How did you lose your virginity?
August sixteenth, 1969. Bethel, New York. Woodstock, day two.
I had one sister about to start her senior year of high school and one going into her sophomore year at City College. My brother David was barely twelve and a Chopin enthusiast; electric guitar gave him migraines. I was assigned the position of chaperone to the girls. They threw me in the back of Dad's new station wagon and we drove three hours from Brighton Beach.
It became clear that my title was sort of an honorary thing when, against my advice, they stopped forty-five minutes away from the venue and picked up a hitcher who smelled like catfood. He repaid them in dope -- I got a poorly rolled joint in return for promising to compose sanitized but plausible details about the events of the weekend on our way home.
The first day passed mostly without incident. My sisters smoked up and fell asleep sitting up while Joan Baez sang "Sweet Sir Galahad". I stayed awake all night and didn't go more than five feet from them. The two of them, they had gotten the good genes, they took after my mother, and from the looks they had been getting all day I had started to realize I was there for a reason, after all.
Around six o'clock the next morning a group of girls showed up and assembled a makeshift booth a few feet from our little camp, such as it was. One of the girls had a bullhorn. I didn't see much of my sisters for the rest of the day.
Our neighbors were unsurprisingly and vocally devoted to the ERA and while their idealism was in the right place the same couldn't have been said for all of their information. I walked over and attempted to point this out to them. Frankly I'm sure I would have been a great deal more articulate if they hadn't all been braless, but I managed to get a fact or two across. After about an hour I think I had become their mascot.
One of the girls -- Sharon -- was sharper than the others. Eighteen years old and about to start Sarah Lawrence. She told me she was planning to be a botanist or a writer. At this point I was already convinced that real writers rarely had that kind of choice in the matter, but she kept touching my arm and she smelled like sage and tobacco and she had this blonde hair that went all the way down her back, so you can see how I might have felt disinclined to argue.
I was fifteen years old. I had a joint in my pocket. I went with things.
The Who was playing "Summertime Blues" when she let me put my hand under her shirt. The noise from the crowd was unreal. You've never heard anything like it. By the time their set was finished I wasn't a virgin anymore. Any more details, you don't need, except to say that I knew a tenth about women what I did about politics and Sharon was a very understanding girl. I couldn't have fairly expected more out of my first time.
Although I have to admit it would have been nice if her friends hadn't been quite so bullhorn-happy -- consequently my sisters found out a little sooner than I would have liked.
I had one sister about to start her senior year of high school and one going into her sophomore year at City College. My brother David was barely twelve and a Chopin enthusiast; electric guitar gave him migraines. I was assigned the position of chaperone to the girls. They threw me in the back of Dad's new station wagon and we drove three hours from Brighton Beach.
It became clear that my title was sort of an honorary thing when, against my advice, they stopped forty-five minutes away from the venue and picked up a hitcher who smelled like catfood. He repaid them in dope -- I got a poorly rolled joint in return for promising to compose sanitized but plausible details about the events of the weekend on our way home.
The first day passed mostly without incident. My sisters smoked up and fell asleep sitting up while Joan Baez sang "Sweet Sir Galahad". I stayed awake all night and didn't go more than five feet from them. The two of them, they had gotten the good genes, they took after my mother, and from the looks they had been getting all day I had started to realize I was there for a reason, after all.
Around six o'clock the next morning a group of girls showed up and assembled a makeshift booth a few feet from our little camp, such as it was. One of the girls had a bullhorn. I didn't see much of my sisters for the rest of the day.
Our neighbors were unsurprisingly and vocally devoted to the ERA and while their idealism was in the right place the same couldn't have been said for all of their information. I walked over and attempted to point this out to them. Frankly I'm sure I would have been a great deal more articulate if they hadn't all been braless, but I managed to get a fact or two across. After about an hour I think I had become their mascot.
One of the girls -- Sharon -- was sharper than the others. Eighteen years old and about to start Sarah Lawrence. She told me she was planning to be a botanist or a writer. At this point I was already convinced that real writers rarely had that kind of choice in the matter, but she kept touching my arm and she smelled like sage and tobacco and she had this blonde hair that went all the way down her back, so you can see how I might have felt disinclined to argue.
I was fifteen years old. I had a joint in my pocket. I went with things.
The Who was playing "Summertime Blues" when she let me put my hand under her shirt. The noise from the crowd was unreal. You've never heard anything like it. By the time their set was finished I wasn't a virgin anymore. Any more details, you don't need, except to say that I knew a tenth about women what I did about politics and Sharon was a very understanding girl. I couldn't have fairly expected more out of my first time.
Although I have to admit it would have been nice if her friends hadn't been quite so bullhorn-happy -- consequently my sisters found out a little sooner than I would have liked.