Let’s Talk About Sex Baby, Part Four

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Like I’ve said, I’ve been lucky.

I’ve dated a long line of respectable men. I have never ever been so much as nudged towards crossing a sexual line. My boyfriends have all been more hesitant that I was. I have always been the one to tell them, “no, really, it’s ok. I WANT to.”

I’ve never been pushed into sexual activity, I dived in head first. Sort of. After testing the water, splashing my feet a little. I took my time before I made my ultimate decision and I am 100% happy with who and when the Big Event occurred.

But that’s not what this is about. This is about the little events along the way.

Just because I wasn’t coerced into sexual activity doesn’t mean it wasn’t attempted. In 9th grade, my second 1 month relationship was with a boy I’ll call Calvin. Calvin was a badboy. He got in trouble all the time. He dated all the prettiest girls. He was loud and lewd and he rode my bus. He talked about sex and bragged about having it. Then one day, he decided he liked me. He “asked me out” by writing it on his hand. I wrote back “Yes” on his. And there, in ink it was official. We were a couple. A couple of what, I don’t know. We talked on the phone. I went over to his house and we made out.

Then he called me asking when we would sleep together. He asked me for a time table. “After a month?” “I don’t think so,” “Two?” “No Calvin” When he realized it would be at least a year, and most likely longer before I would sleep with him he started looking for another girlfriend. When he found a taker he had her make the break up phone call. I wasn’t concerned. I knew it was doomed from the beginning. I chalked it up as experience and kissing practice and went on my way.

A few months later I was in another relationship with a boy I’ll call John. He was your regular all-american type. And truthfully, I gave him a chance but didn’t have much hope for the situation. I figured any relationship at 14 would last about a month. He bought me jewelry for valentines day that a jeweler saw on me and commented on its high price tag. I freaked out. I broke up with him. We got back together. It lasted another 4 months. We took our time, we kissed and fooled around. I flirted with a different guy, thought I wanted to experience someone else. We broke up. The other guy didn’t pan out. I realized I made a mistake. I worked hard for months trying to win back the affection of John. Eventually I was successful. Things were great for a while. We were back to being us. We were close, we were dreaming up our individual futures over telephone wires and occasional overnights. We moved around the bases together, learning and experimenting. Being open and careful, knowing where our limit was. Knowing we’d honor it.

We broke up again. I dated someone else, someone I had kissed while I was with John. An older boy, the most romantic man I’d ever met, he wrote me lists of why he loved me, took me on surprise picnics, played silly games and had conversations with me that would last for hours. We did our own experimenting. I gained experience. He gained experience. We acknowledged similar boundaries. Though the line was blurred a little at times, we had incredible self-control for hormone crazed teens.

There was nothing wrong with that relationship except for the timing. It had started out wrong. I jumped from one to another, not because I was unhappy in the first relationship, but because I was young. Because I didn’t understand what was happening. I broke up with him and caused more pain that I thought I ever could. I didn’t think he actually meant what he said when he told me he love me. He was a poet, a writer, and I was convinced he was telling me what I wanted to hear. I found out later I was wrong. To this day I think our relationship was a casualty of the war zone that is high school.

I worked for months trying to win back the affection of John, for a second time. And I did.

Or so I thought.

He led me on. For months. We would work on homework together. We would steal kisses when no one was around. We were Romeo and Juliet, hiding our relationship from families who had witnessed our broken hearts before. That was how I saw it anyway. “When will we be together openly?” I asked him time and time again. We had secret meetings in the cold, clothing pushed to the wayside in 30 degree weather; the things you do when you’re young and in love. “Eventually,” he’d tell me, and zip up and his pants.

Eventually. I still hate that word.

After months of using me and my body for “stress relief” he showed up at my house one day in April. The date and the memory is burned in my brain. He showed up and told me “it’s over.” He said something about how we couldn’t do this anymore. That we wouldn’t work out, not in the next few years at least. That maybe we’d find a way to make it work later, in college or after. He watched me burst into tears. He watched me try and ask coherent questions through sobs, and he showed no emotion. No sadness, no apology, not even a spiteful smile. Nothing. He asked me for a hug before he left. I just stared at him. “I can’t hug you now,” I told him, “It’s too hard.” He shrugged and walked out.

The next day he started dating the one girl he knew I despised.

I was crushed.

Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign, a month-long awareness campaign on behalf of Rape and Incest National Network (RAINN).

This entry is one in what will be a multi-part series of posts centered around the topic of sex that you’ll see throughout the month of April.

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