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Textbook Hippie

Being a story of how a lesbian lost her virginity in the turbulent early 70s

His hair was the color they would call strawberry blond on a woman. He was scrawny - not a likely candidate, really. But she had made up her mind. After two months in the coed dorm, she had met almost no guys on her floor. Both of them chilling out on the common-area couches on a Saturday night was a clear indicator of their shared nerdiness.


“Let’s do it,” she said. In keeping with her philosophy of living on the edge, there was no discussion, no consideration of potential consequences. He was not going to risk her having any second thoughts by asking questions.


“I’m down this hall, number 214.” He led her by the hand, as if they were preschoolers on their first day of K-4, full of anticipation of good things to come but not really knowing each other.


“Where’s your roommate?” she asked.


“Home for the weekend.” He led her to the bed on the left.


She debated about getting under the covers. Her nakedness was undoubtedly helpful to his preparation. He also undressed quickly and appeared to be ready.


His chest felt bony and his body hair was scratchy as he slid on top of her. “I’m not too heavy?” he asked. She was glad there had been no kissing or foreplay to distract from her true purpose.


Somehow he fumbled his way inside. Was he man enough to get the job done? She opened her legs as much as she could, feeling him hit resistance. Would she be as easily torn through as a keep-fresh cereal box liner? Or was she thick as a pig’s ear, impossible to separate without a knife? She felt a momentary twinge, like when the nurse’s injection first hits pay dirt, followed by….not much of anything.


His rhythm picked up and his breathing grew ragged. Is this how those car-wash strips felt when a car slowly plunged through them? Would they be as bored as she was by the lathering up, the slight touch that had no impact at all? He raised up a bit, emitting a deep, long sigh as he collapsed on top of her. It had all been so quick. Still stunned by the nothingness she felt, she began to wonder if what was dripping out of her had come mainly from him. Bloody sheets seemed like a corny trope from an old-fashioned novel, decidedly un-groovy in 1970.


“That was great,” he said. She stood up, dressed quickly, and turned toward the door, tossing a ‘see ya’ over her shoulder as she retreated into the hallway.


It dawned on her that the sticky deposit starting to drip down her legs might be dangerous. Who knew even this required homework? When was the last time she bled? She mentally checked the TOC of her friend’s copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves under Reproduction. She remembered that the Detroit Free Press touted a Coca-Cola douche immediately afterward. No - she would try to scrub it all out immediately. Gravity would be on her side once she stood up in the shower with her legs open.


Did she know his last name? It would be a shame to further dilute her Caribbean blood with more bland Northern European stock, though Swedish people supposedly had good cheekbones.


As she hurried down her hallway, she heard rustling behind her. It was him, her panties crumpled discreetly in his right hand. “Hey, you forgot this,” he said. He handed her the baton in the last leg of the relay race. It was hard to make out what they were, much less check for blood in the crotch.


“Oh,” she said.


For him, there had been a pleasant, momentary release. For her, very little in the pleasure department, followed by nothing but cleanup and consequences.


For the first time she understood what it was to be a woman.


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