Memoir 01: Marie 0.999...

Marie 0.999...

17 May 1980

"Am I still a virgin?!" she sobbed ruefully.

I lay on my back next to her on the van's cushioned floor, the dolorous regret in her voice making my erection collapse back between the chastising teeth of my blue jeans' zipper. Her sudden rejection surprised and confused me.

* * *

Not too much earlier, she'd raised no objection to my obvious masquerade in suggesting we drive down to the old Mid-City Outdoor Theatre for a double feature: Magic, followed by Invasion of the Body Snatchers. We'd seen them both last winter, and she hadn't liked either movie. She'd not questioned why I'd parked so far off to the side of the wedge-shaped lot, albeit not far enough out to draw Security's attention, but in a place where very few other patrons would pass the van on their way to the dingy concrete block projection building with the concessions stand and restrooms.

We'd visited that ourselves right away, both using the bathrooms. I'd bought us each a large Mountain Dew, in the expectation of a long evening of sweaty exertions. When we'd returned to the van, I'd hooked the tinny speaker over the driver's window for show, cranking the glass up as far as it would go, leaving less than an inch of space for any pesky mosquitoes or security guards. I'd set the volume to a barely audible mumble. For decorum's sake, I'd suggested we might find it "more comfortable" sitting in the back.

"I think we'll still be able to see the screen between the front seats," I'd added, knowing that she knew better. It didn't matter. She'd wordlessly slipped between the captains chair's left armrest and the bulky engine cover console and into the vehicle's dark and spacious rear.

My brother had built a platform across the back of the van's roomy interior, over and spanning the wheel wells, and placed a queen-size mattress on it. She'd eschewed this obvious venue, and instead sat on the comforter covering the thick foam rubber pad that filled the floor space behind the front seats. She'd leaned back a bit, her shoulders resting against the two-by-eight plank supporting the evaded makeshift bed. As I'd settled in beside her, however, she'd kissed me with a fervent lust that rendered absurd any prior concessions to tokens of virtue.

I'd soon had her blouse unsnapped, bra loose, and jeans open. I'd kissed her breasts as I'd slipped a hand down the front of her panties. Already familiar manual territory, I'd still appreciated the unique sensation of running my fingers through those thick curls. Lower, I'd found her wetter than I'd ever felt before. She'd enthusiastically helped me pull off her jeans and panties, and rolled under me as I'd unbuttoned my pants and unzipped my fly.

She'd obviously become as aroused and passionately anxious as me as I'd lowered myself to her. She'd moaned at the first caress from my stiff shaft upon her sodden folds. I'd moved with more deliberation than skill, but soon felt her untried womanhood stretching to accept the head of my penis, then clutching behind its widest rim. At that very moment, however, she'd unexpectedly become a barrage of fists and knees, pushing me off of her.

* * *

Each second felt like hours as I lay there, hearing her crying, unsure what to do next. The last few lines of Seeger's We've Got Tonite faded from the radio, the irony increasing exponentially when it segued into Sad Eyes. That sickeningly sweet ballad had worked its way up the charts over the past few weeks. With the romance of summer vacation starting soon, it looked like the song might cling to enough stations' Pop "A" Lists to finally earn the mediocre but persistent Robert John, aka Bobby Pedrick, a legitimate top ten hit.

At least it wasn't disco. When Marie and I had started dating, disco prevailed, and every radio station seemed to own only two albums: the soundtracks from Saturday Night Fever and Grease. We've Got Tonite become "our song" by default; no other tune then on the air had anything either of us considered a sufficiently sentimental tone. We'd always treated its "one night stand" theme as a joke.

I certainly never wanted to have a casual attitude toward making love, especially not the very first time, as this would have been (and perhaps was) for both of us. I loved her more than I thought possible. I never meant to push her into sex if she didn't want it. I'd thought she did, and her body certainly had screamed "yes," even if, at the very last second, her Catholic compunction had yelled "no."

Or perhaps her conscience had acted a moment too late. I had entered her, even if only a bit and for merely an instant. I knew she hadn't meant her question rhetorically, and looked to me to answer.

I had entered her. I knew the factually correct answer. I loved her more than I thought possible. I never meant to push her into sex if she didn't want it. I never wanted to hurt her in any way.

Her body certainly had screamed "yes"; then her conscience had acted a moment too late. Was she still a virgin? I knew the factually correct answer.

I never wanted to hurt her in any way. Was she still a virgin? I knew the right answer.

Was she still a virgin? I gave the right answer.

I lied.