This can’t be how this goes. He hasn’t even kissed you yet. You’ve never done this before, and weren’t expecting From Here to Eternity or anything, but maybe some small pretense of romance? You really should go. Right? You can do that. Change your mind. People are allowed to change their minds. How far is the rum? The rum is right there on the floor beside the bed with the cap off. How could anyone leave an open bottle on the floor? That is a booze loss waiting to happen. You grab the bottle and take a swig, put it back down, look around for the cap. He looks at you somewhat expectantly. You look at him expectantly back. He reaches over to help you take off your shirt, moves down to undo your belt, leans you back onto the bed, kisses you exactly once before he’s got his hand all the way into your pants, pushing them down just far enough so he can stick it in. No mention of birth control of any kind has been made by either of you before he moves his dick in the direction of your pants. At no time do your hands move away from your sides. You wouldn’t know where to put them even if you were inclined to put them on some part of him. You have definitely not had enough to drink, but you suspect that if you hadn’t had whatever number of drinks you’ve had, you might be in for a fair amount of physical pain. To be sure, once it’s in, it feels like nothing approaching good, though there’s little in the way of sensation, leaving time to contemplate the pointlessness of this exercise. Your intention was to “get this over with.” Should you call it a success? That’s a stretch. Steven makes some unattractive noises before his body goes limp on top of you, rolls himself off. Jesus, why would anyone want to do this more than once? You look up to see if you can reach the rum, have to stretch a bit, almost knock it over, take one more swig before getting up to go. Okay, I’m gonna go. Better to at least pretend as though he hasn’t already set a timer on this. Okay.
Outside the room, Steven’s roommate and a couple of other guys you recognize are sitting on the floor, laughing. They might be laughing because Steven just got some with you and you’re now slinking away, or they might be laughing because someone made some joke about something else entirely, but the effect is the same. You plot ways to avoid running into any of these people ever again, which could be challenging.
When, a few weeks later, your period is three days late, you have cause to consider your options in the event that you might be pregnant. Your period’s been late before, but this is the first time there’s been any reason to worry about it. But there’s no worry really. You are pro-choice. It’s a bunch of cells. There is not even one fragment of a thought in your head that this could be the beginning of a baby, or that this is a medical procedure with any risks, however minor. You know about Roe v. Wade, although you don’t know who was who pro or con, or why, and you honestly don’t even care to be grateful for Roe or Wade or whoever it was who is totally doing you a solid right now. All you have to worry about is where to get the money for it. Otherwise, there’s no more than a vague I’ll cross that bridge if I ever come to it, and then your period comes, so the bridge is still at a safe distance. You might have three or four other pregnancy scares in the future, but those bridges aren’t even built yet.
Still, you won’t do sex again for a while.
Bright Future
The fall after you and Dad get married, he takes a year in Germany as a Fulbright scholar. You are twenty years old and have never traveled out of the country before and you are terribly thrilled. You ship a box of books and sewing supplies ahead of your arrival, as you’ll need something to do. Your main objective is to be a perfect wife. You rent a small furnished studio apartment near the university; there’s not much to it, but you will do your best on your tiny budget to make it homey: a couple of small plants, a fine linen tablecloth from the flea market for five marks (it has a small coffee stain, but you read Heloise and know just how to get that out with a little baking soda). During the year you will pick up more things along the way: a watercolor from a street artist (It’s so dear, Mother, and just two marks! you write home), patterned curtains you whip up from some fabric remnants she sends. On weekends you and Fred explore parks, wander through museums, attend concerts at the university, budget down to the penny for a bus tour of Europe. You purchase a harpsichord on layaway, which is beyond over budget, but a piano is out of the question financially (not to mention that you wouldn’t be able to ship it home), and you will both make good use of it.
Early on, there’s an audition for choristers for an upcoming recital. You ask Fred what he thinks about you auditioning and he says he thinks it’s a marvelous idea, so you go in, and though you are not yet trained, they remark that they are stunned that you yourself are not a Fulbright scholar, and they offer you a few solo lines in the recital.
This, of course, is one of those life moments on which an entire future hinges, and you simultaneously know it and don’t. It burrows down into you, this recognition, locks in there the way a butterfly screw opens up behind the wall, and you are sure that this is the thing that will truly give you to yourself. You practice for four solid hours a day. You have never been so excited or nervous in your life, not going to college or getting married or even flying on an airplane to Europe. The performance goes well; you get to take a small but special bow, during which five seconds the applause goes down into that place in you that makes you feel absolutely alive; it is one of the greatest things in your history of great things. You are swarmed afterward, and Fred lets you have your moment, but he’s beaming almost as though it’s his own. You cannot stop smiling, write home a handwritten, five-page, double-sided, exclamation-point-riddled letter about it. All the faculty thinks I have a bright future as a soloist if I want it!