I was not an innocent young thing when I was in high school. I snuck out to go see bands play in Hollywood, went to parties as often as I could, and kissed a lot of boys. I had a group of close girlfriends, what would now be called my squad, who I spent most of my free time with, sometimes including some of our guy friends in the mix, or meeting up with them wherever we would land. We all experimented with drinking, some drug use and boys. Not all of us left high school virgins, but some did. We weren’t wild or reckless. We were actually considered “nice” girls. We were pretty typical teens in the early 1980’s.
I met my first boyfriend when I was 15, and was 16. I was in 10thgrade and he was in 11th. We dated and hung out for quite a while before he became my first. I had it in my head that I should wait until I was 16 to have sex. I don’t know where that notion came from but wait we did. Despite having a caring relationship, we broke up when I cut my long blonde hair short as I got more into punk rock. So much for young love!
Your first time is supposed to be the cherished memory you carry with you. The general sweetness of the nerves and fumbling and genuine belief that you are in love and this is the next, natural expression of that young love. At the time, it was all of that…plus in all honesty, it was fun.
I didn’t have a boyfriend for a while after that first relationship. I kissed a few boys at parties (kissing was probably one of my favorite activities – I know I’ve written about my love of kissing before) but I didn’t have my second boyfriend for quite a while. However, my opinion of sex was forever changed not long after the breakup.
One Friday, we all found ourselves at a post football game house party. A fairly usual occurrence. To this day I remember what I was wearing (A black mock turtle next sweater that was my mom’s when she was in high school, a wool pencil skirt, fishnets and black pointy toe pumps) and I can picture the front entrance of the house, double doors, with the garage and driveway to the right, with a large BMW sedan parked in the driveway, close to the garage door. There were shrubs that lines the walkway to the right of the door that led to the driveway. There wasn’t a light on the garage, but the porch light glowed brightly.
We arrived late. The party was already in full swing. Music was playing and kids were spilling through the sliding glass doors in the living room out into the lit up back yard. A guy I liked was there and though he didn’t often show me any attention or regard, he came up and started talking to me. He gave me a beer and we continued to talk about bands we’d seen. It was loud and he took my hand and led me out to the front yard. No one was out there.
He kissed me and I kissed him back, thinking, wow he likes me. He moved me over to the driveway, backing me up against the garage door, still sort of kissing me. Then he moved his hands to my shoulders and started sliding me down the door until I was on the cement driveway behind the car. I felt uncomfortable and nervous and suggested we go back inside. I started worrying about what was going to happen next and yet I couldn’t quite escape him. He still had me pinned down and was sort of squatted over me.
He pulled my skirt up and reached down and ripped my fishnet stockings open as I squirmed and tried to get away. Then he pushed inside me. No fanfare, no utterances of care. It was over quickly, though it felt like ages laying there in the dark, on a cement driveway, pinned between a garage door and BMW, while my friends and lots of other people were inside having fun. All the while he acted like it was a normal thing.
No one worried that I wasn’t inside the party because my friends knew that I thought he was cute. They figured we were making out. They were probably happy for me that he had shown interest in me.
He actually extended a hand to help me up after, though he smugly went back inside alone, while I attempted to pull myself together and get my clothes back in order. Eventually I went back in, found a drink and shook. I couldn’t understand why that had happened and I kept replaying it, wondering what I did to make him think that it was what I wanted or that it was okay. I doubted myself. I blamed myself. I didn’t understand.
Date rape wasn’t defined for at least another decade after that experience. Those kind of experiences were brushed off as boys getting carried away or girls leading them on. You know, you can’t get a guy all lathered up and not let him get off. Peers weren’t supportive and parents were fairly useless. You were not believed, you were judged. You learned to just live with it and carry on. If you were lucky, you didn’t get pregnant (because this was early 1981 and AIDS was just emerging so condoms were not readily used). If you were lucky, no one found out and you weren’t branded a slut. If you were lucky, this wouldn’t have happened to you.
Sadly, it seems that today, almost forty years later, it’s not that different.
I love your brain 