Respondent's Testimonial Page 12 An Excerpt
5.) Tell us the history of your dating experiences and any serious romances.
6.) What was your attitude toward and any experiences of sex and sexuality.
6.) What was your attitude toward and any experiences of sex and sexuality.
Girls were both interesting and confusing to me from an early age. They were sort of wondrous-- and strange--at the same time. My mother said girls chased, kicked and scratched me on the playground ‘because they liked me,’ and I started to wonder that if it wouldn’t be more healthy for me if ‘they didn't like me.’ I didn’t know how much of this ‘liking’ I could take and still have hands, arms, and shin bones left by the time I reached puberty. This behavior wasn’t like the romances I saw on those late afternoon movies on TV, but then again those people were adults. Everybody had to start somewhere; I guessed this was it.
To ‘like a girl’ got a boy teased unmercifully--even when he had no idea what ‘liking a girl’ meant in the broadest sense. Liking a girl, to me, just meant you didn’t not like her. Oh, I had asked girls to marry me, by the age of five, like Nellie Nuckols, a Marilyn Monroe look-alike college-age girl at church, but I didn’t know why. Boys were just supposed to do that. But Sweet Nellie, gracious to the end, turned me down.
I had my first wet dream at about 12 years old or so, I can’t remember exactly. It didn’t hurt, but it was so strange a phenomenon that I just had to tell my mother about it fearing I had somehow got a strange infection or something. "What’s all this white stuff?”
Mom chuckled and smiled and said, “I expected this to happen sooner or later. I have a book for you to read...” She left the room to get it and returned, saying, “Read this and then if you have any questions, we can talk about it. Okay?” I took the pamphlet and went back upstairs to my bedroom. I could later imagine my mom trying to stifle her laughter by burying her face in a pillow someplace...
It was easy to understand the mechanics of reproduction. In the book there were pictures and captions and cartoons. And I knew what babies were all about anyway, I had nieces and nephews; I had held them all when they were infants. I knew what they smelled like--and why. There were no mysteries in that department. Reading the book answered the biggest worry I had to that point--what I had experienced ‘down there’ was natural; it was supposed to happen. It was okay. Whew!
I didn’t have brothers or friends close-by to ask or tell me what was going on. Boyhood talk about this sort of thing if done at all, must have been over my head. Maybe I was absent the day it was talked about at school, I just had no clue, but girls did. Girls seemed to know I wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer when it came to sexuality, even at the earliest stages. My first ‘date’ at 13, I’d guess, was no more than a walk to the school playground during summer vacation with a girl I ‘liked.’ She was more curious about kissing than I was--and she kissed me and ran back home. Nothing to that, I thought. That bit of adventure lasted me for a good year I think. There were girls at church that liked me; I made a point of buying the box-lunch Ovida had made for a church auction social; I think we held hands...
Patty, another girl at church who liked me, could play basketball and Tetherball better than any boy of any grade; I couldn’t compete. I didn’t know sports statistics. I couldn’t dribble a basketball more than three bounces or make a basket from the free-throw line. With my asthma slowing me, I never won any races either so that romance was finished almost before it started. I threw in the towel.
Age fourteen saw me interested in a Mexican-American girl named Debbie Ramirez who lived in a house up the street from where I lived. She wore pierced earrings and make-up, and when her mother wasn’t looking, she smoked cigarettes. She was strangely provocative, but I was so shy I couldn’t hardly look her straight in the eye. She would smile and talk to me, not afraid of me at all, but I just didn’t have the courage to ‘try’ anything. So when I went on vacation to Minnesota with my parents that summer, my best friend Earl Smith did.
When I got back home a couple weeks later, I saw Earl and Debbie walk by my house, arm in arm. I got so mad at Earl that I threw a homemade spear at him that was made from a long dried weed that had a hollow cornstock-like trunk, like those he and I had played with acting like Indians stalking buffalo; Earl ducked. The spear hit Debbie in the hip instead. I was so mortified I ran back into my house to hide. I avoided her all through junior high. (It was a big school.). The summer I graduated from high school, I got a job at a small business as a forklift driver and lo, to my surprise, Debbie was working there too. I had forgotten hurting her in the sixth grade until she teased me about it, motioning where on her hip I had hit her and that it had turned black and blue. I apologized profusely; she laughed and laughed, downplaying its importance by then.
By the time I had entered 9th grade all my hormones had kicked-in and I was ready for some serious stuff, so the girls thought. It started at church of all places when that cute little box-lunch girl cornered me in a basement classroom and closed the door behind her. It was my first kiss that tingled and started other things tingling too. The summer I turned 15, I went to The Church of The Brethren National Youth Conference held in Ithaca, New York, on the Cornell University campus for a week, where I first heard the music of Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, toured New York City, saw the UN Building, my first homosexual couple on a ferry rounding Manhattan Island, and the Radio City Rockettes.
To ‘like a girl’ got a boy teased unmercifully--even when he had no idea what ‘liking a girl’ meant in the broadest sense. Liking a girl, to me, just meant you didn’t not like her. Oh, I had asked girls to marry me, by the age of five, like Nellie Nuckols, a Marilyn Monroe look-alike college-age girl at church, but I didn’t know why. Boys were just supposed to do that. But Sweet Nellie, gracious to the end, turned me down.
I had my first wet dream at about 12 years old or so, I can’t remember exactly. It didn’t hurt, but it was so strange a phenomenon that I just had to tell my mother about it fearing I had somehow got a strange infection or something. "What’s all this white stuff?”
Mom chuckled and smiled and said, “I expected this to happen sooner or later. I have a book for you to read...” She left the room to get it and returned, saying, “Read this and then if you have any questions, we can talk about it. Okay?” I took the pamphlet and went back upstairs to my bedroom. I could later imagine my mom trying to stifle her laughter by burying her face in a pillow someplace...
It was easy to understand the mechanics of reproduction. In the book there were pictures and captions and cartoons. And I knew what babies were all about anyway, I had nieces and nephews; I had held them all when they were infants. I knew what they smelled like--and why. There were no mysteries in that department. Reading the book answered the biggest worry I had to that point--what I had experienced ‘down there’ was natural; it was supposed to happen. It was okay. Whew!
I didn’t have brothers or friends close-by to ask or tell me what was going on. Boyhood talk about this sort of thing if done at all, must have been over my head. Maybe I was absent the day it was talked about at school, I just had no clue, but girls did. Girls seemed to know I wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer when it came to sexuality, even at the earliest stages. My first ‘date’ at 13, I’d guess, was no more than a walk to the school playground during summer vacation with a girl I ‘liked.’ She was more curious about kissing than I was--and she kissed me and ran back home. Nothing to that, I thought. That bit of adventure lasted me for a good year I think. There were girls at church that liked me; I made a point of buying the box-lunch Ovida had made for a church auction social; I think we held hands...
Patty, another girl at church who liked me, could play basketball and Tetherball better than any boy of any grade; I couldn’t compete. I didn’t know sports statistics. I couldn’t dribble a basketball more than three bounces or make a basket from the free-throw line. With my asthma slowing me, I never won any races either so that romance was finished almost before it started. I threw in the towel.
Age fourteen saw me interested in a Mexican-American girl named Debbie Ramirez who lived in a house up the street from where I lived. She wore pierced earrings and make-up, and when her mother wasn’t looking, she smoked cigarettes. She was strangely provocative, but I was so shy I couldn’t hardly look her straight in the eye. She would smile and talk to me, not afraid of me at all, but I just didn’t have the courage to ‘try’ anything. So when I went on vacation to Minnesota with my parents that summer, my best friend Earl Smith did.
When I got back home a couple weeks later, I saw Earl and Debbie walk by my house, arm in arm. I got so mad at Earl that I threw a homemade spear at him that was made from a long dried weed that had a hollow cornstock-like trunk, like those he and I had played with acting like Indians stalking buffalo; Earl ducked. The spear hit Debbie in the hip instead. I was so mortified I ran back into my house to hide. I avoided her all through junior high. (It was a big school.). The summer I graduated from high school, I got a job at a small business as a forklift driver and lo, to my surprise, Debbie was working there too. I had forgotten hurting her in the sixth grade until she teased me about it, motioning where on her hip I had hit her and that it had turned black and blue. I apologized profusely; she laughed and laughed, downplaying its importance by then.
By the time I had entered 9th grade all my hormones had kicked-in and I was ready for some serious stuff, so the girls thought. It started at church of all places when that cute little box-lunch girl cornered me in a basement classroom and closed the door behind her. It was my first kiss that tingled and started other things tingling too. The summer I turned 15, I went to The Church of The Brethren National Youth Conference held in Ithaca, New York, on the Cornell University campus for a week, where I first heard the music of Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, toured New York City, saw the UN Building, my first homosexual couple on a ferry rounding Manhattan Island, and the Radio City Rockettes.
The Brethren is a Historic Peace church, so accordingly I was instructed how to passively resist removal by police during non-violent demonstrations. Although I can't recall its initiation, was also instructed how to properly make-out with a girl on the way back home in the rearmost seat of a chartered bus. Nadine and I practiced for 930 miles (Ithaca, NY to Sigourney, Iowa), setting the 1966 long distance kissing record, stopping only to grab a bite to eat and go to the toilet when the bus stopped along the way.
Every year of my early life, I spent a few weeks visiting my mother’s family in Roseau County, Minnesota. The summer I turned sixteen wasn’t any different. The city of Roseau, Minnesota was a tiny town compared to Des Moines. The people seemed quaint, a fact that I rather enjoyed about the place because people seemed more sincere and not ‘put on.’ Girls were friendlier and better looking, and all descended from scandinavian beauty queens from the old country. Yah, you betcha, Minnesota girls were top-of-the-list and beautiful. At least in my eyes. It was as though I lead two lives; one in Minnesota and one in Iowa.
My aunt Irene (my mother’s only sister) was a fun-loving sort and encouraged me to attend a Swedish Song Fest with her that was being held at a Lutheran church on Center Street, along the banks of the Roseau River, down the street from where she lived. I thought I’d humor her, so we walked the few short blocks to the church, to where voices set to music were flowing from the two big open doors. She began visiting with a teenage girl near the door and then turned to me and introduced ‘Sue.’
Every year of my early life, I spent a few weeks visiting my mother’s family in Roseau County, Minnesota. The summer I turned sixteen wasn’t any different. The city of Roseau, Minnesota was a tiny town compared to Des Moines. The people seemed quaint, a fact that I rather enjoyed about the place because people seemed more sincere and not ‘put on.’ Girls were friendlier and better looking, and all descended from scandinavian beauty queens from the old country. Yah, you betcha, Minnesota girls were top-of-the-list and beautiful. At least in my eyes. It was as though I lead two lives; one in Minnesota and one in Iowa.
My aunt Irene (my mother’s only sister) was a fun-loving sort and encouraged me to attend a Swedish Song Fest with her that was being held at a Lutheran church on Center Street, along the banks of the Roseau River, down the street from where she lived. I thought I’d humor her, so we walked the few short blocks to the church, to where voices set to music were flowing from the two big open doors. She began visiting with a teenage girl near the door and then turned to me and introduced ‘Sue.’
Sue was her neighbor. She lived the next door east and said she had seen me over there. She was fun and easy to talk to. We stood along the rail along the steps of the church, and talked there until the song fest was over. My aunt had left with a friend of hers, so Sue and a friend of hers and I walked back home together. She and I spent the rest of the week walking around town doing things together. By the time I had to go home, we had kissed our first kiss and decided to write each other, initiating a correspondence that lasted nearly five years; renewing our friendship a full ten years later, upon contrivance of her father (He always liked me.)
ReplyDeleteYou and Nadine still hold the record according to the Guinness Book.
strangely provocative - that certainly captures what freud would call the latency stage.
ReplyDeleteWell, like the title suggests this was just an excerpt not the whole tell. Things progressed naturally from there, happily. My mother told me, in one of her cautionary talks during my teenage years, "I always liked my men, but I was never easy," suggesting to me that it's natural to enjoy these relationships, but make the right decisions concerning the consequences.
Delete