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.

The beginning of the end

You were gorgeous.

10 years older, you were the darling of the design studio.
It seemed to me everyone wanted you.
You'd taken me to lunch so many times, it seemed you wanted me.

I succumbed the first time because it seemed I owed it to you.
A boat ride to an island in the river.
An hibachi, grilled cod, beer - a picnic away from the world.
Just being there with you was cheating.
Sex was what you wanted.
I needed to be wanted.

I gave up control to you immediately.
I had given up control at home as well.
I was a puppet.
The phone rang and you would tell me where to meet you and I would.
Dark alleys, empty parks, cars.
Never in a bed. Never face to face.

The night you told me to spend the night at your cabin I was beyond happy. The guilt and shame were overwhelming, but I hoped you were finally going to let me in. Maybe everything I'd done with you was justified. Maybe you loved me. Another "Deborah" was there when I showed up. You said she was just a friend, but then what did you tell her about me? She left, I stayed. You cooked clams on the open fire. We drank wine. You cleaned me as if my being sterile was critical. Face to face. On a bed. I fell asleep with you.

In foggy morning, I told you I was going to leave my husband. I did not expect you to be with me, just be my friend. You said, "I'm not your friend. If you leave your husband I'll stop seeing you." I left you instead.

Months later I ran into you at a party and you charmed me into believing you wanted to see me. It would be different this time. You said to meet you at a dance club. I waited alone, nervous, for hours until I finally spotted you dancing with a gorgeous brunette. I approached you and you introduced me to your "girlfriend" a flight attendant who was 28 and appeared quite worldly. I was barely 21 and anything but. You introduced me as "a kid you'd worked with" and then arm around her, led her to a booth where you made out.

You were the only person besides my husband I'd had sex with. I was going to hell. Figured I'd take the express so I ran into the bathroom searching through my purse for anything that I could kill myself with. Nothing. No one consoled me. There was no one I could tell.

My life spiraled downward. I moved in with a guy I barely knew, who asked me to dance that night because he listened.

Ended

"Us" ended that night behind a neighbor's bush.
"My" suicide ended before I could bring myself to swallow the gasoline.

You were my first date, my first kiss, my first love.
You were the most unique, creative, intelligent boy in town.
For six months I was the happiest girl in junior high.
I took everything you did and said and matched my life to yours.

You said dance, I danced.
You said be yourself, I blossomed.
You said I want to feel you, I let you.
You said I want to have sex, I said I was not ready.
You said... goodbye.

That night ended my innocence.
That night began a pattern.