Also by J. Betty Ray:
Outrageous Cartoons!
Interview: fray's Derek Powazek
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Like many American teenagers, my sexual milestones read more like a stack of Chilton's manuals than a Judy Blume novel. My first peer penis sighting occurred in a VW Bus; my first kiss in a Chevette; and my first gropefest took place in a Barracuda (yeah, you know that was a big hit among my friends).
But as I approached my 17th birthday, I determined that I wanted my First Time to be more dignified. I mean, romping around in the back seat out in the country is fun, but losing my virginity? I guess I wanted it to be, well, special. Like in a candle-lit room at the Hyatt. And maybe some champagne and chocolates, too.
When I met Dave, I knew he was the one. We worked together at a pizza shop. He was a few years older than I, tall, with a mane of curly blonde hair that seemed to glisten under the florescent kitchen lights. He was from California and positively radiated cool — the shy enigmatic-with-a sweet-side kind of cool that elevated him above the geeks I went to school with — and the alcoholic cooks who worked with us. I'd sneak peeks at him during the dinner rush. He spun the dough like a god. And he liked the Clash.
We spent many a chilly night parked in front of his house, in front of my house, down by the river, and in shopping mall parking lots. Holding out for my hotel room by candlelight fantasy, though, I invariably put the brakes on when things got too hot.
But when New Year's Eve rolled around, I had a scheme. We'd planned on meeting at our friend Ivan's apartment for his annual NYE blowout. As we'd not yet "outed" ourselves as a couple to our workmates, we decided to arrive and leave separately, to avoid raising suspicions, Ivan's building had a swimming pool, party room, and heated garage....and it was just down the street from the Gopher Inn. Not the Hyatt by any stretch, but I had $40 in my pocket — and when you don't have wheels of your own, you make do with what's nearby.
When I got to the party, my stomach instantly seized up into a knot the size of a grapefruit. A group of drunken people were dancing to the Charlie Daniels Band's "Devil Went Down to Georgia." A guy who could have been in Z.Z. Top was whooping loudly to the music. Amid the sea of rednecks, punks, and assorted terrifying indigent-looking freaks, I spied Dave. He was talking to the evil Terri O'Malley. Terri also worked with us. She had "done it" with Dave, dumped him for someone else, and now she was hitting on him again.
Someone handed me a joint, and I robotically took a hit. The room started swirling, and someone was talking about how he had a conversation with the disembodied spirit of Jim Morrison at a recent Santana show while on acid. I didn't see Dave or Terri anywhere. I started having a freakout, drug-induced no doubt, convinced that I was going to die. I had to get out of there.
I slinked out of the party and wandered through the halls of the apartment in search of the front door. I was confronted with a labyrinthine set of staircases and half turns that led to nowhere. I wished I'd joined my school chums for a little gathering at Jennifer Grant's house. I was in way over my head here. And now I couldn't even navigate my way out of the building.
"There you are!" I heard Dave say, just as I found the door.
"Hi," I muttered, with a mixture of great relief and terror at whatever was about to happen.
"C'mon," he said, and he took my hand.
I said nothing as he led me through the circuitous hallways and into the parking garage. Wordlessly he opened the door of a red Jeep and climbed in.
"Dave, we don't have to drive!" I reminded him. "The Gopher is right up the street. I have money!"
"C'mon," he said again. "Get in."
I was halfway in before I realized where he was going with this. A millisecond earlier, I might have protested.
But it was late. I was tired, and the lightbulb didn't come on in my head quickly enough to intercept my physical momentum. "So, here we are in a car again," I thought. "Could it be any other way, really?" I slid into the front seat and shut the door behind me.
The interior was cramped and dark and littered with crap— road maps and coffee mugs and cassettes and laundry and blankets and candy bar wrappers and soda cans.
"Whose Jeep is this?" It finally occurred to me that I'd never seen it before.
"Shhhh...," he said confidently as he unbuttoned my new Esprit shirt.
My head was mashed into the rollbar and shards of whatever I was leaning on were digging into my back. Foreplay lasted a few minutes, and suddenly I felt this blunt mass inside me. Unsure if it was just a Coke bottle I'd accidentally rolled into, I asked, "Are you...?"
He nodded affirmative.
Like our courtship, it was short and sweet. Funny, actually — even hilarious as we unraveled our limbs from the steering wheel, the stick shift, and each other. I looked up to see Ivan, the party's host, who had just entered the garage.
"Uh, Dave... Ivan's out there."
"Damn!" He started pulling his jeans on. "Get dressed!"
"What? If we just duck down, he won't see us," I reasoned, the previous ten minutes having sobered me up completely.
But it was too late. Ivan was standing outside the Jeep, his Jeep, with tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks.
"Jesus Christ! I didn't know you two were....a HA hahahah! It's pretty cramped in there! A haha hahahahaaaaaaaaaahaha!"
Dave started laughing too, and — half-clothed in a car yet again — so did I.
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