My Story of Teenaged Sexual Horror

      I ran into my highschool boyfriend at the grocery store.  I could barely recognize him.  He had a very distinctive look to him, a look that you come across all too often in this part of the country:

         He looked like a tweaker.  Meth zombies all look the same.  

         Not to be too judgmental, as I’m a fine, upstanding alcoholic and a serial relapser who has definitely fucked up my adulthood, but crystal meth is the worst drug on the planet and the only one that I consider too terrifying to even consider using.  I’ve seen a lot of it around my home town.  The damage that it causes to families is incalculable.  It’s a hideous drug and tweakers are hideous people. Give me a crackhead or a heroin junkie any day of the week.  

        It’s too bad about Scott, because he was really a handsome man.  Looked a lot like a very young Tom Cruise.   Beautiful smile.  I mean, he could have sold toothpaste on TV.

         Scott was my first boyfriend.  We started dating when I was 17 and he was 19.  We worked together at a fast food restaurant.  His family were Mormons.  They were always nice to me, but there’s something I’ve noticed about Mormons: you can be friends with them, and they’ll take you into their home and eat dinner with you, but unless you’re a member of their faith, they become impenetrable at a certain point.  

           Scott did not like Mormonism, but he had to go to church because his Dad was a Bishop.  

          I wish that every young woman could have a formative relationship like the one I had with Scott.   A lot of teen girls really get taken advantage of by dickheads in high school because the guys run the show and the girls don’t yet realize that females are the ones with all the sexual power.   I hate jockish teenage meathead boys.  Little do they know that their days of enjoying unreciprocated oral sex are numbered and by the time they’re 25 they’ll be jumping hurdles and spending tons of cash in order to even get a chance at a blowjob.  

         But I digress…

        Why would I want my daughter to have an initial relationship like the one that I had with Scott…?  

          I’ll tell you why: I fucking controlled it.  

          He was my guinea pig boyfriend.   Two years in a relationship, and I refused to have sex with him.  A few years later–say, college age–and a guy would stop dating a girl if she didn’t sleep with him after, I dunno, a month at most?  But, Scott was a virgin, too, and didn’t know what he was doing.  

          Readers might wonder why an enthusiastic and unrepentant slut like myself refused to give up the cookie.  After all, I’ve had sex with lots of ugly, inappropriate men just because I felt like it.  Scott was a sweet, handsome fella who actually treated me pretty well.

         You see, it was the principle of the thing: Scott was the last one of his guy friends who was still a virgin, and they teased him about it constantly.   He felt very self-conscious about it.

          Even as a teenager, I was totally unsentimental about sex, but tell you what: I wasn’t going to put out just so that his friends would get off his back.  I didn’t have great expectations for my first time, but I did want it to be at least a little more significant, in the guy’s eyes, than a vehicle to end his childhood.  

          So, I dug my heels in, and that was that.

          Don’t feel too badly for the guy.  We fooled around a lot.   He got a lot of orgasms out of the deal, which is more than I got (I couldn’t come until I was 20).  What I got was experience, familiarity with the male body, and a lot of self-confidence. 

           Teenage dating is so ridiculous.  It’s a wonder that anyone survives it.  We’d do stuff like get fast Chinese food and park at…well, a park, and then make out in the back seat.   Having sexytimes in an automobile is so lame.  I’ve done my share of it–the Surgeon, in particular, found it exciting for some reason–but I don’t care if I never do it again.  A limousine is somewhat acceptable because at least you can move around and fantasize that you’re in a hip-hop music video (you wouldn’t believe how much head I’ve given in idling limos outside of Lincoln Center), but the drivers always make me self-conscious.  

         Anyway, let me wrap up this meandering blog post with a blast from the past: a tale of Teenage Sexual Horror.   This is the tale I always tell at cringe festivals, where you’re sitting around with friends and sharing stories about something humiliating or cringe-worthy that happened to you (it’s a terrific, and usually hilarious, bonding experience).  

          Scott and I were fooling around in the backseat of his father’s Ford Taurus.  It was late autumn and very dark outside.  We were parked at a park we often went to because it was isolated and sometimes on the weekends there’d be drag races on a street nearby.  

           There was a lot of groping involved.  My pants were down around my knees.  My shirt and bra were pushed up. The windows were fogged up and fortune-cookie wrappers littered the front seat.  A little grunge rock on the stereo.  Probably Pearl Jam.  

           Above me, Scott froze.  He stopped kissing me (sort of a relief.  I hate to be disloyal, but the guy was a terrible kisser.  It felt like he was trying to eat my head.  I thought that I hated kissing because I had no basis of comparison).  

           “Uh, Margo…?  Are you okay?”

           “Huh?  What?” I asked, confused.   

            He reached up and turned on the overhead light.

            And screamed.

           There. Was. Blood. Everywhere.   I mean, it looked like a fucking scene from a horror movie or CSI.   Blood all over his hands.   Blood on my hands.  Blood on my jeans.   Blood on the seat beneath me.  There was a big bloody handprint on the back of the driver’s seat.  

           It wasn’t my period.  I’d broken my hymen.  Or he had, with his hand (the only good thing about this story: I’d been worried that it would hurt when it finally happened, but I didn’t even feel it rupture).  

           Blood.  

           All over the dove-gray fabric of his father’s car.  His father, the conservative Mormon Bishop. 

          Scott looked like he was being electrocuted.  The expression on his face was memorable.  To this day, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man look so scared.  

          I have to say: I’m really proud of how I handled the situation.

          I reached into the front seat and grabbed some napkins left over from our meal.  I shoved them between my thighs and pulled my underwear up, and then my pants.  Then I told Scott to go to the restroom in the park to wash his hands. I needed to get him out of the car so that I could assess the damage. 

           He went, and then I got up and stood outside of the car so that I could see how bad it really was.

             It was bad.  I’d had no idea that a ruptured hymen could bleed that much.  I was amazed that I hadn’t felt it happen, because the amount of blood spilled looked like it could have come from a stab wound.

          Scott came back with clean hands.  There was blood on his shirt, which he’d tried to rinse out.

           “My parents are going to kill me.  It might be better to just burn the car,” he said.

            “It will be okay.  We need to act fast, though, before the blood dries.  We need cold water, soap, and towels.”

             I went to the bathroom to wash my hands.  Then we drove to WalMart and bought gallons of bottled water and rags and detergent.  We scrubbed the upholstery for an hour, over and over again.  The stain was resilient.  People stared at us as they walked by.  We looked like criminals getting rid of evidence.  We felt like criminals.  

             “If worst comes to worst, I’ll say that I got my period,” I said.

              “But in the back seat?  Why would you be riding in the back seat?”

               “Well, maybe we should spill something red back there, like a cherry slurpee.  I’ll take responsibility for it and offer to pay to have it professionally cleaned.”

               We got out most of the stains.  It took a long time, because we kept finding blood in new places.  Then we sat in the car with the heater on full-blast to dry the fabric.  

                He dropped me off at my house and went home to meet his face.  Poor Scott.  He looked taumatized.  I probably did, too, and I had to sneak past my mother wearing bloody jeans.

             The next morning–Sunday morning–I called Scott every twenty minutes to see if his family had spotted any stains in the back seat.  

             Nobody noticed, and nobody said anything.  We pulled it off.

             I’ve had my share of awkward sexual moments, but I don’t think that anything compares to that.  It’s sort of funny in retrospect, but at the time it was terrifying. 

             I dated Scott for another year.  We went to prom.  Prom was okay.  We went to Ichiban for dinner.  When I was 17, I thought Ichiban was the fanciest place in the world. 

             That’s the story.  I haven’t thought of Scott in years, until I ran into him at the grocery store.  

         


One thought on “My Story of Teenaged Sexual Horror”

  1. The ‘virginity’ thing is chillingly reminiscent of Elliott Rodger. There’s a long essay to be written about prevalent notions of ‘masculinity’, the sense of entitlement to sexual access, and the systematic humiliation and sanctioning of those who do not obtain it either with consent or by force.

    This, combined with the phenomenon of ‘slut shaming’ (you even used the S word about yourself) shows how horribly schizoid and damaged the male psyche becomes as it is socialized in a culture still dominated by patriarchal ideology.

    Oh, and “…went home to meet his face”. I think you mean “fate” (At least I hope you do. The alternative has a nightmarish quality.)

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