nagging feeling he’s about to end things with me. But I keep this to myself, laughing along with her when I talk about the weird way Heath doesn’t want me lingering in his house.
With all the regular sex I’m having, I start thinking about birth control. Until now, I know, I’ve been lucky. Only once or twice has a guy not initiated the use of a condom, and usually only because there were none around. I am rightfully scared about pregnancy. After one of those condomless nights with someone I barely knew, I was terrified I was pregnant. When my period came a few days late, I promised myself I would never ever do that again. But I did, leading to another pregnancy scare.
I’m afraid of pregnancy, but I’m not really afraid of STDs. I should be. This is the eighties, when AIDS has begun to destroy person after person, taking them down as if with a machine gun. One of my mother’s good friends has been diagnosed as HIV-positive, and another is already dead. But in the eighties, adolescent girls aren’t afraid of such things. AIDS is relegated to gay men and IV drug users. It will be a number of years before females, and then African American teenage girls, become the groups with the highest rate of growing AIDS cases. Being a young girl, I don’t think STDs can touch me. I assume, as many teenagers do, I am impervious to diseases like herpes and chlamydia. Those things just don’t happen to people like me.
I’m more concerned about getting toxic-shock syndrome from tam-pons. Media hype has convinced me this is the thing to worry about.
It’s the pregnancy worry that makes me call my mother one evening. She’s doing her residency now in gynecology in Chicago. She’ll be able to get me what I need.
“The Pill?” she asks when I tell her why I called. “You’re having sex?”
“I have a boyfriend,” I tell her, defensive. I sit cross-legged on my
•
77 •
L o o s e G i r l
bedroom floor. I assumed telling her would be no big deal. She’s the one who pushed all those books—What’s Happening to Me? and Our Bodies, Ourselves—on Tyler and me when we were younger. She’s the one who told Tyler and me, too much actually, that sexual feelings were normal and healthy and even nice.
“I just want you to be careful,” she says.
“That’s why I want the pills.”
“Not just that kind of careful, though,” she says. She hesitates, and I wait, a sick feeling starting in my stomach. “Boys don’t like girls who give it away too easily.”
I set my mouth. “I told you, I have a boyfriend. We’ve been together for over a month.”
But inside, that sick feeling spreads.
She doesn’t say anything.
“Forget it,” I say. “I’ll just go to Planned Parenthood.”
“You should get an exam anyway.”
“To look for diseases?” I ask. I feel like I might cry.
“Everyone should get an exam before going on birth control.”
“I thought my own mother might help me out,” I say.
“I want to help.” Her voice is calm and steady. She’s using the tone she gets when it’s obvious my feelings are growing out of control. It’s patronizing and fake, and it’s one of the reasons I usually hide my feelings from her. “But I would never prescribe pills without an exam.”
When we hang up, I feel like I might throw up. I go to the kitchen and down a glass of water. I dial Heath’s number, but it just rings and rings. Then I go to the living room and flip on the TV. I do anything. Anything to get away from the fact that my own mother assumes I’m easy.
K
r e b e c c a g r a b s m y a r m and pulls me into the student lounge.
“You got me in trouble,” she says.
“What are you talking about?”
•
78 •
A H o u s e w i t h N o M e n She sighs and looks around, making sure no one else can hear.
“Heath told Jeff you did it doggie-style with him,” she whispers.
I bite my lip, embarrassed. “So?”
“I won’t, and now Jeff is saying if you do it with Heath, then I should
With all the regular sex I’m having, I start thinking about birth control. Until now, I know, I’ve been lucky. Only once or twice has a guy not initiated the use of a condom, and usually only because there were none around. I am rightfully scared about pregnancy. After one of those condomless nights with someone I barely knew, I was terrified I was pregnant. When my period came a few days late, I promised myself I would never ever do that again. But I did, leading to another pregnancy scare.
I’m afraid of pregnancy, but I’m not really afraid of STDs. I should be. This is the eighties, when AIDS has begun to destroy person after person, taking them down as if with a machine gun. One of my mother’s good friends has been diagnosed as HIV-positive, and another is already dead. But in the eighties, adolescent girls aren’t afraid of such things. AIDS is relegated to gay men and IV drug users. It will be a number of years before females, and then African American teenage girls, become the groups with the highest rate of growing AIDS cases. Being a young girl, I don’t think STDs can touch me. I assume, as many teenagers do, I am impervious to diseases like herpes and chlamydia. Those things just don’t happen to people like me.
I’m more concerned about getting toxic-shock syndrome from tam-pons. Media hype has convinced me this is the thing to worry about.
It’s the pregnancy worry that makes me call my mother one evening. She’s doing her residency now in gynecology in Chicago. She’ll be able to get me what I need.
“The Pill?” she asks when I tell her why I called. “You’re having sex?”
“I have a boyfriend,” I tell her, defensive. I sit cross-legged on my
•
77 •
L o o s e G i r l
bedroom floor. I assumed telling her would be no big deal. She’s the one who pushed all those books—What’s Happening to Me? and Our Bodies, Ourselves—on Tyler and me when we were younger. She’s the one who told Tyler and me, too much actually, that sexual feelings were normal and healthy and even nice.
“I just want you to be careful,” she says.
“That’s why I want the pills.”
“Not just that kind of careful, though,” she says. She hesitates, and I wait, a sick feeling starting in my stomach. “Boys don’t like girls who give it away too easily.”
I set my mouth. “I told you, I have a boyfriend. We’ve been together for over a month.”
But inside, that sick feeling spreads.
She doesn’t say anything.
“Forget it,” I say. “I’ll just go to Planned Parenthood.”
“You should get an exam anyway.”
“To look for diseases?” I ask. I feel like I might cry.
“Everyone should get an exam before going on birth control.”
“I thought my own mother might help me out,” I say.
“I want to help.” Her voice is calm and steady. She’s using the tone she gets when it’s obvious my feelings are growing out of control. It’s patronizing and fake, and it’s one of the reasons I usually hide my feelings from her. “But I would never prescribe pills without an exam.”
When we hang up, I feel like I might throw up. I go to the kitchen and down a glass of water. I dial Heath’s number, but it just rings and rings. Then I go to the living room and flip on the TV. I do anything. Anything to get away from the fact that my own mother assumes I’m easy.
K
r e b e c c a g r a b s m y a r m and pulls me into the student lounge.
“You got me in trouble,” she says.
“What are you talking about?”
•
78 •
A H o u s e w i t h N o M e n She sighs and looks around, making sure no one else can hear.
“Heath told Jeff you did it doggie-style with him,” she whispers.
I bite my lip, embarrassed. “So?”
“I won’t, and now Jeff is saying if you do it with Heath, then I should
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