I did it about ten o’clock in the morning on a balmy day the first week of June, 1897, just four weeks before my fifteenth birthday. The place I picked was the floor of the judges’ stand at the race track in the county fairgrounds, with a folded horse blanket to pad the bare boards. I knew the area because I had sat up in that judges’ stand on many a frosty morning, clocking Father’s practice miles, my eyes lined up on the wire and his fat stopwatch in my hand—I had needed both hands to handle that big watch when I had first done this, at six. That was the year that Father bought Loafer, a black stallion sired by the sire of Maud S.—but (sadly!) not as fast as his famous half sister.
In June of 1897 I went there prepared, resolved to do it, with a condom (a “French purse”) in my handbag, and a sanitary napkin—homemade, but all of them were in those days—as I knew that I might bleed and, if anything went wrong, I would have to convince my mother that I was simply three days early that month.
My partner in this “crime” was a high school classmate, a boy named Chuck Perkins, a year older and almost a foot taller than I. I was not even in puppy love with him, but we pretended that we were (perhaps he was not pretending, but how is a girl to know?) and we had been progressively seducing each other all that school year—Chuck was the first man (boy) with whom I opened my mouth to a kiss…and from that I formulated another “commandment”: “Open thy mouth only if thou planneth to open thy limbs”—for I discovered that I liked it.
How I liked it! Chuck’s mouth was sweet; he did not smoke, he kept his teeth clean and they were as sound as my own teeth, and his tongue was sweet and loving against mine. At later times I encountered (too often!) men who did not keep their mouths and breaths sweet…and I did not open my mouth. Or anything.
To this day I am convinced that tongue kissing is more intimate than coition.
In preparing for this meeting I had followed also my Fourteenth Commandment: “Thou shalt keep thy secret places as clean as a boiled egg lest thou stink in church,” to which my lusty father had added: “—and to hold thy husband’s love when thou dost catch one.” (I told him I had figured that out.)
Keeping really clean in a house not supplied with running water and too well supplied with running children is not easy. But I had worked out expedients from the time Father had warned me some years earlier. One expedient was to sneak in extra washing behind a locked door in Father’s surgery. One of my duties was to place a pitcher of hot water in the surgery each morning and again after lunch, and to refill that pitcher as needed. This put me in position to do washing that Mother did not know about. Mother believed that “Cleanliness is next to Godliness”—but I did not dare give her ideas by letting her catch me giving myself extra scrubbing in places I was supposed to be ashamed to touch; Mother didn’t approve of too much washing of “those places” as it could lead to “immodest behavior.” (It certainly could!)
At the fairgrounds we left Chuck’s horse and buggy in one of the big empty barns, with a nosebag of oats to keep him happy, then we climbed up into the judges’ stand. I led the way, up the back stairs, then up a vertical ladder through the roof of the grandstand and to a trap door in the floor of the judges’ stand. I tucked up my skirts, and climbed the ladder ahead of Chuck, and I delighted in the scandalous display I was making of myself. Oh, Chuck had seen my legs before—but men always like to peek.
Once we were both inside the stand I had Chuck close the trap door and drag over it a heavy box—heavy with weights used in racing. “Now they can’t possibly reach us,” I said gleefully, turned and got a key from a ditching place over a locker, opened its padlock.
“But they can see us, Mo’. This front side is wide open.”
“Who cares? Just don’t stand in front of the judges’ bench. If you can’t see them, they can’t see you.”
“Mo’, are you sure you want to do this?”
“Isn’t that why we came up here? Here, help me spread this blanket. We’ll use it doubled. The judges spread it along the bench to protect their tender behinds. It will keep splinters out of my tender behind, and out of your knees.”
Chuck didn’t say a word as we made our “bed.” I straightened up and looked at him. He did not look like a man about to achieve a joyful consummation long desired; he looked like a scared little boy. “Charles…are you sure you want to?”
He looked sheepish. “It’s bright sunlight, Mo’. This is awfully public. Maybe we could find a quiet place on the Osage?”
“Chiggers, and mosquitoes, and youngsters hunting muskrats. And they’ll pop up just when we’re busiest. No, thank you, sir. But, Charles—Charles dear—I thought we were agreed on this? I certainly don’t want to rush you into anything. Would you mind canceling the trip to Butler?” (A shopping trip to Butler was my excuse to my parents for asking Chuck to drive me that morning—Butler was not much bigger than Thebes, but it had much better shopping. Bennett and Wheeler Mercantile Company was six times as big as our biggest general store. They even stocked Paris styles—or so they claimed.)
“Why, no, Mo’, if you don’t want to go.”
“Then would you mind swinging past Richard Heiser’s house? I need to speak to him.” (Chuck, I’m smiling and speaking gently…but I would like to massage you with a baseball bat!)
“Uh—Something wrong, Mo’?”
“Yes and no. You know why we came up here. If you don’t want my cherry, well, Richard let me know that he wanted it. I didn’t promise him anything…but I did tell him that I would think about it.” I looked up at Chuck and then dropped my eyes. “And I did think about it and decided you were the one I wanted…had wanted ever since that time you took me up the bell tower. The school Easter party. You know. But, Charles, if you’ve changed your mind… I still don’t intend to let the sun set with me still a virgin. So will you drive me to Richard’s house?”
Cruel? Not truly so. A few minutes later I delivered what I had promised. But men are far more timid than we are; sometimes the only way you can get one to move is by placing him in sharpest competition with another male. Even a tabby cat knows that. (By “timid” I do not mean “cowardly.” A man—what I think of as a man—can face death calmly. But looking ridiculous…as when being surprised in copulation…can distress him to his marrow.)
“I haven’t changed my mind!” Charles was most emphatic.
I gave him my sunniest smile and opened my arms to him. “Then come here and kiss me like you mean it!”
He did, and we both caught fire again. (His backing and filling had cooled me.) At that time I had never heard the word “orgasm”—I am not sure it had been coined by 1897—but I had done some private experimenting and I knew that it was possible for something strongly resembling fireworks to happen inside me. By the end of that kiss I felt myself getting close to that point.
I pulled my face away just far enough to murmur against his lips: “Dear Charles. I’ll take off all my clothes…if you want me to.”
“Huh? Jeepers, yes!”
“All right. Do you want to undress me?”
He undressed me, or tried to, while I unfastened all the snaps and buttons and ties ahead of him. In a few moments I was bare as a frog and ready to burst into flame. I happily struck a pose I had practiced and let him look. He stared and caught his breath; I felt a fine tingle deep inside me.
Then I closed in on him and started unfastening his buttons and things. He was shy and I didn’t push it. But I did get him to take off his trousers and his drawers. I put them on top of mine on the box over the trap door, then sank down on the blankets. “Charles—”
“Coming!”
“You have a safe?”
“A what?”
“A Merry Widow.”
“Oh. Gee, Mo’, there isn’t any way I can buy them. I’m only sixteen. Pop Green is the only one who sells them…and he won’t unless you’re either married or over twenty-one.” The poor dear looked woebegone.
I said quietly, “And we aren’t married, and don’t want to hav
e to get married—not the way Joe and Amelia had to—my mother would have a fit. But—Quit looking grim and hand me my bag.”
He did so, and I got out the condom I had fetched. “There are advantages to being a doctor’s daughter, Chuck. I swiped this while I was cleaning Father’s clinic. Let’s see how it fits.” (I wanted to check something else. Having become so acutely conscious of my own cleanliness I had become quite critical of cleanliness in others. Some of my classmates, both sexes, could have used Father’s advice and some hot soapy water.)
(I’m a decadent today. The best aspect of Boondock aside from its gentle customs is its wonderful plumbing!)
Chuck looked clean and smelled clean—scrubbed as recently as I was, was my guess. A whiff of male musk, but fresh. Even at that age I had learned the difference.
I felt happy and gay. How sweet of him to offer me such a well-kept toy!
It was just inches from my face. I suddenly ducked and planted a quick kiss on it.
“Hey!” Charles almost squealed.
“Did I shock you, dear? It was just so pretty and sweet that I felt like kissing it. I didn’t mean to shock you.” (No, but I do want to find your shock point.)
“I wasn’t shocked. Uh… I liked it.”
“Cross your heart and shame the Devil?”
“Yes, indeed!”
“Good.” I waited while he got ready. “Now, Charles. Take me.”
I was clumsy and inexperienced but nevertheless I had to guide him—gently, as his pride had already been hurt once. Charles was even less skilled than I. Probably what he knew of sex came from barber shops and pool halls and behind barns—the ignorant boasts of bachelor males…whereas I had been taught by an old and wise medical doctor who loved me and wanted me to be happy.
I had in my purse a patent medicine, “Vaseline,” to use as a lubricant if I needed it. Not necessary!—I was as slippery as boiled flaxseed.
In spite of that—“Charles! Please, dear! Take it easy. Not so fast.”
“But I ought to go fast, first push, Mo’. It’ll hurt you less. Everybody knows that.”
“Charles, I’m not ‘everybody’; I’m me. Take it slowly and it won’t hurt me at all. I think.” I felt eager, terribly excited, and wanted him deep inside me—but he did feel bigger than I had expected. It didn’t really hurt. Or not much. But I knew it could hurt plenty if we did this too fast.
Dear Charles did hold still, his face intent. I bit my lip and tried. And again. At last he was firmly against me and all of him that could reach was inside me.
I relaxed and smiled up at him. “There! That’s just fine, dear. Now move if you want to. Do it!”
But I had taken too long. He grinned, then I felt a couple of quick twitches and he stopped smiling and looked distressed. He had spent.
So there weren’t any fireworks for Maureen that first trip, and not much for Charles. But I wasn’t too disappointed; my prime purpose had been achieved; I was no longer a virgin. I made note to ask Father about how to make it last longer—I was certain that I could have reached those fireworks had I been able to stretch it out a little longer. Then I put it out of my mind and was happy with what I had accomplished.
And started a custom that has stood me in good stead for a long lifetime: I smiled up at him and said softly, “Thank you, Charles. You were splendid.”
(Men don’t expect to be thanked for it. And at that moment a man is always willing to believe any sort of compliment…most especially if he hasn’t really earned it and is uneasily aware of his shortcoming. To thank him and compliment him is an easy investment that pays high dividends. Believe me, sister mine!)
“Gosh, Maureen. You’re swell.”
“You are, too, Chuck sweetheart.” I hugged him, arms and legs, then relaxed and added, “Maybe we had better get up. This floor is hard, even with a doubled blanket.”
Charles was quiet while he drove us on into Butler—not at all the suave Don Juan who has just relieved a maiden of that which enriched her not. I was encountering for the first time that tristesse that some males have after intercourse…while I myself was bubblingly happy. I no longer minded that I had missed climax—if I had; I was not sure. Maybe those “fireworks” were something one could do only by oneself. We had gotten away with it cold and I felt very grown up. I sat up straight and enjoyed the beautiful day. I didn’t hurt, not enough to matter.
I think men often feel buffeted by sex. They often have so much to lose and we often give them little choice. I am minded of a very odd case that involved one of my grandchildren—how he was pushed around by fate and his first wife.
It involved our cat Pixel, too, at that time a small kitten, all fuzz and buzzes.
My grandson, Colonel Campbell, son of my son Woodrow who is also my husband Theodore, but don’t let that worry you; Woodrow and Theodore are both Lazarus Long, who is an odd one in any universe—don’t let me forget to tell about the time that Lazarus quite unintentionally got three women pregnant at once, a grandmother, her daughter, and her granddaughter…and thereby had to make some unusual arrangements with the Time Corps in order to carry out the first commandment in his own private decalogue, which is: Never leave a pregnant woman to face her destiny unsupported.
Since Lazarus has been knocking them up over centuries in several universes this has taken up quite a bit of his time.
Lazarus quite innocently broke his own first commandment with respect to my grandson’s mother, and this mishap resulted indirectly in my grandson marrying my sister wife, Hazel Stone, who was on leave of absence from our family for that purpose…for you see (or perhaps you don’t) Hazel had to marry Colin Campbell so that these two could rescue Mycroft Holmes IV, the computer that led the Lunar Revolution on time line three, code “Neil Armstrong.” Let’s skip the details; it’s all in Encyclopaedia Galacta and other books.
“The operation was a success but the patient died.” It was almost that way. The computer was saved and is alive and well and happy in Boondock today. All of the raiding party got away without a scratch…except Colin and Hazel Campbell and the kitten, Pixel, all of whom were terribly wounded, and were left dying in a cave in Luna.
I must digress again. In that raiding party was a young officer, Gretchen Henderson, great-great-granddaughter of my sister wife Hazel Stone. Gretchen had had a baby boy four months before this raid, which my grandson knew.
What he did not know was that he was the father of Gretchen’s son.
In fact he knew beyond doubt that he had never copulated with Gretchen and knew with equal certainty that he had left no sperm in any donor bank anywhere/when.
Nevertheless Hazel, dying, had told him firmly that he was the father of Gretchen’s child.
He had asked how; she had answered, “Paradox.”
A time paradox Colin could understand. He was a member of the Time Corps; he had been through time loops; he knew that, in a time paradox, it was possible to turn around and bite oneself in the back of one’s own neck.
Therefore he now knew that he was going to inseminate Gretchen somewhere forward on his own time line, somewhere backward on her time line—the inverted loop paradox.
But “God helps those who help themselves.” That would happen only if he lived through this squeeze and made it happen.
When the three were rescued shortly after this revelation, Colin had piled up new corpses and had been wounded twice more—but all three were still alive. They were flashed two thousand years into the future to the greatest physicians in any universe: Ishtar and her staff. My sister wife Ishtar won’t let a patient die as long as the body is warm and the brain is intact. It took some doing, Pixel especially. The baby creature was held at Kelvin ought point three for several months while Doctor Bone was fetched from another universe and a dozen of Ishtar’s best including Ishtar herself were put through a crash course in feline medicine, surgery, physiology, etc. Then they raised Pixel to simple hypothermia, rebuilt him, brought him to blood temperature and wakened h
im. So today he is a strong, healthy tom, still traveling as he pleases and making kittens wherever he goes.
In the meantime Hazel arranged the time loop and Colin encountered and wooed and won and tumbled and impregnated a somewhat younger Gretchen. So she had her baby, and later on (by her personal time line) she joined Hazel and Colin in saving the computer Mycroft Holmes.
But why such extreme effort over a kitten? Why not give a dying kitten the release he needs to end his pain?
Because, without Pixel and his ability to walk through walls, Mycroft Holmes would not have been rescued, all of the raiding party would have died, and the future of the entire human race would have been placed at risk. The chances were so evenly balanced that in half of the futures they died, in half of them they succeeded. A few ounces of kitten made the difference. He warned them, with the only word he had mastered: “Blert!”
On the way back from Butler Charles had recovered from his postcoital depression; he wanted to do it again. Well, so did I, but not that day. That buggy ride over dirt roads had reminded me that what I was sitting on was just a leetle tender.
But Charles was raring to go; he wanted an encore right now. “Mo’, there is a spot just ahead there where we can get a buggy clear off the road and out of sight. Quite safe.”
“No, Chuck.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not perfectly safe; anybody else could pull off there, too. We’re late now and I don’t want to have to answer questions today. Not this day. And we don’t have another Merry Widow and that settles it because while I do plan to have children, I don’t want to have them at fifteen.”
“Oh.”
“Quite so. Be patient, dear, and we will do it again…another day, with careful arrangements…which you might be thinking about. Now take your hand away, please; there is a rig coming down the road—see the dust?”
Mother did not scold me over being a half hour late. But she did not press Charles when he refused her offer of lemonade, on the excuse that he had to get Ned (his gelding) home and curried and the buggy wiped down because his parents were going to need it. (A too complex lie—I’m sure he simply did not want to meet Mother’s eye, or be questioned by her. I’m glad Father taught me to avoid fancy lies.)