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One July afternoon when I was fifteen I went for a walk with Vadonna, the girl who lived next door, and her younger brothers and sisters; we were all going to go skinnydipping in a creek on a nearby farm. When we got to the creek everyone was afraid to get naked, except Vadonna. She stripped and waded into the water while the others laughed and shouted and pointed at her from the bank. As we were going back across the field Vadonna and I fell behind the others, and then we lay down to hide in the tall broomsedge.

The sky was a deep rich blue, the color of stained glass, and the sun rode high in the swollen clouds like a big gold pocketwatch. We undressed each other, began kissing, fumbling. My heart was beating so fast I thought I was going to die. I climbed on top of her, sucking in my breath, the end of my penis becoming as naked and delicate as a daisy, and then catching fire in the fierce warmth of her flesh.

I woke up from a dream and the room was filled with sunlight. As I was aware of the intensity of the light and the deepness of the sky and afternoon beyond the windows, I was also aware of a presence down between my legs; a thing I felt familiar with, yet somehow foreign to: my cock standing up because of the dream, maybe whatever it was aboutor just for its own sake.

A wave of wild wanting swept through me and I did not have enough Christianity pumped into me yet to fight it. The object of my desire was neither man, girl, woman, or beast. In fact, there was no object desired. All I needed was right there for that brief moment of freedom.

I had myself. It seems to me they are all one. The self-centered desire just finds objects now to attach to.

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We were 15 and Had been going together for exactly eight months and three weeks. We were ignorant virgins. And no one we knew could help us out. For three weeks straight, both nights of the weekend we struggled and tossed around, cramped under the steering wheel of his Impala, windows steamy. No luck. I was getting desperate. Having shared my secret resolve with my two best friends, I had to make good. We girls were fiercely competitive. So my reputation was on the line. What next? The problem was a simple one — just to find somewhere with room to move.

And the weather gave us the break we needed. It was spring, so we sneaked some blankets out of the house and started early that Friday night. Rode out of town toward the river and were just circling one of our regular haunts when it started to rain. Another wasted evening! But then he jabbed me in the arm, excited, and pointed to a nearly finished new house set back from the road.

Lights out, tires crunched slowly over metal and wood debris, shivers of excitement the scary type running down my spine. He turned off the motor and we ran through the rain, blankets over us, hopped up onto the door jamb and inside. The house smelled damp and clean, like new wood. We plopped the blankets down, stripped to underwear and got under the top one.

But when we finally got around to the main event, managing to get it right only through sheer willpower and physical force on both sides I felt, I guess, a typical reaction. Maybe, like the re-telling, it was all in the build-up. Or something like pain which you blank out later. Like the kick I got when I told my two friends, a much more romantic version, of course. Certainly, the whole thing of sex bypassed me completely. In spite of all my efforts I was still.

Not nearly ready. In fact, it was years before I was. There was a curious twist, though, to my first sexual experience. Before dinner one evening he took us to look at a new one bordering the golf course near the river. It was the same house! A week later he bought it and we moved in. Talk about your sins coming home to roost! I am three, or thereabouts.

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We live in Charlotte, N. There are a couple of children with me whose faces and forms are indistinct to me now, but I know there were two of them. We are deeply, childishly intent on showing off our bodies to one another. Gently we poke at the mysterious crevices above pulled down shorts and giggle as we take turns examining the comical limpness of a small penis. At that moment, what we are absorbed in is FUN. I am surprised and proud of the specialness of my own body, of its apparent ability to interest, even intrigue someone else into wanting to touch it.

I think my friends feel that way too. We are all laughing. Under cover of the tent, in this moment of special, private sharing, we are all close; we like each other very much.

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My friends, one by one, are pulled roughly out by their elbows. The little boy tries with one hand to get his shorts up around his waist again. I fix my clothes hastily and leave the tent in time to see my mother striding across the yard toward me, her face set in an angry, bewildered stare that I can see vividly to this day. There must have occurred one of her frigid silent treatments after the initial scolding. It was obvious from the way she and the other mother reacted that we had done something that was disgustingly wrong.

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But what was most damning to me was that I had enjoyed it. That confused me more than anything. Even in my childish egocentricity I had a well-enough developed conscience to know right from wrong. Now when I stop to consider my sexuality, I end up wondering what it was my mother feared so. Was she attempting to curb a tendency in me that she felt would lead to promiscuity and embarrassment to her?

Or even worse, did she fear my flagrant enjoyment of the taboo would lead to an unhappy state of motherhood at an early age as had befallen her? I look at my own little daughter and promise myself not to traumatize her first infantile sexual encounters with other kids, to keep it in perspective. Then I think of her having sexual intercourse at, say 13 or 14, and it scares the hell out of me. I guess I must try to stay open and deal with the experiences of my own daughter as they arise. David was a drifter.

I met him when I was 17, and he was I was finishing up high school while he was paying his rent by baking bread at a bakery. I had heard David preferred virgins. This was slightly disconcerting. When I spent evenings with him I was never sure that he just wanted to be with me.

But I was not proud that it had taken 17 years before I even got in the same sleeping bag with a man. I wondered how many more evenings and langorous Sunday afternoons it would take before we would finally do it. Where were those fresh and vivid sheets I had seen in Seventeen magazine, the Sears Roebuck Catalogand the like?

How could I think about getting married before I had even been to college? How could he say he was looking for a wife while proclaiming he was such a world traveller? We separated without much talk; without a fallout; his proposed trip was enough of an excuse for both of us to drift apart. David finally did leave the United States; he found an old seaman who agreed to let him board his steamer to England. I found out about this story through friends. And yet I received postcards from him in England, France, and Norway. I felt sorry for him in a way.

Was he looking for a wife in Europe? Was he freezing? What was he looking for in me by sending only postcards? No letters, no return address. We caught up over a year later, in the January of my sophomore year in college.

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David looked wonderful still having sun-kissed curls in wintertime. I wanted to go up, give him a good squeeze, and hook my fingers in the belt loops of his white jeans. They looked clean, so he must have broken down and bought a new pair.

David disapproved of my living on campus, and yet expected I would be just thrilled to have him up to my dorm room. David got angry and called me arrogant; I laughed and considered this a compliment coming from him. He can fall in love, fall out of love. He lies. Even after his first experience with another guy, he lies to protect an ego trained to reject desire. He lies as he is taught to lie about everything that would make him imperfect. I was 17, a junior in high school, when Mike Weiss first moved to Ashland.

He was tall, quiet and in my English class. All those afternoon periods spent watching him sitting over there by the blackboard — I fell. Ask him to the prom? Even if he were female and I were straight, I would probably be rejected. So I was limited to lame attempts at conversation after band practice. Winter passes, into spring.

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Sometimes I would see him and he would speak. It was the springtime of many passions, many adventures. My loot was mostly candy bars, paperback books I soon branched out to drugstores and chocolate chips, which are fairly easy, being on the back shelf, and delicious.

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