One steamy summer morning in 1984, I rode my bike 27 miles to my 16 year old boyfriend’s house. I knew he was going to be home alone, which was rare. After a couple of years of awkwardly long make out sessions that took place in parks, up against school lockers, and on the table of our Sunday school class, I was ready to give up my virginity. Well, not so much ready as curious, rebellious, and eager to get it over with.
I showed up on his stoop with freshly shaved legs, wearing a halter top, a pair of short-shorts, and a piece of Hubba Bubba bubble gum wedged in my cheek to ensure good breath. The minute he opened the door, I kissed him hard. I guess he was happy to see me, but for all I knew he could have had an actual banana in his pocket.
I had no idea what I was doing. Everything I knew about sex I learned from sneaking peeks at my gay uncle’s Cosmopolitan magazines. My parents wouldn’t sign the release to allow me to attend “Sexual Education and Family Planning” classes in the 7th grade, nor did we ever have “the talk.”
He had to shower, so I watched a Bewitched rerun on his family’s black and white TV. I remember thinking how totally rad it would be if I could just wiggle my nose and instantly look like a Cosmo cover model. Instead, I was freakishly short and endlessly sweaty.
Once he got out of the shower, he took me to his parent’s bedroom. We made out for a while and then got naked. I could feel his penis pressing against my bare leg for the first time and it made me nervous. A part of me wondered if it was too late to turn back.
Just as things started to get a little sweaty under the sheet, blanket, and comforter, he excused himself to the bathroom. I had no idea why. I thought maybe he had to pee or something. When he came back and crawled under the covers, there was a new sensation against my leg, but I assumed it was a rubber. (No one called them condoms back then, except maybe the people teaching the class I wasn’t allowed to attend.)
Just as has he was about to take my virginity, there was a knock at the front door.
“SHIT!” we both said.
As he frantically searched the floor for his shorts, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something shoot across the room. Then a small square of plastic floated to the floor from between his legs.
As he got rid of his best friend standing in the doorway, I got dressed. Resting in the cup of my 32AA bra, was the mystery projectile. It was a small rubber band.
That strange sensation against my leg wasn’t a rubber, but a rubber band securing a piece of Saran Wrap!
I had no idea if this was an actual birth control method at the time, but you can bet I searched Cosmo every single month for the next two years before I actually lost my virginity to another guy. This time, we both knew what we were doing.