Another Sunday. Another lukewarm cup of coffee. Another week about to start. Another pointless blog post…

I don’t understand quantum mechanics. I don’t understand calculus either, or soccer, or the poetry of e. e. cummings.  And, most of all, I do not understand women.

Maybe if I’d had sisters growing up I might better comprehend the fair sex. But I didn’t. I was the oldest of three boys. When I reached puberty women – well, girls, actually – seemed like Odysseus’ Sirens with pigtails and braces. Until I was in my first serious relationship (with Good Old Kathie), at 18, I honestly was not sure if women farted, or belched or took a dump. I only knew that I desperately wanted to gaze at them, touch them, kiss them, fondle them and their magical breasts, and make mad passionate love with them. It took me what seemed like half of forever to make it all they through that list. It was worth it; my god was it worth it!

This may seem unbelievable, but I have no memory of the first time I had sex with a woman. I know when it was: late in the summer of 1966 not long before I left for college. I know who it was with: Good Old Kathie. And I know where it was: in my good friend John’s apartment just two or three blocks fro the main campus of the University of Tennessee in Knoxville.

I must have been drunk; that’s the only explanation I have for utterly forgetting my passage into manhood.  It wasn’t Kathie. I remember the sex that followed. During the week she was a good Baptist girl, determined to refrain from carnality and reclaim her virtue. Come Friday or Saturday night, however, she would snuggle up against me and whisper, “can we  borrow John’s apartment tonight?” 

It is hard to believe Kathie is now 64 years old. I last saw her in the late sixties. She would have been twenty something then. She was thin, with short, dark brown hair and modest breasts. She had  acne scars on her face which she tried to cover with makeup. While she was no beauty, her lively, intelligent brown eyes  gave her a certain allure (enhanced, of course, by the tidal waves of my adolescent testosterone).

But she took my virginity, and a piece of my heart. For that reason alone she will always own a special and unique place in my life and memory – even if I can’t recall precisely how it was she made me a man that sweaty Summer night in Knoxville.

 Photo credits: top: Pixel Pro Photography; bottom: Emily Raw; both subject to this creative commons license

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