Frigid

Around 1970, feminists were arguing that "frigidity" was "defined by men as the failure of women to have vaginal orgasms.

You told me time and time again that I was frigid, remember?

It wasn't until many partners later I realized that what I did to myself in private was "masturbating" and that the glorious feeling of release was an "orgasm."

I held on tight to a belief that to have sex, one must be in love first. Married preferably. Engaged definitely. Promised, going steady, solid, committed... a couple. I'd taken some bit of conversation with my mom and turned it into a litany of the situation surrounding sexual activity. Orgasms were not discussed. I did not enter into the situation with passion. For me it was "if this, then that."

You'd shown up at my high school, blond and blue-eyed, the cheerleaders took the first stab at getting your attention. Perhaps my skirt was shorter. We talked the first time through our car windows while "dragging main." 2 miles of teenage entertainment defined by Tasty Freeze on one end and A&W Root beer on the other. I'm sure I was stalking you. You had the coolest car in the whole school so by default you must be the coolest boy. A mystery man who did not know me by my bizarre and embarrassing angst filled years 12-16. I don't remember the details of the conversation, but it lead to our first date.

We saw the movie "Paint Your Wagon" - Clint Eastwood, Lee Marvin, Jean Seberg (Two unlikely prospector partners share the same wife in a California gold rush mining town.) That movie was my first exposure to the concept of multiple relationships. I remember being confused but also a little excited.

You told me you'd had sex with ex-girlfriend.
I'd lost a prior boyfriend by not saying yes to sex.

It took 2 tries before we finally succeeded at having sex. I remember my nervousness that first try. I was embarrassed about unzipping my pant suit and revealing underwear which seemed much more risque than just being naked. I did not make it through the transition that day and cried.

The second time - we thought we were alone and did not close the door. It was truly terrifying when your mother walked past the room where I lay in bed with you after our uninspiring coupling. I was traumatized.

Rubbers were sold in truck stop men's rooms then. It was like a covert op - driving outside of town to score condoms. The fear was pregnancy. Rumor said that douching with a bottle of coke after sex would kill the sperm. It left me sticky.

Sex was messy.
Sex was embarrassing .
I continued to have sex with you to keep you.

You told me I was frigid.
You told me I was flat chested.
You told me I was mental.
You told me I was inferior.
You told me I was lucky to have you.

At 16 I was convinced no one else would want me.

Ever.