing that Mother did not know about. Mother believed that “Cleanliness is next to Godliness”—but I did not dare give her ideas by letting her catch me giving myself extra scrubbing in places I was supposed to be ashamed to touch; Mother didn’t approve of too much washing of “those places” as it could lead to “immodest behavior.” (It certainly could!)

At the fairgrounds we left Chuck’s horse and buggy in one of the big empty barns, with a nosebag of oats to keep him happy, then we climbed up into the judges’ stand. I led the way, up the back stairs, then up a vertical ladder through the roof of the grandstand and to a trap door in the floor of the judges’ stand. I tucked up my skirts, and climbed the ladder ahead of Chuck, and I delighted in the scandalous display I was making of myself. Oh, Chuck had seen my legs before—but men always like to peek.

Once we were both inside the stand I had Chuck close the trap door and drag over it a heavy box—heavy with weights used in racing. “Now they can’t possibly reach us,” I said gleefully, turned and got a key from a ditching place over a locker, opened its padlock.

“But they can see us, Mo’. This front side is wide open.”

“Who cares? Just don’t stand in front of the judges’ bench. If you can’t see them, they can’t see you.”

“Mo’, are you sure you want to do this?”

“Isn’t that why we came up here? Here, help me spread this blanket. We’ll use it doubled. The judges spread it along the bench to protect their tender behinds. It will keep splinters out of my tender behind, and out of your knees.”

Chuck didn’t say a word as we made our “bed.” I straightened up and looked at him. He did not look like a man about to achieve a joyful consummation long desired; he looked like a scared little boy. “Charles…are you sure you want to?”

He looked sheepish. “It’s bright sunlight, Mo’. This is awfully public. Maybe we could find a quiet place on the Osage?”

“Chiggers, and mosquitoes, and youngsters hunting muskrats. And they’ll pop up just when we’re busiest. No, thank you, sir. But, Charles—Charles dear—I thought we were agreed on this? I certainly don’t want to rush you into anything. Would you mind canceling the trip to Butler?” (A shopping trip to Butler was my excuse to my parents for asking Chuck to drive me that morning—Butler was not much bigger than Thebes, but it had much better shopping. Bennett and Wheeler Mercantile Company was six times as big as our biggest general store. They even stocked Paris styles—or so they claimed.)

“Why, no, Mo’, if you don’t want to go.”

“Then would you mind swinging past Richard Heiser’s house? I need to speak to him.” (Chuck, I’m smiling and speaking gently…but I would like to massage you with a baseball bat!)

“Uh—Something wrong, Mo’?”

“Yes and no. You know why we came up here. If you don’t want my cherry, well, Richard let me know that he wanted it. I didn’t promise him anything…but I did tell him that I would think about it.” I looked up at Chuck and then dropped my eyes. “And I did think about it and decided you were the one I wanted…had wanted ever since that time you took me up the bell tower. The school Easter party. You know. But, Charles, if you’ve changed your mind… I still don’t intend to let the sun set with me still a virgin. So will you drive me to Richard’s house?”

Cruel? Not truly so. A few minutes later I delivered what I had promised. But men are far more timid than we are; sometimes the only way you can get one to move is by placing him in sharpest competition with another male. Even a tabby cat knows that. (By “timid” I do not mean “cowardly.” A man—what I think of as a man—can face death calmly. But looking ridiculous…as when being surprised in copulation…can distress him to his marrow.)

“I haven’t changed my mind!” Charles was most emphatic.

I gave him my sunniest smile and opened my arms to him. “Then come here and kiss me like you mean it!”

He did, and we both caught fire again. (His backing and filling had cooled me.) At that time I had never heard the word “orgasm”—I am not sure it had been coined by 1897—but I had done some private experimenting and I knew that it was possible for something strongly resembling fireworks to happen inside me. By the end of that kiss I felt myself getting close to that point.

I pulled my face away just far enough to murmur against his lips: “Dear Charles. I’ll take off all my clothes…if you want me to.”

“Huh? Jeepers, yes!”

“All right. Do you want to undress me?”

He undressed me, or tried to, while I unfastened all the snaps and buttons and ties ahead of him. In a few moments I was bare as a frog and ready to burst into flame. I happily struck a pose I had practiced and let him look. He stared and caught his breath; I felt a fine tingle deep inside me.

Then I closed in on him and started unfastening his buttons and things. He was shy and I didn’t push it. But I did get him to take off his trousers and his drawers. I put them on top of mine on the box over the trap door, then sank down on the blankets. “Charles—”

“Coming!”

“You have a safe?”

“A what?”

“A Merry Widow.”

“Oh. Gee, Mo’, there isn’t any way I can buy them. I’m only sixteen. Pop Green is the only one who sells them…and he won’t unless you’re either married or over twenty-one.” The poor dear looked woebegone.

I said quietly, “And we aren’t married, and don’t want to have to get married—not the way Joe and Amelia had to—my mother would have a fit. But—Quit looking grim and hand me my bag.”

He did so, and I got out the condom I had fetched. “There are advantages to being a doctor’s daughter, Chuck. I swiped this while I was cleaning Father’s clinic. Let’s see how it fits.” (I wanted to check something else. Having become so acutely conscious of my own cleanliness I had become quite critical of cleanliness in others. Some of my classmates, both sexes, could have used Father’s advice and some hot soapy water.)

(I’m a decadent today. The best aspect of Boondock aside from its gentle customs is its wonderful plumbing!)

Chuck looked clean and smelled clean—scrubbed as recently as I was, was my guess. A whiff of male musk, but fresh. Even at that age I had learned the difference.

I felt happy and gay. How sweet of him to offer me such a well-kept toy!

It was just inches from my face. I suddenly ducked and planted a quick kiss on it.

“Hey!” Charles almost squealed.

“Did I shock you, dear? It was just so pretty and sweet that I felt like kissing it. I didn’t mean to shock you.” (No, but I do want to find your shock point.)

“I wasn’t shocked. Uh… I liked it.”

“Cross your heart and shame the Devil?”

“Yes, indeed!”

“Good.” I waited while he got ready. “Now, Charles. Take me.”

I was clumsy and inexperienced but nevertheless I had to guide him—gently, as his pride had already been hurt once. Charles was even less skilled than I. Probably what he knew of sex came from barber shops and pool halls and behind barns—the ignorant boasts of bachelor males…whereas I had been taught by an old and wise medical doctor who loved me and wanted me to be happy.

I had in my purse a patent medicine, “Vaseline,” to use as a lubricant if I needed it. Not necessary!—I was as slippery as boiled flaxseed.

In spite of that—“Charles! Please, dear! Take it easy. Not so fast.”

“But I ought to go fast, first push, Mo’. It’ll hurt you less. Everybody knows that.”

“Charles, I’m not ‘everybody’; I’m me. Take it slowly and it won’t hurt me at all. I think.” I felt eager, terribly excited, and wanted him deep inside me—but he did feel bigger than I had expected. It didn’t really hurt. Or not much. But I knew it could hurt plenty if we did this too fast.

Dear Charles did hold still, his face intent. I bit my lip and tried. And again. At last he was firmly against me and all of him that could reach was inside me.

I relaxed and smiled up at him. “There! That’s just fine, dear. Now move if you want to. Do it!”

But I had taken too long. He grinned, then I felt a couple of quick twitches and he stopped smiling and looked distressed. He had spent.

So there weren’t any fireworks for Maureen that first trip, and not much for Charles. But I wasn’t too disappointed; my prime purpose had been achieved; I was no longer a virgin. I made note to ask Father about how to make it last longer—I was certain that I could have reached those fireworks had I been able to stretch it out a little longer. Then I put it out of my mind and was happy with what I had accomplished.

And started a custom that has stood me in good stead for a long lifetime: I smiled up at him and said softly, “Thank you, Charles. You were splendid.”

(Men don’t expect to be thanked for it. And at that moment a man is always willing to believe any sort of compliment…most especially if he hasn’t really earned it and is uneasily aware of his shortcoming. To thank him and compliment him is an easy investment that pays high dividends. Believe me, sister mine!)

“Gosh, Maureen. You’re swell.”

“You are, too, Chuck sweetheart.” I hugged him, arms and legs, then relaxed and added, “Maybe we had better get up. This floor is hard, even with a doubled blanket.”