by Bob Purssell
I go to bed as soon as I dry myself. Excited by my discovery, I cannot sleep. Over and over, my mind replays my shower experience. My parents come home, and I feign that I am sleeping soundly. I want to masturbate again but, fearing discovery by my parents, I delay. Restless, just before three in the morning, ever so quietly, I begin stroking myself. Once again, I become aroused. After checking to make sure that I have not awakened my parents, anticipating the pleasure to come, I close my eyes and fantasize that I am with a handsome man. Utterly a slave to my passions and my imagination, I stroke myself. The experience feels so enjoyable and the tension builds. For a moment, I am on the edge of an orgasm. I want to cry out but I clamp my jaws shut. Then comes the wonderful orgasmic rush that goes on and on. Fulfilled, spent, I lie contented.
* * *
Friday was a struggle between focusing on my schoolwork and thinking about my two sexual experiences. My sexual self-gratification had given me a new insight. Now I understood why Elizabeth Sue and Karen could not resist the lure of sex. Yes, as “fucking sluts” they paid a high price; however, there was that very hard-to-resist reward.
In the lunch line, I bumped into Karen. Neither of us spoke at first. Instead, we smiled at one another, the both of us probably thinking of the preceding Friday. Finally, she said, “You know, I never thanked you.”
“Girls have to look after one another.”
“That’s for sure. You know, the college put the fraternity on probation.”
Realizing that Mrs. W had achieved her retribution, I smiled before replying, “Guess you won’t be going there tonight.”
“No way. The guy I met—the one you saw; he’s pretty hot—is taking me to a party.” Then after putting a salad on her plate, Karen added, “I should take you along … in case I have too much of a good time.”
I wanted to go, intrigued to see what it felt like to be a “fucking slut” for real. However, after last Friday, I knew my parents would never agree to my going. Still, I almost said yes, but then I asked, “Is Elizabeth Sue going?”
“No way. She’s freaked out, but she’ll get over it.”
“You think so?”
“For sure. With her hormones, it won’t be long before she’ll party hearty again.” When I did not respond, Karen renewed her offer. “Think it over. If you want to come, call me on my cell.”
Scared of what I might do if given the slightest chance, I answered, “I’m going to pull an Elizabeth Sue. Thanks, but I’d just get in your way.”
Writing on a piece of paper, Karen said, “Here’s my number.” Handing it to me, she added, “If you change your mind, give me a call. He’s picking me up at eight-thirty.”
* * *
That afternoon, I debated whether I should take Karen up on her offer. By the time I got home, I was coming down from my sexual high. The more I thought of my dreams and my two masturbations, the more upset I became. I was out of control. My need for sexual gratification had become all consuming. What the hell was I doing? Why was I even considering becoming a “fucking slut”?
Later that afternoon, while I was jogging, I tried to figure out what I should do. If I was not careful, I could become a Karen or an Elizabeth Sue in an instant. I had to get a grip on my desires. I had to get my hormones under control.
This time, while I was showering, I gave myself a pep talk: You’re not a “fucking slut,” so stop thinking about becoming one. Get back on track and stay away from Karen and Elizabeth Sue. And forget partying.
Sidebar: The teacher gave Karen and me an A on our paper on the American labor movement.
* * *
That weekend, a week after the frat house party, I concluded the incident was closed. I soon learned how wrong I was, because I had two surprises coming my way.
Surprise #1 occurred when I answered the doorbell and found Mrs. W standing on the stoop. She greeted me with, “Surprised?”
I could only gasp, “Yes.”
Perhaps my expression gave away some residual fear of mine, because Mrs. W reassuringly said, “Don’t worry; I’m here to talk with your father about some work he’s doing for us.”
This was new news to me. After Mrs. W left two hours later, intensely curious, I asked my father about her visit. He explained, “I’m doing some contract work for Mrs. Wingdale’s firm. We’re getting ready for a trip to New York.”
Surprise #2 occurred Sunday afternoon when Mrs. W picked up my father. As we were saying good-bye, my mother told Mrs. W, “Don’t worry yourself. Elizabeth Sue and I will have a grand time.”
As the car drove away, my mother explained, “Mrs. Wingdale has asked me to look after her daughter. I’m hoping Elizabeth Sue will join us for dinner.”
All afternoon, I speculated about what would happen when my disciplinarian mother met the “girl run wild” of the Plains. Sure enough, Elizabeth Sue arrived at five-thirty. Curious, I introduced her to my mother.
“Come into the kitchen,” was my mother’s response. “We can talk while I get dinner ready.”
And talk they did. I could have been the proverbial fly on the wall for all my involvement. Amazed at their nonstop conversation, after dinner I went to my room to study. Occasionally, I would hear laughter. Finally, finished with my work and very curious, I went downstairs and found the two of them sitting next to one another on the sofa. Elizabeth Sue’s books were on the coffee table.
Interested in what had transpired while I studied, I walked Elizabeth Sue to her BMW. Thrilled with my mother, she told me, “You are sooo lucky. Your mother is really nice, and she’s smart too.”
My mother’s interaction with Elizabeth Sue did not end with one visit. Monday afternoon, she again arrived, and this time my mother helped her settle into the guest bedroom. That evening, while I studied, my mother again helped the girl with her schoolwork.
Tuesday, my mother sought me out and said, “We haven’t spoken about Elizabeth Sue. I was wondering how you felt?”
I cannot say I was jealous, but my comfortable world had shifted. Fearing my feelings were showing through, in a noncommittal voice, I replied, “It’s okay.”
My mother responded. “I want to help Elizabeth Sue. She’s a nice girl who has gone off in the wrong direction.”
Trying to get a sense of what all this would mean for me, I asked, “Will she be staying with us?”
“I want her to feel comfortable when she’s here. I don’t expect her to live with us, but we’re not using the guest bedroom. Have I made a mistake?”
It was not 100 percent okay with me, but I did not want to oppose something that my mother wanted. I definitely was not going to tell her she had made a mistake. Again using a noncommittal voice, I said, “I’m cool.”
Seeing through my obfuscation, taking my hands in hers and looking right into my eyes, my mother said, “Barbara, you’re my daughter and I want you to know how much I love you.”
Embarrassed that I had shown even the slightest streak of jealousy, head down, I sheepishly replied, “I know that.”
“You’re the reason I can even think of helping Elizabeth Sue.”
“I am?”
“If you weren’t doing as well as you are, I couldn’t have extended my offer to help Elizabeth Sue.”
Now understanding my role, much pleased and reassured by my mother’s declaration of love, I responded, “Elizabeth Sue’s nice. She really likes you.”
Ignoring my comment, my mother told me, “Whatever happens, never forget how much I love you.”
* * *
Perhaps my mother was the mother Elizabeth Sue was looking for. Ever more frequently, she stayed at our house, a small portion of her wardrobe overflowing the guest room closet and bureau. Over the next fifteen months, with my mother’s tutoring, her grades improved enough that graduation, which had been questionable, became relatively certain.
These c
hanges in Elizabeth Sue’s academic fortunes were of little concern to the wider world. The change that did cause comment was Elizabeth Sue’s announcement in September of our senior year that she was reclaiming her virginity. At first greeted with skepticism, then amazement, her transformation produced no end of discussion and comment, some of which lapped over onto me. Identified as the causative agent of this unwelcome alteration in the perceived natural order of things, many of the boys at school demanded to know why I had done such a terrible deed. My protestations that I had nothing to do with Elizabeth Sue’s decision were, of course, unconvincing to my interrogators.
* * *
Although several times I came close to asking Elizabeth Sue what having sex felt like, my fear that she might sense my latent sexual depravity prevented me from even mentioning the subject. With her moving in the opposite direction from me, so to speak, I decided to keep my sexual concerns to myself.
One afternoon, Elizabeth Sue brought up the subject of the upcoming junior prom. This prompted my mother to ask, “Barbara, who are you going with?”
A note of explanation: Alarmed that my development had become lopsided, all through high school, my mother insisted I attend school dances. The rule was “no dances, no ice hockey.” She had put her foot down; it was pointless for me to argue. So making the best of a bad situation, I dutifully went to school social events.
Prior to my sexual awakening, school social affairs were inconveniences, not dangers. Taller than all but a few boys, a recognized tomboy, considered odd or threatening by the girls, I was awkwardness personified. Not an unattractive girl, I had become just too different to fit in.
But now, convinced of my latent promiscuity, the thought of being alone with a boy was terrifying. I was positive I would greet even the most innocent advance with an uncontrollable outburst of passion. Persuaded I would ‘go down’ with only the slightest prompting, I avoided boys. With the junior prom looming ahead, filled with sexual tension, I adopted a simple plan: contract a deadly disease and die the Thursday before the event.
Perhaps sensing my distress, Elizabeth Sue suggested to the class geek that I wanted to be his date. Billy, devoid of musculature, infamous for his shyness and lack of social graces, wearing the proverbial super thick glasses, acted on Elizabeth Sue’s advice. Six weeks before the prom, he “accidentally” met me as I left the local library and asked if I would be his date. Convinced Billy could not even spell the word sex, let alone exploit my sexual proclivities, like a damsel avoiding a fate worse than death itself, to Billy’s astonishment, I accepted in a heartbeat.
We were the odd couple in every permutation of that phrase. While we probably had the same number of chromosomes in our DNA, we were unlike in every measurable facet of our beings. Billy, to use the unkind phrase coined by a fellow student, was a “motor moron” incapable of even the simplest athletic task. He was politically astute; I was unaware. He had ambitions to be an artiste; I was technical all the way.
* * *
Mrs. Wingdale solved my prom dress dilemma. As a thank-you for my helping Elizabeth Sue, Mrs. W insisted that my parents allow her to buy my prom outfit. Somehow, the woman’s persistence overcame my parents’ reluctance, and to my surprise, they agreed.
She did a lot more than write a check. One Friday, Mrs. W, Elizabeth Sue and I flew up to Minneapolis, where we stayed in a suite at an expensive hotel. Saturday, we shopped until we all but dropped. For a teenager who previously had an almost allergic reaction to feminine glamour, my excitement for my gold-sequined gown and matching shoes knew no bounds.
Weather delayed the start of our trip back home. Immediately after we took off, the plane ran into turbulence. Up and down we went, the wings all but flapping. Elizabeth Sue’s stomach did not do very well, and she, like several other passengers, was sick. Eventually, the flight from hell landed hours behind schedule. Completing our aeronautical experience, the airline misrouted our bags to Des Moines.
All of these misfortunes meant we arrived at Mrs. W’s house at 1:30 in the morning. After we helped a queasy Elizabeth Sue into bed, I glanced at her alarm clock, which read 1:56 AM.
* * *
In the kitchen, Mrs. W informed me, “I called your parents. We agreed you could stay here and go home in the morning.”
I liked hanging with Mrs. W, so I replied, “Cool.”
“Want to try the hot tub?”
“Now?”
“Why not?”
“Cool.”
Mrs. W got the both of us suits, and then she led me to the shower room where we had cleaned up Elizabeth Sue and Karen after their frat party experience. As she rinsed her body, I observed that the forty-year-old Mrs. W still had a trim figure without any plumpness. Agreeing with Karen’s assessment that Ms. W was a “babe,” I smiled and mused, the boys on the hockey team would enjoy my view of water splashing off Mrs. W’s body.
“Ready?”
Not knowing what I was agreeing to, I replied, “Yes.”
With that, she opened the outside door to the shower room and a blast of cold air rushed in. Mrs. W shouted, “Come on,” and we dashed across the cold patio to the hot tub. Without verbal encouragement, I helped take the cover off and slid into the warm water.
After a couple of minutes of talk about our trip, Mrs. W asked, “Barbara, tell me about yourself.”
I gave her the abbreviated biography, and she commented, “Pretty girl who’s an athlete and a scholar.”
Embarrassed, I smiled inanely.
“Which schools are you applying to?” was her next question.
I rattled off three names.
“Why are you staying so close to your home?” Unimpressed with my weak answer, Mrs. W told me, “You should consider better schools. You’re what a lot of deans are looking for.”
“You sound like my parents.”
Sticking her finger into my chest, Mrs. W said, “They’re right. Look farther afield, young lady; look at more demanding schools. Don’t sell yourself short.”
* * *
After we ended our dip in the hot tub, I changed into my pajamas and joined Mrs. W in her outsized master bedroom. As I sat and then lay upon the mammoth bed and its silk comforter, Mrs. W asked, “You tired?”
I fibbed, “A little.”
“I want to talk.”
Since talking to Mrs. W was definitely cool, I forced back the sleep and said, “Sure.”
Wearing a red negligee, posing in front of her mirror, Mrs. W asked, “What do you think of the old lady?”
“You’re not an old lady. At school the girls think you’re hot.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere with me.”
“No, I’m being honest.” Then, reflecting on Mrs. W’s red negligee, I said, “All I ever wear to bed are cotton pajamas.”
Mrs. W smiled, and I asked, “Did I say something funny?”
“I was thinking back to when I was your age. My older sister was away at college and she had left a lot of her clothes at home, including some of her intimates.”
“You didn’t?”
“I was a scandal,” explained Mrs. W. “I would dress for bed, kiss everyone good-night, and then switch into my sister’s black chemise.”
“Did your sister ever find out?”
“We’re close; I couldn’t wait to tell her.”
“What did she say?”
“She laughed, and then she started a crazy tradition of buying me provocative lingerie for my birthday.”
I thought how cool it would be to have an older sister. I wanted to tell Mrs. W, but I kept the thought to myself.
Ever since the frat house party, I had been thinking about sex. On several occasions, I had dreamed of sexual encounters and had masturbated. These experiences were troubling because they were so pleasurable. Feeling I could talk to Mrs. W in a way that I could not talk to
my parents, I opened up. “I think about it. Sex, I mean. I think about it … a lot.”
“Not surprising, you’re young,” was Mrs. W’s comment. When I hesitated, she enquired, “I gather you’re a virgin?”
With a shrug, embarrassed, I answered, “Yes.”
Sitting on her bed, Mrs. W leaned forward, tapped my chest with her finger and told me, “Good for you. Keep it that way until you are ready. Don’t have sex because somebody else thinks you should. Remember, your being chaste does not mean that you’re not with it.”
I agreed with Mrs. W. Scared of my sexual urges, terrified of following in Gisele’s footsteps, fearful of acquiring the label “fucking slut,” I went to great lengths to avoid any possibility of losing my virginity.
However, this was too good of an opportunity to miss. Deciding to debate the issue, I said, “I don’t get it.”
“What don’t you get?”
“Why the people who are telling me not to have sex are the very same people who are having sex?”
Mrs. W laughed and said, “Do as I say, not as I do?”
“Yes, exactly.”
Mrs. W smiled. “It’s not that I’m telling you not to have sex, although I suppose I am. I’m really encouraging you to take your time. Don’t rush things. That’s what my daughter did. Ever since she went through puberty, she wanted to find out what all the hootin’ and hollerin’ was about. She couldn’t wait; she had to do it. Now everybody thinks she’s, to put it bluntly, a slut.”
“You know that?” I blurted out.
