Wafts of healthy smelling sweat, deodorant, and masculinity fertilize the air. I pick up yappy chatter around me as some of the band members walk around carefree in their underpants; others lazily hog the cushiony furniture. The lead singer approaches us.
Blushetta: I feel faint.
His naked, pale complexioned upper body looks neither muscular, nor wimpy. He still wears the tight brown leather pants that so greatly flatter his butt.
“How do you do?” he asks in his thick British accent, a streak of his curly brown hair dangling across his face. His spunkiness that I connect with the sound of his proper Oxford English almost has me bust out laughing.
“Great,” I say, holding out my hand, but he refuses to touch it. Instead, he pulls me close into his embrace, simultaneously placing a smack on my cheek. I don’t know what to say. My eyes nervously scan the room trying to get a better grasp of what else may be in store for me. At this time, Mr. Singer Man takes my hand and leads me to the band members, introducing each by first name.
Feeling somewhat abandoned by Martina who busily converses with the drummer on the other side of the room, I nervously clasp my hand around the glass of my wine cooler, not sure if I should be holding it with one or both.
“I’m sure glad they let you through to see me,” my charming friend says, while gently massaging my shoulders. The rock star offers me anything on the menu, but I decline because I cannot find my appetite. With the sedating properties of the wine finally kicking in, my tension dissipates.
Hot Shot: I believe I can handle this now.
Romy: I feel out of place. It’s not like these guys are interested in marrying me, want to be labeled my boyfriend, or hunger for my intellect.
As I am trying to determine if I shall stay or leave, I witness Martina vanish in the hallway with Drummer Boy.
Scaredy Cat: Yikes, I know I’ll be next.
Sure enough a few seconds later, the lead singer catches up with me, escorting me to the same hallway Martina disappeared in. He pins me against the wall, holds my arms above my head while covetously jamming his tongue down my throat. He releases his hold on my arms, using his hands to wander to diverse parts of my body. His skin tastes salty, but not in a bad way. I watch how he lifts my shirt, proceeding to greedily suck on my nipples. I feel nothing. I stand there frozen realizing that I am not at all attracted to him.
Big Shot Mama: Try focusing on his big time status. That will make ya’ be able to stand it more.
I do, but his fingers now reach for the Secret Grotto.
Romy: That’s it. I’m so not going to lose my virginity to groupie-hood, or someone I don’t dig.
Firmly but gently, I push the singer away from me.
“I am sorry but I just remembered I gotta be somewhere.”
Seemingly disappointed, he presses a swift peck on my cheek and, like a reprimanded puppy, disappears in the other room.
Romy: With groupies a ‘dime a dozen’, no doubt, your replacement is already on the way.
I hear Martina’s voice from somewhere around the many corners, but can’t pinpoint its origin. Uneasy to look for her because of the possibility of catching her in a compromising situation, I yell out that I am about ready to depart.
“Go on without me. I’ll phone you later,” she replies from apparently not too far away, her voice sounding too happy to cut her ties just yet. I briskly proceed toward the exit at the end of the hallway and hurry down the stairs, eventually coming out at street level at the backside of the building. I inhale deeply, recapping on the happenings of the evening. At any rate, the groupie world has seen the last of me, unless, of course, Leif Garrett, or the lead singer of the Bay City Rollers was to ask me to meet.
Hot Shot: The important thing is I have enough mojo to bedazzle a world-famous rock star.
Virginally Yours
My heart beats fast, pushing against the door of the Rote Taverne, the happening nightclub in this part of town. The song Now That We Found Love blasts from the speakers. The discotheque looks deserted.
“Give it an hour and this joint will be bubbling over with night flies,” Martina promises. Not wanting to look out of place, I immediately latch onto her. She brings me to a room where plush dimly lit booths outline the silvery square dance floor. I anxiously suck on my cigarette while holding a bottle of wheat-brew in the other hand.
Klaus, the charming brown-haired fellow Martina introduced me to yesterday, stands across the room. He spots me in this moment. I pick up definite delight in his grin, glad that I took him up on his offer to drop by the club for a visit.
Three years my senior, Klaus’ experienced demeanor and sex appeal send a jolt of welcome electricity through me. Romy freaks out now that he is coming my way. I nervously pull on the seam of my shimmering purple blouse, trying to keep it from looking wrinkled. Klaus arrives. I feel his muscular arms clasp my waist. He pulls me straight onto the dance floor. I let him lead. His six-foot-one, broad-shouldered physique moves me across the floor in ways that make me feel tingly all over, particularly the part when his leg seeks the space between mine.
Romy: I want HIM to rid me of my virginity.
The next day comes. I give Martina a call.
“I totally have the hots for Klaus. He’s so manly,” I rave. “Do you know how old he is?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe nineteen or something? But listen. I just got done speaking with him. He is wondering if we both would care to show up at his pad for strip poker this Friday. Are you game?” she asks.
Scaredy Cat: No way.
I gulp.
Martina promises to bring Mario, her love interest, along.
“That changes things. Of course, I’ll be there. I’ll see you tomorrow then?”
Friday comes. Charged with ample excitement, I can barely sit still. Each minute that passes feels like an hour to me. Finally, it is time to leave, and I make my way over to Klaus’ place. It’s still bright out and sticky-hot on this humid night.
Timidly, I knock on the door to his fourth floor residence. My heart races when Martina answers, immediately motioning me to step inside. The room is small but cozy, furnished with a bed, a table, and a couple of sofas and chairs around it. A sweet scent of perfume hangs in the air along with that of refreshing aftershave and the smell of exotic drinks.
“Will you make me licorice schnapps with orange juice?” I ask Klaus who is beginning to make me nervous with his incessant stare.
“Of course, hon’…whatever you want,” he says with an alluring grin.
I voraciously take several swigs of the cocktail he hands me. The poker game starts.
Five minutes pass. By now I am on my second drink. With each new round, I rid myself of an additional piece of clothing. Being the novice that I am, I lose at each one of my turns. All that is left to cover me now is my bra and panties. My gaze swerves outside the small window to my right. It’s no longer bright out. The soothing sound of chirping crickets travels to my ears. At once, I divert my attention back to the table.
Romy (pouting): I really don’t give a damn about poker. I want Klaus to love me now.
Everyone is intoxicated and laughing like crazy. I lose again in this round. The others urge me to remove the last garment, my underwear, calling me a party pooper upon my refusal. I insistently but politely stick to my resignation.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Mario and Martina are getting it on. A few flickering candles illuminate the otherwise dim space.
Klaus waves me over to the loveseat he’s sitting in. Feeling more confident than a beauty queen, I set out to meet him. In my silly stupor, I fall halfway on top of him, but his strong contractor’s arms instantly lift me up with the ease of someone who’s picking up a piece of paper.
He transports me over to the bed in the corner and gently sets me down. Time stops as his experienced hands and mouth set out to explore my naked flesh.
Briefly coming out of the fog a couple of hours later, I notice that Martina
and her beau are no longer with us. Renewed yearning for Klaus to turn me into a real woman sweeps over me now that we are alone.
Miss Vanity: It doesn’t feel right without ever having had a menstrual cycle.
Scaredy Cat: Besides, you are two hours past your curfew. Do you have any clue how much trouble you are in?
Concerned, I ask Klaus to drop me off at my house. After a long kiss good night, I courageously enter the snake pit. The “adults” await me in the hallway. Their grim faces say it all.
As they slap me with a barrage of accusations, I cart out the good old “the clock stopped working” excuse, but it doesn’t fly. The verdict is in: a week of house arrest in conjunction with no television and no allowance.
Romy: Phhha. I got Klaus, so big deal. Love conquers all.
Now that my prohibition term has expired, I see Klaus almost daily. Each of our magnetic encounters consists of hours of oral sex and other activities, with the exception of intercourse.
This morning I spot blood inside the toilet bowl after eliminating. Elated, I meet with Mother’s gynecologist in the afternoon. The middle-aged doctor gives me a thorough check up and hands me a three months supply of “The Pill.” I leave her office with a brand-new glow.
The bleeding subsides rapidly. I rush to meet Klaus this afternoon and allow him to turn me into a “real” woman. The experience leaves me content, but in all fairness—it’s not the bells and whistles I had hoped it to be.
Miss Vanity: I don’t care. At least, I left the Virgin Club before my fifteenth birthday.
Blue Lagoon
Malaga, Espana – Sweet Sixteen
To avoid the impending washed out summer, the “adults” gear up for yet another vacation to the Mediterranean coast. They request that Vicki and I tag along, an offer I don’t intend to pass up. For one, I know Blushetta blushes less if my skin has a rich, sexy, bronze tan, and two, I hate to say this but at fifteen, I am still obligated to do as my parents please, a fact I usually meet with hyper-resistance.
Hot Shot: There’s no way I am going to beautiful España and not be single.
Knowing that I must be free to flirt to my heart’s content and not feel guilty about it, I call for a hiatus from Klaus. He isn’t jazzed about my proposition but given his choices, he conforms. Off I go.
Having gotten more than enough assurance from boys this far that there’s nothing wrong with my body, the fear of topless bathing no longer looms large. During the efforts of attaining an above-the-belly, tan-line-free complexion, Romy becomes grossly infatuated with Marco, a gorgeous brown-eyed diver with blond hair who hunts for pearls in the shallow ocean waters several feet away from my blanket. Although originally from Madrid, he looks more like he was born in the Nordic regions. At first glance, he reminds me of the fair-haired, young guy in the movie The Blue Lagoon.
Enviola: Watch. I know he’s gonna pick Vicki over me. She’s just got that angel face, soft and sweet, decorated with the perfect cute nose. My visage, on the other hand, is a bit too skinny, triangular, and somewhat harsher. Vic’s also equipped with a better body and longer legs.
Miss Vanity: Rats! And she’s got the model height and isn’t even the oldest.
Romy: I hope he picks me but hey, I get it if he’d rather court my feisty charming Sis, although that would hurt like hell.
Marco surprises me when he showers his sole attention on me, consequently bringing my feelings of self-worth to unforeseen heights.
Romy: I’m so happy I could scream.
Albeit, neither he nor I speak each other’s tongue, I manage to make the cutie understand that I want him to have a seat next to me on the blanket. Time flies as we relax together in the sun, frolic in the water, and converse in the universal language of love, which is made up of hand signals and other meaningful ways of mute communication such as pointing to items inside the dictionary.
This early morning, Marco and I meet in a quiet cove on the strand. Hidden behind sheltering rocks, I let him put his hand down my bikini bottom. Then, after a couple minutes of letting my paw explore his manhood, I feel something slimy on my finger.
Scaredy Cat: Eww. Watch out. That stuff can get you pregnant especially now that you stopped taking the pill to postpone your period for the duration of the trip.
When telling Marco that I am not ready for this much involvement, he backs off.
In the afternoon, we stroll down the boulevard that leads into downtown Malaga. We abide for a moment and kiss. He looks straight into my eyes. In my head flashes the thought that tomorrow morning, we’ll leave for Germany. I quickly discard that notion because Marco’s dramatically pointed finger in my face distracts me from further sad thoughts.
“Tu,” he says, instantly angling his index finger back at himself, blabbering, “Yo.”
I see him nervously flip through the pages of the dictionary, halting his nail underneath the word: “Casado.” He moves the book in front of my face. I read: “Marriage.”
Romy (teary eyed): Is he just too much, or what?
Once over the initial shock, I pass a loving smile.
“Si,” I utter like a blushing bride.
~~~
I lie down in the back of the Volvo, sobbing like a tethered yard dog, quitting only during pee- and mealtime breaks on this more than two-day trip through several European countries back home. Within days of arriving in Wolfsburg, I compose a letter to Marco, expressing my undying love. School starts the next day.
As the weeks go by, my craving for male attention grows into intolerable proportions, evicting any willingness to wait three years for high school to wrap, at which time I’d finally be free to get hitched to my Spanish heartthrob.
Romy: I need to be held now.
A little sad but relieved by the decision to call things off, I write one last letter to Marco, telling him that it’s over. Right after I drop it into the mail, I grab the telephone and give Klaus a jingle.
Hot Shot: I will get me some good lovin’ tonight.
CHAPTER 4
Freiheit, or Not?
The day of my seventeenth birthday finally arrives. I immediately petition the “adults” to let me move in with Klaus. They comply and within weeks, he and I settle into a spacious one-bedroom apartment in a quiet residential neighborhood located on the south side of town. I exhale. Freiheit…at last.
A year goes by. Roughly thirty people are gathered at our house to celebrate Klaus’ and my engagement. Vicki is not on the guest list.
It isn’t that my new fiancé officially asked for my hand, or that I’m anywhere near ready to get married. It’s because I like the way the word fiancé sounds. In my opinion, it sends a message to the rest of the family that I shall no longer be messed with.
Another year comes and goes. My apprenticeship as an administrative assistant pays little, and most of my income goes straight to covering household bills. Klaus departs for a business venture, leaving me by myself to deal with creditors who relentlessly harass us about overdue payments. Today, I find a note on the front door to the apartment saying they’ll break entry if we don’t pay within three days. Beside myself, I pick up the phone to reach Klaus. No luck.
Furious and longing for a serious face-to-face conversation on day four of having tried to track him down, I ask him to sit down with me immediately when he walks in this morning. He ignores my words and proceeds to hug me. I flick his hands off my body, voicing once again that we need to have a dialogue about our finances this very minute. He stares at me for a couple of seconds. I see his visage turning into a grinning mask.
“That can wait. Did you miss me, Schatzi?”
I refuse to answer.
“Please sit. I mean it,” I say with great conviction, but with the next breath, he grabs me by the wrists and begins kissing me with such force that I cannot get another word in. He sweeps me off the ground and carries me into the bedroom. “Nooo, let me down,” I shout, but he dumps me onto the mattress, fiercely holding me down, while I struggl
e to get back up. The more I resist his powerful demands, the more radical he becomes.
“I don’t want to have sex,” I mutter whiningly and at the same time shoving him backward.
Cheered on by my resistance, his left hand clasps my slender arm even tighter, while his right hand violently pulls down my jeans, tears open my shirt, and snaps off my g-string like it was the flap of a coke can. Knowing I’m no match for this man, I let him enter me, take what he thinks is rightfully his. His moaning grunts, as he hovers above me, make my blood boil. I cover the exposed part of my face with a thick strand of my long brown hair, keeping my head turned sideways to let silent tears run off my cheek unnoticed.
Ragelina: We are so over.
Klaus acts as if nothing at all happened yesterday when sitting at the breakfast table this morning. I keep as mute as possible, looking forward to the afternoon when he departs for yet another “business trip.” As soon as he vacates, I call the “adults,” requesting permission to move back in for a short while. Getting the “go-ahead”, I hurriedly relocate from one lion’s cage to another.
Bunny Dreams
Self-adoration oozing from every pore, I stare at my reflection on the mirror of the bedroom wardrobe. I busily copy poses that Hot Shot tells me would make men drool. No doubt, I look fantastic after all these years of obsessively watching print models and pinup girls in magazines or on television and having Hot Shot push me to imitate those poses in my private time in front of the mirror, even if it was inside a tiny public bathroom.
Hot Shot: Models have it all—fun, attention, money, free time. And all they get to do is strike a pose for a living and be pretty. No one fucks with them. I wanna be adored. I know that would fix everything.
Enviola: Copy that. I’d love to become a famous super model.
Dealing Flesh Page 4
