My Mother’s Sex Education Was Useless at the Frat Party
I felt flattered and singled out as special, but I was naive
The way my mother taught me how to ride a bike is like what she said in the talk, the one about sex. She left out critical steps such as learning how to stop the bicycle. But I don’t blame her for anything that happened to me that night.
Mom told my sister Jennifer and me about how babies were made: our body parts, using correct anatomical names, no euphemisms. My friends came to our house to talk to her about menstrual periods. And, even sex, which wasn’t something openly discussed in 1970. Their own mothers were embarrassed or merely gave them pamphlets with odd looking diagrams and stick figures, with titles like, “You’re a Young Lady Now.”
Here was Mom’s advice about dating and boys for my sister and me: “Boys get very easily excited.” Oh God, I hated these talks! How could my friends stand her? She was always open and direct. She taught assertiveness training for women.
She went on, “Don’t go off alone with a boy or go parking. And never lie down in a horizontal position. Remember, they get a lot more excited than girls.”
I looked across the table as Jennifer examined and bit at her cuticles. I knew she and Duane had already been “horizontal” because I’d walked by the family room one afternoon. Through the French doors, I saw they were on the couch. I wasn’t spying either.
Duane was older and Dad did not approve. But he’d moved out the year before when my parents divorced. He said Duane was a hood from a bad family. He did wear the requisite black leather jacket and acted pretty cocky, considering he didn’t play sports. Plus, he smoked. His pack of Marlboros stuck out from his front T-shirt pocket. So cool, he didn’t have to hide them.
Mom never thought to tell us about fraternity parties. She didn’t know we were going to them at the University of Virginia. We were in high school, so we lied about where we went. She didn’t tell us about alcohol because she didn’t drink until college and didn’t know how much things had changed since her college days. She knew nothing about punch with grain alcohol in plastic trash cans, served in red Solo cups.
From the outside, the fraternity house looked like a stately home from Gone with the Wind, with its white columns and red brick, constructed before the Civil War. But inside, there was nothing Antebellum about it! Not a ‘fragile as porcelain, southern belle’ in sight: no petticoats, crinolines, or gentlemen with long coattails. Girls crowded together wearing hot pants or bell bottoms with platform shoes. Guys in patched jeans and T-shirts poured drinks overflowing onto sticky wooden floors.
Jimi Hendrix’ “All Along the Watchtower” blared from table height Pioneer speakers. Sweat, men’s cologne, hair spray, and cigarette smoke mingled with a skunky scent permeated the tall ceilinged rooms.
The Hendrix extended guitar solo came to a screechy halt when someone slid the needle over the record. Next and much louder, The Rolling Stones sang “Brown Sugar.” People shoved and elbowed each other claiming dancing space. And there I was dancing with a bunch of unfamiliar girls, but I was happy.
Since the move to Virginia from Indiana, a few months earlier, I didn’t have any girlfriends — the only attention seemed to be from high school boys. Jody, the only friend I’d made, was also new to town. We were outsiders. She wasn’t like my old friends from the Midwest: Jody wore suede lace up boots with miniskirts; black eye liner rimmed her eyes, all the way around. She tossed her strawberry blond hair around like a model.
I never knew the reason Jody was sent to live with her aunt. She was from Florida, making her even more exotic. She was a junior but was supposed be a senior. My mother thought she looked “loose.”
Where was Jody? She’d driven me here, telling her aunt we were going to a school dance. We thought the Virginia girls were snobby in their Villager blouses and tasseled loafers; it was their uniform. They’d formed their cliques years ago.
Who cared anyway? These were real college girls, and they might’ve thought I was one too. I wasn’t. At fifteen, I was faking it. After the second cup of red punch, I was doing a marvelous job. The bass notes vibrated from the floor, the walls, went through my whole body. I felt wobbly in my platform shoes on the sticky floor.
No way I would take my shoes off, though some girls were barefooted. Plus, I looked so good, and I sang so well, and I felt a tiny bit dizzy. Chicago’s “25 or 6 to 4” played, we yelled the chorus: “Should I try to do some more? 25 or 6 to 4.” As the song sped up so did we, spinning each other around and around to the exhilarating brass in the song.
Charged, that’s the only word for the frantic energy in that old house. Until the music stopped.
“What doofus turned off the music?” Someone yelled.
“Some putz… idiot!”
“Put the tunes back on, man.”
Then, an atmospheric change, as the opening piano chords to “A Bridge Over Troubled Water” flowed into the room making revelers hush. Several of us moved aside and gulped sweet fruit punch. Partners formed, couples shuffled around to the harmony of Simon and Garfunkel. A hand led me to the center of the dance floor.
Who was this guy? Maybe he was a senior from my new high school, I’d seen him before. Oh yeah, at Homecoming. Tom Zentmyer: he was homecoming king, far out! He placed his hand on my waist, held my hand outstretched. He was dancing a fox trot (honest to God), while every other couple slumped into each other.
I felt like I was in a black and white movie and a little like a princess. Wait? The homecoming queen: Molly, was his girlfriend. I heard she’d gone away before Christmas. Someone said she went to live with relatives because she was “PG” — pregnant.
I didn’t care. Tom spoke with that Virginia southern accent sounding cool and intelligent, unlike other southern accents which sounded illiterate. His voice was soothing as he asked me how I liked Virginia and whether I missed my friends back in Indiana. And I’m not sure I answered any questions. I was thrilled to have the attention of this perfect southern gentleman.
“Let’s step outside on the porch.” He didn’t ask but kept his hand at the small of my back guiding me out. A partier ran towards the bushes, bumping me. “Hey, look out buddy,” he said, protectively putting his arm over my shoulder.
The air felt clean after the smoky, locker room scent the of the house. I smelled mint where someone had fallen into it and bruised it. It made me think of Grandma Tucker’s iced tea in the summer; a glass pitcher with mint leaves floating around. I loved that tea because she always sweetened it first. The night air filled my lungs. Although I was light-headed, I felt cared for, singled out as special.
“S-o-o-o, what’d you say your name was?” Tom asked.
“Jane.”
“Well, you’re sure not plain! Where are you going next year? What are your plans?” He bent down to listen to me; he was over six feet; did I mention he was a star basketball player?
“Me?”
“Yeah, where are you going? To college? Have you decided yet?”
“I’m only in tenth grade!” I wanted to lie and tell him I was going to Madison or Sweetbrier. I’d never been able to lie. Jody made up so much stuff she couldn’t keep her stories straight. I felt a wave of nausea, or was I just hungry? Where was the food?
“Oh, wow!” His eyebrows arched as he stepped back. “I thought you were
at least seventeen. Shit.”
I was flattered that Tom Zentmyer, homecoming king, thought I, a mere sophomore, was older. My upset stomach disappeared as Tom brought me more punch in a fresh red Solo cup; he’d noticed mine was cracked where I’d bitten it. He was thoughtful, so nice and polite.
“Well, my father was a VMI man, actually my grandfather was too, so I have an automatic in at VMI. But I got into Duke and Ole’ Miss. And I want to go out of state…” He droned on and I felt sleepy listening to that slow drawl.
“What’s a VMI?” I needed to perk up, act interested. We were practically on a date!
“You’re kidding, aren’t you?” He saw my blank face. “Virginia Military Institute! Stonewall Jackson went there… dozens of famous generals. My God, George Patton was a VMI man.”
“Neat,” I felt stupid as soon as I’d said it. He didn’t notice or hear me; he continued his monologue.
“Yeah, my family expects me to go, keep the family tradition. But you know with the war and all, I dunno. I’m not sure, I mean I’m not an anti-war nut, but you know, it’s just not cool right now.”
I wasn’t following much of what he was saying, something about the war. What war? I sipped my punch and wondered what that girl in the bathroom meant when she’d pushed past me in line. She was dragging her friend by the arm before she puked on the floor. She’d said, “This shit is totally spiked!”
Spiked, I thought. I didn’t know exactly what she meant. I knew the punch had some alcohol, but I didn’t taste it. The only alcohol I’d had was last year when Linda and I tasted some from decanters. Two bottles stood side by side at my parents’ bar. They were identical; a silver polished tag on tiny chain dangled on each. Bourbon on the one I tried; Scotch on Linda’s. My throat burned. Linda spit hers out in the bar sink. We’d decided we’d never do that again and wondered how adults could drink it. I missed my best friend far away in Indiana.
“Yeah, true,” I had lost the chain of conversation. What were we talking about? I leaned against him. His clothes smelled like soap. He smoothed my hair, it felt nice. I still liked to have my mom stroke my hair. I was too old for that now. But when I had mono last year, she did it a lot.
“You wanna get out of here? Take a walk or something?” Tim asked.
“Sure, but I gotta find Jody so she doesn’t leave without me. Have you seen her?”
“Your friend with the high heeled boots, the boots over her knees?”
“Yeah, where is she?”
“She was so wasted. Last time I saw her she was heading upstairs. If you know what I mean.” He had good teeth and a nice smile.
I didn’t know exactly what he meant but got the idea that I’d better not try to find her. At least I knew where she was. I’d see her later. Mom always told us girls to look out for each other. The bass vibrated the old wooden porch; it was a wraparound porch. Lots of old southern homes had grand porches.
The volume increased as The Rolling Stones sang “Under My Thumb.” My mom hated that song. She was a feminist and didn’t like the way it put women down. I didn’t listen to the words Mick Jagger shouted. I just liked the throbbing beat of the music.
“Come on, Jane. Let’s walk.”
“Okay, not too far though. My feet are killing me in these shoes.” I hobbled in my platform shoes. Was I staggering?
“Well, I have a car.” He pointed across the street. There, under the streetlight, a yellow Camaro, with thick black parallel lines on the hood. It was like a beacon. My feet hurt.
“That?” My mouth dropped open. ‘Get it together,’ I told myself.
“That’s your car?”
Tim opened the door for me, I climbed in, sagging in relief. I buckled my seat belt, feeling smug in the black bucket seat. Tim drove with one hand on the wheel, the other on my knee. His touch made me feel secure. With daylight gone I saw the faint outline of the Blue Ridge Mountains, a smattering of house and barn lights from country roads. Charlottesville was picturesque, even in the dark. We drove on passing horse farms with long rows of white fencing.
It was like a Sunday drive, but with a neat guy. I’d never really been alone with a boy except the time I kissed Dave Fisher, his parents nearby in their kitchen. I felt sluggish, then disorientated when I saw we were by the school’s football field, out behind the bleachers. I shifted in my seat, as if that would focus my thoughts before I spoke.
“Hey, why are we here?” I asked. “I liked driving around.” He wasn’t smiling anymore. I smoothed my shirt down and stared at him.
“Come on, you know exactly why we’re here.” The genteel southern accent became sharp-edged. Rough.
“Huh?” Sleepiness overwhelmed me, but my instinct told me to open the car door, get out, and run. Fear trickled like ice water through my veins. I grasped at the door handle. Tim grabbed my hand, peeling my fingers from the handle so hard it hurt.
I gasped and pivoted away from him. He controlled me in a series of quick determined moves — awkward knees and elbows hitting the dashboard, the mirror, my back pressed hard into the driver’s seat. I wriggled and tried to free my hands to hit his throat, but they were pressed in a tight hold above my head. I couldn’t break free.
“Stop it, get off me!” I managed before his forearm sealed my mouth.
My teeth jammed against my lips; I tasted blood. It smelled like old pennies. Panic engulfed me realizing my head was stuck; my face pinned beneath the steering wheel.
I couldn’t move. I was horizontal, but how could this be happening? It wasn’t. I decided. Though I felt my pants tear, my heart thudded in my chest, and fiery slices of pain shot through me; I wasn’t there, it wasn’t me. I went away. I was standing at the end of the pier on Lake Wawasee, ready to dive in and swim. I kept swimming until I was far away from that car, from my body.
Next, I was sitting there with Tom driving as if nothing happened. I’d started to shiver, not from cold.
“Take me home.” I was shaking and couldn’t stop.
“Where’s your house?” He stared straight ahead. “Hey, you sure your dad’s in Indiana?”
“You don’t have any brothers, do you?”
“No. I live in Hessian Hills.” My voice tight, caught in an angry swath through the air. He mashed the brake pedal to the floor, and he swerved to the side of the road, gravel sliding.
“This is close enough. You can walk from here.”
I got out, left the car door hanging open, and started walking, shaky, sober, and sore. Like getting back up on the horse, that’s exactly what I did. I walked all the way home.
There, sitting on the front steps, was my sister Jennifer. I saw the glow of her cigarette; she’d been practicing blowing smoke rings. Huge halo-like circles formed and unformed into nothingness above her.
“Where’s Jody? Weren’t you with her? How’d you get home?” She’d stopped blowing rings and held her cigarette, looked at me, through me. “What’s with you?”
She stood up. “Janie, are you okay?”
I didn’t answer or look at her. I floated through the smoke like a ghost through the door.
The first appearance of the term date rape appeared in 1975 in “Against Our Will: Men, Women and Rape,” by Susan Brownmiller.
