Suzie

My second semester junior year of high school, 1962. I’m new at this school. Don’t know anyone. But they know me – the new girl who came here from another high school two weeks before midterm exams. Flunked them all.

Standing in line to sign up for modern dance – a way to redeem my loser reputation.              

The girl behind me says, are you a virgin?                                                                                             

What?  I nod yes, turn around, face forward.

Another tap. What does this girl want?                                             

First.     She wants to tell you why she looks so ragged this morning.                                 

Second.  She wants to tell you that her boyfriend, soon-to-be-husband insisted on having sex before she left for school.

Third.    She wants you to know that her behavior is abnormal because she’s a nymphomaniac and needs to have sex.                                                                                            

Fourth.   She wants to tell you she’s had shock treatments and everything.                 

Fifth.      She wants you to know this about her.                                                                  

Sixth.      She wants you to know she was adopted because her adoptive parents couldn’t get pregnant, but after the adoption, her mother got pregnant seven times giving Suzie seven younger siblings. She says she feels like an outsider, thinks that’s what may have caused her nymphomania.                                                                             

Seventh.   She wants you to be her friend. Her name is Suzie.

All this about Suzie while standing in line – her brown/black eyes piercing my blues. Suzie seems desperate to make friends.                                                                                                      

I could use a friend. But Suzie is not like the other girls – perky and 1962-highschool-stylish, like me, with shoulder-length hair turned into a perfect flip. Her brunette hair is pulled back into a twist. It’s a little messy. Not ragged like she thinks. Her long lashes frame her dark brown almost black eyes.                                                                                                                              

I’m a little cautious about Suzie. But I could be her friend. We’ll have modern dance in common.

***

I don’t understand nymphomania. I haven’t had sex yet – couldn’t get anyone at my other school to venture into the territory of my cherry. Just necking and a little fooling around, falling in love with anticipation. That feeling I’d melt – buttery legs, flushed neck, slack jaw, pounding heart, heat flowing up and down my spine. Pussy juicy. Ready.                                                                                    

Same at this school. No takers. Just necking.                                                              

Like with Phil. His mother took thalidomide when she was pregnant with him. He has one stub arm. I like boys with flaws. They’re easy. He has a car and I need rides to school. I neck with Phil to secure those rides. Such is my shallow way.                                                                     

But Phil is a nice kisser. I can tell he likes me. When he touches my breasts – small as they are – I swoon with joy. When I look into his beautiful green eyes tucked into luscious black lashes, I melt. Pussy juicy. Ready.                                                                                                    

But he’s not interested in me that way – going all the way.                                                                  

During the beginning of our senior year, Phil dumps me and falls in love with someone else. He goes all the way with her – gets her pregnant. Then marries her.                                                    

I lose both him and my rides.

                                                                        ***

Having spent the second half of my junior year being Suzie’s friend, enjoying our partnering in modern dance class, I take note that it’s the only time she doesn’t talk about her sexual life. Instead, we discuss movement and try out new patterns in choreography.                                              

By our senior year I develop a more concentrated interest in Suzie’s otherwise active libido.                                                                                                                                                    

And, since my mother has me on birth control pills, she’s let loose of her controlling scrutiny – calling me a slut when late with my periods – one of her condescending vocabulary of words directed at me to punish me for being a girl.

                                                                        ***     

Suzie introduces me to a guy named Claude. A cop. He’s 26. He wants to spend time with me, but sexy time is out of the question. I’m only seventeen. He comes over to my house a lot. Sometimes takes me out to dinner. Sometimes Suzie joins us.                                                             

My little brother Johnny calls him Gumshoe. His last name is Waddle. Claude Waddle. Or as Johnny says – Claude Gumshoe Waddle. His middle name happens to start with a G – G for Gordon. You’d think with a name like that he’d be ugly or fat or pimply. But he’s cute – tall, tanned, nice build, black hair cropped short – almost a buzz cut. He has a cowlick at his forehead hairline – a hair swirl.

 I show Claude my new fake ID. Suzie has one, too. Claude says mine and Suzie’s are the two best ones he’s ever seen but he won’t let me use mine when I’m out with him.                                 

When he’s not working at the county jail getting prisoners to wash his car, Claude drives

a school bus – the one I should have been taking had it not been for Phil’s rides. Since Claude drives my school bus, I’ll have to consider him and the bus as my new wheels. But it’s a long walk to the bus stop from where I live.                                                                                                           

I ask Claude about Suzie – whether he knows she’s a nymphomaniac. He says she tried to get him to take her out on dates. And, yes, he knows, which is why he won’t date her. That and she’s underaged. But he still likes her. As a friend.

                                                                        ***

I ask Suzie if she can fix me up with someone to de-virginate me because it’s hard to spend time with her, listening to her yammer on about her sexual exploits without knowing what in the hell she’s talking about and I’m so ready to find out what this intercourse business is all about in spite of my mother’s past warnings about sex and pregnancy – before the pill, that is. Now she doesn’t care what I do. But I haven’t found a boy since who wants me in that way.                                           

Suzie calls a friend – Corvette Guy (he drives a red Corvette convertible) – who calls a friend.                                                                                                                                                         

We cut school one morning and drive over to Corvette Guy’s place. There we meet Linebacker Big. One look at him and we say a prayer. Our prayers are not the same – mine is an oh no and Suzie’s is an oh yes.                                                                                                                   

He’s thick big. I look for something to like about him, something to excite me for what I am about to do. He’s dressed in dark blue jeans, a red plaid madras shirt. He has ZERO distinguishing smell – 0aftershave smell, 0 deodorant smell, 0 soap, 0 sweat. He’s clean. Dark brown hair, short and parted on the side. Too clean. Ordinary except for his size.                          

Suzie heads off with Corvette Guy to another room.

Linebacker Big leads me onto Corvette Guy’s bed. He is all verb. I am all object.

Here you are lying                       

on your back         

His having shed                           

your underpants, the first obstacle to discovery, and

his having hiked your blue polyester knit pencil skirt to your skinny waist while               

he catches you staring at his big goal-post-hard dick, and                                                   

he wonders how he’s goin to get his thing inside of you.

You lie in that bed line straight – 

notice you feel nothing – no arousal. Nothing. Not even fear. Not even disgust.

He mounts you and hovers.  

Pushes apart your legs with his knees, guides his dick to

your pussy pushing gently at first then harder because it                                                        

won’t go in and                                                                                                 

you tell him to push harder. It                                                     

still won’t go in and then one last                                                                     

shove before you yell, OUCH.                                               

He stops,                                                                                                

climbs off.                                                                                             

He standsup, says, “You’re bleeding.”                                                                                 

So that’s what he sounds like – first words I hear him say.                                                             

He dresses and leaves the room. That’s it? You cut school for this?

                                                                        ***                                                                             

This sex business may be working for Suzie, but it’s not working for me. I get off the bed, straighten my skirt, walk into Corvette Guy’s front room. He’s sitting shirtless on the sofa blowing smoke rings. Points to a big blood stain on the back of my skirt near the hemline. Shows me where to wash it out. We small talk while my skirt dries.                                                            

He says, “What happened in there?”                                                                                 

“Nothing,” I say. “NOTHING, except he made me bleed. Where’s Suzie?”                                            

“In the other room,” he says. “I’ve had enough. She keeps crying for more. I need a break. So, I sent Linebacker Big in to tackle her.”

Then he says, “You and Suzie are an odd combination to be friends – a virgin and a nymphomaniac.”

That’s Way #1.

 Suzie and I are an odd combination in other ways:                                                               

This is Way #2 – I’m a recovering catholic and Suzie is a holy roller. God help me – it’s two weeks after the attempted de-virginating and she’s taking me to church with her. The service starts out calm. Then heats up and before I know what’s going on, people are in the aisles –

                                                screeching,               crying,

                   wailing,                           crazy talking,              

                              eyes rolling,                                  dropping to the floor,

           convulsing.                                                                                                                 

It’s madness. At least from my perspective.                                                                                       

I tell Suzie I’m leaving. “I hear enough of this screeching, crying and hysteria at home. I don’t need to be here for this.”                                                                                                              

She grabs hold of my arm.                                                                                                                     

“Please don’t leave now, not during this part. Wait a few minutes and I’ll leave with you.”

When Suzie gives the nod, we tiptoe out – the nymphomaniac/holy roller and the virgin/ex-catholic.

This is Way #3 – Suzie is not the most graceful when it comes to modern dance. Whereas dance is in my DNA. I think it’s because her extremely high arches throw her off balance for one. And for another, she only sees out of one eye. I didn’t mention this earlier because it doesn’t matter to me that Suzie is blind in one eye and that she squints to camouflage her eyes not tracking together. Sometimes it’s hard to remember which is the good eye. I had a teacher like that in the sixth grade. He had a glass eye, and we could never tell who he was eyeballing in his class. I think one-eyed sight makes dance hard for Suzie. Or maybe she’s just not as coordinated as I am.                                                

This is Way #4 – I live in a minor wealthy neighborhood, in a nice house, in the foothills of La Cañada (pronounced Canyada). Suzie lives in Pasadena in a small house that needs work. And cleaning.                                                                                                                                             

Suzie shows me the room. And the table where her shock treatments take place.                        

The first thing I notice about her house when I walk in is the smell – cooking grease and cigarette smoke.

How dark the house is. How small.

How dirty – dingy wood floors covered in paper scraps, old newspapers, and dirty clothes.

“How can you live like this, Suzie? This is disgusting. And your mom is a NURSE.”

“I know, but Mom works the night shift and sleeps all day. Grandma takes care of us and does all the cooking, but Grandma can’t see her mess because she’s blind as a bat.”                             

“Okay, I’m going to help you out here. We’re going to clean up this mess.”                        

We start in the kitchen where the linoleum flooring is hidden under layers of dirt and grease. Suzie gathers supplies and tries to explain to Grandma what we’re going to be doing and

Grandma can’t see anything wrong with the floor the way it is because Grandma can’t

see.                                                                                                     

We scrub that floor four times after I show Suzie how to use a brush and hold a mop, which does not come naturally to her.                                                                                                           

She’s gratified when we’re done to see what lay under the dirt, but not enough to keep it that way.

Suzie hates cleaning,                        

Grandma can’t see,

Nurse Mom is too busy working and sleeping. 

The (1) seven (2) siblings (3) are (4) useless (5) for (6) chores (7).            

So, it’s my guess the kitchen will be back to filthy in no time. Along with the rest

of the house.

My mother raised me to clean. She kept me clean with baths and enemas. She made me clean the entire house on Saturdays. She made me clean out ashtrays and highball glasses during the week after school. Cleaning has become a ritual as much as the ritual of staying clear of the forbidden fruit of sex. Which I suppose means pregnancy.

Cleaning with Suzie is far more gratifying and productive than my first de-flowering attempt in Corvette Guy’s house with her in the other room begging for more.                                

I have the edge on Suzie when it comes to the ritual of cleaning. She has the edge when it comes to the ritual of sex.

                                                            ***

I have my first actual sexual intercourse experience just before graduation and Mother is right – it isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. Not until I have my first orgasm, which doesn’t happen for me until I’m twenty. However, sex still equals a predominate pastime for Suzie.                         

We stay friends through high school. We double date for our senior prom. But after graduation, we have a natural parting of the ways – new friends, different interests, different goals. No more modern dance for either of us past high school.                                                                                                                               ***

Two years later I run into Suzie at the cosmetic counter of a downtown Pasadena department store. She’s bleached her hair blond. Still quite beautiful. Still talks to me about her sexual episodes and her plans to marry the guy.

We chat for a few good moments.

A customer comes to the counter for what looks like a makeover.                           

I stand close by and watch Suzie perform magic on the lady.

I listen to their interactions.

Smile at her and ponder who we once were                                                                          

and who Suzie might still be.

Saddened,

                                                            I         wave     goodbye

                                                    knowing       in         my        gut

                                           it’s                      the           last             time

                                      Suzie                               and                              I

                              will                                                                                  see

                        each                                                                                            other.

MINERVA RISING PRESS, 2023