But Patricia would have none of that. Showing off wasn’t her nature. She hadn’t even come close to having sex yet—it was something she’d save for the right man. Most of the other girls seemed a lot less choosy, and even this young, Patricia saw that as a pitfall. She wanted to go to college, forge a career, while most of the local girls rushed to get married right after high school and start having kids. Not me, she resolved. These girls would wind up living here their whole lives and never even know what opportunities might be waiting for them out in the rest of the world. Patricia was determined not to miss out on what was out there simply to have a routine life in the place she was born.
As for sex . . .
She’d never had it, nor had she ever noticed in herself any trace of the sex drive that seemed to propel everyone else. She’d dated a few boys, but only once got past French-kissing. One twelfth grader she’d kind of liked from her geography class had gotten her bra off one night at the old Palmer’s drive-in, but the film—something about killer worms—had grossed her out more than scared her. He’d clumsily groped her breasts and sucked her nipples for a few minutes, then evidently spent himself in his pants. He’d also tried to rub between her legs but was only rubbing just below her navel. She hoped he did better in high school geography than he did in female geography. In other words, this excursion left her uninterested. The local boy she’d most been expected to date seriously was Ernie, but when she was asked about the prospect, her response was always akin to: “Ernie’s been my friend since first grade! He’s like a brother! I could never date him!” Only later, just before she graduated, had she learned how badly he’d pined for a romance. She simply wasn’t interested in Ernie—or in any boy, for that matter. Even when friends described their experiences “doing it” (and the fabulous multiple orgasms that always resulted), her response was typically a frown. Masturbation seemed ridiculous, at least from the descriptions she’d heard. What if someone saw me? And what could possibly be that great about it anyway? When she’d been younger—fourteen or so—she remembered leaving volleyball practice—and being late—so she’d cut home through the woods, where she’d accidentally happened upon a boy from Hodge’s Hardware Store coupling naked with one of the Squatter girls. So that’s what sex is, she presumed, unshocked and unimpressed. The boy’s fastidious performance of lovemaking had lasted about three minutes, whereupon he’d re-dressed quickly and left. But the Squatter girl remained, one hand alternately kneading her breasts, the other playing with her sex. Her body had flexed, her back curling backward in a noisy finish that only left Patricia amused and absolutely convinced she had no need to do this to herself. Why? If I made all that noise, my parents would hear!
Ultimately, by the end of the eleventh grade she found all the talk of boys and dating and junior proms and sock hops—and sex—to be annoying. I guess I’m just different from everyone else, she concluded, and didn’t feel at all unusual about it. In not being sexual, she never once thought she might be missing out on anything. But what she wouldn’t miss out on was life, her career, the future. Sex would have to wait.
It was right before school would let out for summer—for some reason she remembered that—and she recalled nothing sexual about her motive, the business about skinny-dipping. She and Judy had gone to a late double feature at the town theater. She’d asked several friends to join them, but, alas, they were all going on to another skinny-dipping party. She and Judy had both passed on the invite—electing instead to go see Star Wars, which everyone was talking about—but regrettably they were forced to sit through some grueling first feature about an Egyptian cannibal in the catering business. Patricia found the schlocky farce hilarious in its bad production, but Judy had left halfway through, too revolted by the hokey violence and fake blood that looked like house paint. Star Wars was fun, though, and exciting. However, while walking home . . .
. . . Patricia got to thinking.
Maybe I’ll try it, she dared herself. In case I ever decide to do it with my friends, I’ll know what it’s like. It wasn’t sex she was considering; it was merely skinny-dipping.
I’ll try it alone first, see if I like it.
But where? Everyone else was out at the lake in Luntville. I know, she thought. She saw the sign right there as she walked along Point Road:
BOWEN’S FIELD.
There was a pond there, and the field itself was almost entirely surrounded by woods.
Perfect.
Her parents were at the fire hall tonight—bingo—and would be home late. The heat and humidity were sky-rocketing as the summer deepened; Patricia was sticky with sweat just minutes after leaving the cool movie theater. A late-night dip in the pond is just what I need.
She cut through more woods, her sandals snapping twigs. Peepers cheeped like parrots, and she had to walk slowly, keeping her eyes on the ground for toads. Then the woods broke, and there she was. . . .
The clearing opened, ringed by tall trees. The moon was just edging over the tallest oaks. Bowen’s Field was a little-used municipal lot: mainly county softball games and holiday gatherings. Picnic grounds with tables and grills dotted the area, and off to one side was the pond.
Patricia looked around guardedly. No one around. She felt satisfied. She walked off to the trees, then thought nothing of skimming out of her shorts and top. A moment of hesitation; then the rest came off, panties and bra dropped atop the sandals. And one last look around . . .
Everyone else is skinny-dipping in Luntville, and I’m skinny-dipping here. . . . Simple. There was no need to be self-conscious or embarrassed—she was a logical girl. So she shrugged her bare shoulders, then, and walked nude across the field. See? No big deal. She giggled. When she looked down at herself, the only shock was how white she was. She was fair-skinned; she didn’t tan well. Her natural hue touched over by the moonlight made her look ghostly.
The warm air caressed her skin as she moved on. Another giggle: I’m walking naked in public! The night’s heat licked up and down her body.
Cicadas buzzed in their unique drone. The pond lay flat and still before her, a solid black mirror with the moon’s reflection floating on top. Mud squished up through her toes when she stepped in, first to her ankles, then to her knees. She lifted her foot and took the next step, which should’ve brought her hip-deep, but—
Splunk!
—she dropped into a surprise gully deeper than she was tall. She sprang back to the surface, laughing, then began to dog-paddle around. Where the night’s heat had felt heavy on her skin, the cool water felt absolutely luxurious. A sudden liberty swept her as she let the water devour her: No one knows I’m here; I’m totally alone. She liked that feeling, a forbidden independence—being naked and by herself, as though the world existed solely for her, and she were its only inhabitant. The moon looked down, a luminous voyeur. Her flesh felt buoyant; cool water rushed between her legs and over her stomach and breasts. She smiled to herself, kicking out farther, totally tranquil in the water.