Hop in Then!

by Ulla Bolinder

  “Yes, she’s a fucking prick teaser.”

  “You don’t say,” I said.

  He heard that I sounded amused and leered at me from the side and looked embarrassed.

  “I helped her once when she was loaded,” he said.

  “I see. Do you often take care of girls in that state?”

  “Yes, you must care about your fellow-beings.”

  “And then you found out that she was a prick teaser?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  I don’t know why he was embarrassed. Does he think that I believe that he hasn’t met any girls before me? He has perhaps never laid a girl. Well, he must have done it, since he is twenty-one years old. Afterwards I thought that he maybe thinks that I’m a prick teaser too. He may think that way about all girls who go along with a little but not going all the way. He probably looked embarrassed because he happened to reveal that he had tried with Gittan and had been turned down.

  I wonder what he would say if he found out that he is my one hundred and fourth guy. In a year I have made out with one hundred and four guys. But he has never asked me anything about whom I have met before. He doesn’t seem interested in it. He is probably so sure that he is the only one for me that he doesn’t need to worry about it. I’m perhaps the only one who is uneasy. When I think about Gittan, and that he took care of her when she was drunk, I get jealous.

  Wednesday, 2 September 1964

  I have been with mamma to stores to look at coats. I think it’s so difficult to know which clothing style to choose. In school some have parkas, some quilted jackets, some duffel coats and some have common coats. I already have a duffel coat, and both Solan and I have parkas (but we don’t write the names of pop groups and idols on them as for example Sivan and Kerstin do). E-L wears her quilted coat and long pants in school sometimes, but never when she goes out. On those occasions both of us wear coats and high heeled boots or shoes. And while Solan and I wear a skirt with our parkas sometimes, Sivan and the others always have long pants. Sivan even has jeans with a fly, sometimes. I don’t think that is appropriate for girls. (Not for boys, either, for that matter, other than for work pants.) If Sivan has a skirt sometimes, she has a very short and tight one that comes half way up her thigh. I don’t want mine that short. I think ten centimeters above my knee is just enough.

  Sunday, 6 September 1964

  Last night I went out alone, and then I met a boy named Gert. It was he and another boy and also a girl. I went with them, and first we drove to Koppartrans service station on Väderkvarnsgatan where they have self-service, and then we set off to Svista and had coffee.

  The car was a 1954 Murkla (a Ford Mercury, that is). It was red with a black roof (or if it was the other way round), and inside there were white sheep skins on the front seat. And there was also a record player, of course.

  Gert was 23 years old and rather tall and slender. He had blond hair, a straight nose and gray-blue eyes. Sometimes I thought he looked really good, but the next second I could perceive him as being almost ugly. I couldn’t decide what to think about him.

  Before we drove home we went to the late-night matinee to see a film with Michael Landon (Little Joe in “Bonanza”) called “I was a Teenage Werewolf”. When we came out and sat in the car again it was so cosy, somehow. There was a certain atmosphere, which very likely was because of the car, because it felt nice to have somewhere to go after the movie and not have to walk out in town.

  Yes, and he wanted to see me again and is going to pick me up at 7 p.m. this evening (if he doesn’t break the appointment). I’ll wear my lion yellow lamb’s-wool sweater and my brown terylene skirt that I can scarcely walk in (it’s so tight and there is only a short slit in back). But I’m not going to be walking; I’m just going to be sitting there in the car looking pretty while we drive around town.

  Lasse called on Wednesday and Friday and came on Saturday. I had hoped that we would drink, but we didn’t. We went to his home and had coffee instead. Before that, when we were driving around town, I saw Kicki, and I became envious and wanted to be there too. I felt angry and thought it was Lasse’s fault that I couldn’t do what I wanted.

  “What is it my little one? he said. Are you upset?”

  “No, I was just thinking of something.”

  “About what?”

  That you don’t keep your promises and that I don’t want to see you again, I thought. But I said that it wasn’t anything.

  “Do you miss being out?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Like now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But it will blow over. After you have been away from it for a while, you won’t miss it anymore.”

  How can he know that? He doesn’t understand what it is like. Nobody who hasn’t done it himself knows that. I can’t forget how it feels to sit in a big, American car and smoke, drink and listen to music. The smoke and the music surround you, and the booze makes everything so wonderful... I long to get to do it again. I know that I’m dumb to prefer drinking and cruising to meeting a nice and tender guy who cares about me, but I can’t help it. I’m just going to see him until he breaks up when he gets it that he isn’t going to get to lay me no matter how long he waits. So probably it won’t be very long before I’m out in town again.

  He lives in a yellow two story house. When we came in, his parents sat in the living room and watched TV. Lasse introduced me, and they looked at me and nodded and smiled. His dad was short and slender and his mom big and fat.

  When I got dressed up at home, I could only find one stocking that was in good condition, so I had to take one that had a ladder in it, and now I hoped that they didn’t notice the tear and that the stocking had nail polish on it.

  We went up to his room. There was a bed, a table, a chest of drawers, a mirror, a bookshelf, and an easy chair. While he was down fetching coffee I looked at the books in his bookshelf. There were Manhattan series detective stories, Wild West books, and Zebra series detective stories. On the table there was a revolving ashtray and a pipe holder that had four pipes.

  I sat down in the easy chair and smoked. On the wall above the bed there was a wallpaper cover with thin wood pieces and an embroidered tapestry where it stood: “There is no place like home.”

  When he came up we had coffee.

  “Just taste mom’s buns,” he said and started to tune in a transistor radio that he had brought. I suggested that he should try to tune in Radio Luxembourg, and he smiled and said:

  “That’s just what I’m doing. Two minds with but one single thought!”

  His mother thought I was sweet, he said.

  “She did?”

  “Yes, and she’s right about that.”

  “What have you told them about me?”

  “That I have met a nice and sweet girl I really like.”

  “Did you tell them how we met too?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t think it’s important.”

  But I think it’s because he is ashamed that I am a raggarbrud and he doesn’t want them to know that he picked me up off the street.

  When we had finished our coffee and sat there and smoked, I asked him where he kept the rum bottle.

  “I’ve put it away.”

  “Where?”

  “Do you want to see it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You little fool!”

  He had it in his wardrobe. When he set it on the table, I wanted to screw off the cap and start drinking right away.

  “Do you want some?” he said.

  “Don’t you?” I said and tried to sound indifferent.

  “No, I’m driving later.”

  “Yes, but I can’t sit here and drink all by myself?”

  But he thought I could and went down to get me a glass.

  “Just don’t drink so much that you get drunk,” he said and smiled.

  “No, I won’t.”

  But I wi
shed I had been able to.

  What did we do then? He put the bottle back in the wardrobe and laid down on the bed, and I sat beside him and smoked and drank. I don’t think he understands how it is with booze and me. He doesn’t get how much I want it. Because if he did, he wouldn’t give me some, so I would crave even more. At least he wouldn’t do that if it’s true as he said before, that he wants to help me stop drinking.

  When I had finished smoking, he drew me down on the bed and kissed me. He put his hands under my sweater, unhooked my bra and turned me over, pulling up my sweater and moving down so that he could get at my breasts with his lips. I thought it was pleasant when he was carrying on with them, but I wished that he had stayed away from my mouth, because I don’t like his kisses.

  After a while he heaved himself up on an elbow and just lay there gazing at my breasts.

  “For these there ought to be a sign that says Private property, no admittance!” he said. “Little Star Eye, who has created you so perfectly?”

  I wanted to sit up and drink, but I didn’t know if he would think that something would be spoiled if I did that, so I just lay there, and he took off my pants and stuck a finger inside me.

  “You’re so fine,” he said. “You’re a real, little woman!”

  And he moved his finger around and kissed me again.

  Tuesday, 8 September 1964

  E-L brought spirits with her to school (Apricot Brandy) and we drank it. We went to a toilet in the main building where we usually smoke on the sly. We must be crazy! We who go to Magdeburg and all! Then you are supposed to be a bit extra well-behaved. For example, we are not allowed to smoke outside on the street, because if people see some young girls stand there puffing, they may connect them with the girls’ school, and then the school gets a bad reputation. So they have set limits that we aren’t permitted to smoke within. They are at Svartbäcksgatan, Järnbrogatan, Sysslomansgatan, and Skolgatan. Past those streets we can smoke if we absolutely have to, because there no one regards us as students at Magdeburg, they believe. But you don’t have time to go that far to smoke during a break.

  In any case, they are very concerned about the school’s image. So you can wonder what they would think if it came out that there is alcohol consumption occurring inside the school walls. If they found out they would probably go mad and regulate us.

  I met Gert again on Sunday. We didn’t do anything special. We drove around and played records. I still don’t really know how I feel about him, so now I can’t say much to E-L about her seeing Lasse. (Right now I’m doing almost the same thing myself.) Gosh, why is it so difficult to know what you feel and want?

  I brought some Apricot Brandy to school, and during our long break Kicki and I went to a toilet and drank it. I don’t know why we did it, because we only had about a half cup each and by so little you are not affected. I didn’t want to be, either. I did it because it’s forbidden and because I want to drink. But Lasse will call tonight and on Saturday he is coming to pick me up. Kicki thinks it’s dumb of me to see him if I don't love him, but I think he would be sad if I said no, and I don’t want to be without the things he provides. No one has been as tender and considerate to me as he is. Once he said that as soon as he thinks about doing something he also wonders if I would like it, and once he said that I had changed his decision to be a bachelor for the rest of his life. I don’t know why I mostly think about things I don’t like, because it’s the other things that take up most of our time. When we sit in the car and he gazes at me with a special expression on his face, or when he asks if I am freezing or tired or sad, I feel that he loves me.

  “What is it, little one?” he asks if I just look a bit thoughtful. “Are you sad? Have I done something wrong?”

  And once, when he happened to bump his elbow in my eye, he got totally heartbroken and said that he could never forgive himself if he harmed me.

  So he cares about me, and I don’t want to make him sad. When I think about how he is, it feels almost like I’m in love with him. Sometimes I believe I am. But if I were, I think I should wanna lay him as well.

  Thursday, 10 September 1964

  In Swedish language and literature, we are supposed to compose and make a presentation for the class about an author. And this for someone like me, who has so much difficulty with such things! Apart from the fact that I get a frog in my throat and my voice sounds rough when I speak, my hands are shaking when I stand there and hold some paper. Others might not take much notice, but I think it’s so difficult. Why can’t I be like mamma who likes to perform before an audience? Gosh, how she loves to read or sing or present something! That’s really fun for her. I’ve never told her about my difficulties with speaking in school, because she wouldn’t understand it. She never understood, for example, why I didn’t want to go out to the other children and dance in the courtyard when there was an after-Christmas children’s party when I was little. “Why don’t you go out? It’s really lots of fun!” Because if I had gone out, she could also have done it. “But won’t you go anyway?” But no, I didn’t want to. Later they came in with a candy bag for me.

  We went to Lasse’s home again. I didn’t want to let him do what he did the last time, but if you have gone along with something once, it seems so silly to say no later, and I finally I let him anyway. I lay there and thought about the bottle in the wardrobe and wished that he would ask me if I wanted some this time as well, but he didn’t. He took off his pants and lay beside me in his underwear, and I noticed that he got randy. When he thought I was too, he asked me if I wanted to do it. I could neither say yes nor no and was almost without words.

  “Are you afraid of getting pregnant?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t need to be.”

  And then he sat up and reached over for his pants. Now he’s going to get a rubber, I thought. And he did. It was in a small, oblong package, which he ripped open, and when he had got it out, he unfurled it and blew air in it, like in a balloon.

  “It’s strong,” he said and bounced it against his leg. “It can take even more than this. So you don’t need to worry.”

  But I still wasn’t sure. If you don’t want to do it both in mind and body, you shouldn’t do it, I’ve read, and with Lasse I only want it in my mind, because I love him and I don’t want to disappoint him. I cannot feel in my body that I want him to come inside me. But you are supposed to feel that way. After foreplay you should be so randy that you almost can’t stand it if you can’t frig. But I don’t feel that way. I don’t feel anything special at all.

  “Are you upset?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want to make you sad.”

  “But you don’t make me sad. How can you even think that? My little fool! How can I be sad when you are here?”

  “But you don’t get what you want.”

  Then he lifted up my chin and gazed tenderly and reproachfully at me.

  “What do you think of me? Do you think that’s all I’m out for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, it isn’t! And I can wait. It will be even more delightful when it happens.”

  “But I might never change my mind.”

  “I can wait six months, even a year.”

  But I don’t believe that. Nobody can wait that long. And I won’t want to do it in a year, either.

  “My buddy waited five months for his girl, so why shouldn’t I be able to wait for you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, I can, my little one. And waiting for you will be a great pleasure.”

  I don’t know what to believe. I just know that it’s my fault that he can’t have a normal sex life though he is going steady. And he has a much stronger desire than I have, because he is a guy. Why am I so selfish when he is so unselfish? I’m not worthy of him. If he had said that he doesn’t think I really like him, when I said that I didn’t want to, it would have been much easier, be
cause then I would have known that he doesn’t really care about me, but when it is like this, I feel guilty. Why can’t I care about him as much as he cares about me? I must learn to. I don’t want to be egoistic and childish. I shall set myself aside and give him everything he wants, because it isn’t right that he has to sacrifice himself for my sake. I will prove that I love him.

  When I think about Lasse and feel that I love him, it isn’t very difficult to think that I could lay him, but then, when we meet and he tries to turn me on, I’m not able to feel that I want to. Anyway, I couldn’t yesterday. Instead I got irritated with him and thought that everything he said sounded affected and ridiculous. It came to be that way because I didn’t feel worthy of it and couldn’t accept it. I didn’t think it was true that I am as wonderful as he said. And it isn’t, as long as I can’t be unselfish. I must learn to think more about his needs than about my own if I should be worthy of his love.

  In town we met Kicki and a guy she has started going out with, named Gert. He has a Ford Mercury. When I saw her sitting there in the car looking satisfied, I got envious. Lasse asked me what I was thinking about, but I was ashamed and didn’t want to tell him.

  “Is it something I have said or done?” he asked.

  “No, it doesn’t have anything to do with you.

  “What is it then?”

  Just then we drove past the BP gas station, and there stood the Plymouth I went with this summer the first time I got drunk.

  “I’m only thinking of somebody I know,” I said.

  Then he said nothing more. But it wasn’t Chrille I was thinking of. I thought of how it feels to be drunk. I long to drink and be drunk again. Booze is the only thing that means as much to me as Lasse. Sometimes it seems to me that it matters even more.

  Monday, 14 September 1964

  I went out with Gert on Wednesday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. We haven’t done anything special. On Friday we went to his place in Märsta and on Saturday we rushed away to Gävle and mixed with raggarbilarna there. Yesterday evening, we cruised at home in Uppsala. Then I saw Lasse’s car, but I didn’t manage to see E-L, and I don’t know if she saw me, either, because I forgot to ask herabout it in school today.