In a the bloggers group I am a part of, we've been talking about the first blogs we've written. That discussion has led me to think about a different first. Yes, that first. I remember so clearly the day I met him, the guy who would be my first. It was 1986 and I was 20 years old. Yes, I was really still a virgin at 20. Growing up Catholic can really fuck with your head on so many levels. And I was terrified I'd be damned to hell if I had sex.
It was the Husker Du concert at the Phantasy Theater in Cleveland. The place of many many fine shows back in the day. I so clearly remember that night, meeting H. I was decked out in all my punk rock finery. Long black skirt to the floor. A black and silver top with my Grandma's rhinestone brooch pinned to the top button. Hair with my trademark skunk streak in it and lots of jewelry. And the pièce de résistance, my BFF's aunt's fox fur around my shoulders. You know the ones that are basically full fox pelts with a clip put into their jaws so you can clip a few of them together, mouth to tail, and wear them around your shoulders? Oh yes, I was a vision. At least I thought so, and as it turns out, so did he.
He struck up a conversation with me in the back of the theater between bands. BFF had met two guys that night and they were kind of fighting over her. How this happened I'm not really sure, since I was the one wearing that dude magnet fox fur. But when I saw his stunning blue eyes, I forgot all about BFF and her troubles. I was mesmerized. He swept me right out of my granny boots. He wasn't a flag waving punk, but he was at a great show so he was alright in my book. We talked, went to watch the show when Husker Du came on and he held my hand while they played. Then we made out a little until BFF really did need help and H came to her rescue. Ahh blue eyes, good kisser and was there for my friend in need? It might just be love. We exchanged phone numbers. And he called, he actually called.
We made a date to meet halfway between where we both lived. We lived about an hour away from each other. I was excited and mom was thrilled. I was 20 years old and didn't have a boyfriend. This is a calamity for an Italian mother! At this rate I'll never get married, at least that was her line of thinking. Our first date got off to a rocky start. I thought he stood me up and called my mom in tears from a pay phone where I thought we were to be meeting. These are the days before cell phones. Lucky for me though, mom had call waiting and he called on the other line while I was talking to her. He was waiting for me at a different Bob Evans. I went to the wrong one. Since that night, we were inseparable. My family loved him, especially mom. He was polite and spoke to her when he came over, he didn't look weird like all my other boyfriends had, he was half Italian. And those eyes... have I mentioned those eyes?
Things had been pretty hot and heavy between us and he was starting to put on a little pressure to seal the deal. I did agonize over whether or not to do it, but my hormones were pretty sure I would. I cried, a lot. Felt very alone in this decision process. Would I be able to do it without excessive guilt? Would my (to borrow my friend L's perfect phrase) Roman Catholic clitoris even work? Would I go to hell? Would lightning strike us dead while we were fucking? And then he said the most perfect thing that in my eyes made everything alright... "I love you." True love and my hormones ended up being stronger than the nuns damning me to the fiery pits of hell for all eternity so I went to my doctor to get put on the pill.
So much planning was made for the big event. About a month and a half into our relationship we were going to the Jesus and Mary Chain concert.
He had come over early that day and my parents were having a cook out or something in the back yard (in March? weird.. must have been unseasonably warm that year, but I remember everyone being outside). I was on the pill by now and we were just waiting for it to kick in. We were in the house listening to music and making out, when it just became all too much and we did it right then and there. No more waiting, all plans for the big event... the sex, not the concert, tossed out the window. And he had condoms with him so we were doubly protected. We did it in a room that faced the backyard with the rest of the family right outside the window. It was over fast but hallelujah and saints be praised, my Roman Catholic clitoris did work! An orgasm, on my first try!
I'm not exactly sure I felt different, but I definitely knew I'd be doing that again. And again. And again....
Interestingly, while I write this I discover that every event with H is tied to a musical event. We met at Husker Du, we had sex the day of Jesus and Mary Chain, and we broke up at the big yearly outdoor music festival at Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland some months later. It was a painful break up, but it was the right thing to do for various reasons. At the time, when I gave him my virginity, I truly thought I would marry him, but never regretted having sex with him. He loved me. To me that mattered. Sorry Sr. Mary Oppression, in the end I made a decision I could live with and the church has since stayed out of my sex life.
