by Cyndy Etler
The Rocky Horror Picture Show is the other half of the rainbow. It’s the dark version of all the colors. Remember that Crayola art project where you covered every inch of a piece of paper with all the best crayons in swirling swoops, then you colored over the whole page in black? It looked all dark and icky until you scratched a nail through the black, and schzing! Color! Rocky Horror is like that art project. It teaches you that what looks bleak and dark is actually bright and beautiful; you just can’t see it until you scratch the surface.
Monday when I see Jack, I can’t stop myself. I’m all, “OhmyGod, The Rocky Horror Picture Show? It’s all about sex!”
Jack smiles like the bald butler and goes, “Isn’t everything?”
And Whitney blushes. She blushes. Which means they do it.
I am the last person to have not had sex.
Maybe I wouldn’t be so last if Steven Ross had called me. Which he didn’t. I looked in the phone book and found one Steven Ross—BRIDGEPORT—and sent the heart-shaped box to that address, with a note that just said, “I ’d Saturday night.” And my phone number again, in case he lost it. And my address, in case he wanted to write back. Or visit.
It’s been a month. I’ve been back to Club 12 on two separate Saturdays. No Steven Ross.
Maybe if I weren’t such a virgin, he would’ve kept liking me back. I don’t know. I only know that Dammit Janet was the only virgin in The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and she was stupid. And everybody else was cool. Which sounds about right.
• • •
The mystery is solved. It’s not that Deanna couldn’t go out Saturday night; it’s that she couldn’t go out with me. She had to go out with her boyfriend.
She introduces me to him by bringing him to my house. Swear to God. I see her car rolling up the driveway, and I get all excited and run downstairs. But when I get outside, it’s not Deanna driving, it’s this weasel. Seriously. The kid’s whole face is long bones and a pointy nose. He looks like he just finished licking the mud off his face. He’s still blinking from the shock of sunlight.
Deanna jumps out of the passenger side all giggly and quick. Weasel rolls out from behind the wheel and fakes a stretch to close the door.
I look at him, he looks at me, and instantly, we don’t like each other. The vibe is Wild West shootout as I stand on the front stoop, hands on hips, and he fakes another stretch, arms all wide-spread to the sides. He’s gotta make himself look big, because he’s not. He’s a slip of a thing.
“Hey, Cyndy! This is my boyfriend, Gregory,” Deanna chirps.
Greg-or-y. He makes you use three syllables. I keep my hands on my hips and my feet on the stoop. He leans to the right until his hip is on the car door.
“Come on!” Deanna says, grabbing my hands and pulling me off the stoop. “Come meet him!”
I raise an eyebrow at her, and she leans in to whisper in my ear. The smell of her Aussie hairspray makes me need to cry. I haven’t smelled Aussie in weeks. “C’mon,” she goes. “I really want you to like him.”
“I’ll try,” I say back. “But will he like me?”
She pretends not to hear that.
“Hi, Greg,” I go, not putting out a hand. “I’m Cyndy.”
“So I’ve heard,” he says, jangling Dee’s keys.
I hate him. But I’ll try.
• • •
Deanna is having sex. With a crooked penis. I shit you not.
She comes back from the dead for my birthday, which is really cool of her. I’m at my locker—basically seeing if I can fit in my locker, so I won’t have to spend the day not hearing “happy birthday” from anyone—when I hear, “Welll…hey!” Which is our thing.
The first time we said it, we laughed till we peed ourselves. It was in the bathroom by the cafeteria. She wanted to smoke, and I didn’t want to show my face in the smoking pit, so we compromised with the girls’ lav. We were leaning on the sinks and she’d just lit her cig when the chemistry teacher cracked open the door and put her big face through.
“Welll…hey!” Deanna had said, zipping her cig behind her while I turned the faucet on over it.
The chem teacher shook her head and went away, while me and Deanna laughed and laughed. And now that’s our thing. “Welll…hey!”
“Hiii!” I say back. “What’re you doing at school? I thought you were going for a world record in absences!”
“What, I’m gonna miss my best friend’s eighteenth birthday? Come on!” She throws me the keys to the Oldsmobile, and I actually catch them.
“What…skip?! I can’t! I’ll get reported!”
“No you won’t. Because look.”
She pulls out a scrawly script note with a red-ink stamp at the bottom: APPROVED. I read the script and it says this:
To Whom It May Concern,
Please excuse Cyndy Etler from school today October 17, 1989. She has doctor and dentist appointments.
Then there’s a scribble that might or might not be somebody’s signature, but it worked. Deanna got me excused from school. Holy fuck.
“Welll…hey!” I say, with my skull hinging open and rainbows bouncing out.
“Welll…hey!” she says, linking her arm through mine and steering me out a side door.
We spend the day having her whole house to ourselves. Her dad’s at work, and her mom’s out of town. So we can talk about anything, which we do. Including Gregory’s bent penis.
“You are not, Dee.”
“I am too, Cynd.”
“But…what’s it like, sex? Is this your first…?”
“No, but almost. I halfway did it with a guy before I went to rehab, which is why I got sent away. My dad found my stash of rubbers.”
“Ewww! Rubbers?!”
“I know, but shut up. Do you want to get preggers?”
“Well, first of all, I probably won’t because I’m nowhere near ever having sex. And second of all, I’m on the pill.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right. God, I wish. My dad’s like special-ordering me a chastity belt.”
“But seriously—what’s it like?”
“I don’t know. How do you describe it? It’s…sweaty. But not necessarily your sweat. I mean, the guy’s on top of you, and he’s, like, doing the heave ho, and his neck sweat falls on your face.”
“Oh my God. Why would you even?”
“Because what comes before sex is awesome. Then you have to, like, pay him back, by letting him put it in you.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yup. That’s just the way it goes.”
“So, wait. You have to tell me the whole, exact process of what happens. From the beginning. I totally can’t picture how you end up getting heave-hoed.”
“Okay, well, you start with kissing, obviously. And eventually—or quickly, I guess; it depends on the guy—he puts his hands on your boobs, which feels fucking great if he knows what he’s doing. You know how you rub your thumb on the top of your eraser, to get the pencil smudges off and start fresh? If he does that to your nips, especially over your bra, he knows what the fuck he’s doing. I’ve even had a guy put his mouth on my nip over my bra, and then he like, clamped his front teeth around it a little? That almost sent me through the roof of the car.”
“Really?! Why?”
“I dunno. It’s… I dunno. It’s fucking hot.”
God, am I out of my league. If Dee and I did have a Seventeen magazine spread, the title would be The Prom Queen and the Preschooler. I need to catch up, quick. “Okay, so…keep going.”
“So he’ll undo your bra and touch your boobs for a while, and then you’ll make out some more, and then he’s gonna move downstairs. He’s gonna try to be slick and distract you by kissing harder or kissing your neck or ear or something. Which can get really gross, really quick. But you’re gonna probably pretend you don’t notice his
hand, because it feels great, but who wants to admit they’re a slut? So you’re gonna pretend you don’t know what he’s doing as he’s moving a hand toward your undies. And then, you better look out.”
“Shit. Why?”
“Because that’s the point of no return.”
“Waddaya mean?”
“Well, there’s a lot that happens all of a sudden. One, it feels so, fucking, good, you don’t want to tell him to stop. But if you don’t tell him to stop, he’s gonna go from hand to dick, and next thing you know, you’re a pregger risk.”
“Holy fuck. It just…happens like that? That quick?”
“Preeetty much. And the other thing is, once he gets to third base? Once he’s got his finger wet and you’re all ooh-aah? He feels like you have to let him get his dick wet. He made you feel good. Now you have to let him.”
“No way.”
“Yes way.”
“So what happens if he gets… What happens if he gets to third base and then you say no? Can you, even?”
“Yeah, you can. But I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Why not?”
“Because then you’re a prick tease.”
“So wait. Either you do something you don’t want to do, or you get called a nasty name?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Just, what happens if you do it anyway? What happens if you get to third and then you say stop?”
“Well, hopefully he stops. And then, expect to get iced.”
“Iced?”
“Yeah. Iced out. Like, no more Mr. Nice Guy. Like you’re gonna be walking home. Like you’re going to prom alone. You don’t want to let a guy go that far and then cut him off. If you want to stay a virgin, keep it above the waist. Or plan to get good at BJs.”
“Blow jobs?! Deanna!”
“I am serious. That’s your only other option.”
“Do you?!”
“Yeah, I have. It’s not that bad if you know a few tricks. And if he’s friendly with a bar of soap.”
“Ewww! You mean it stinks?”
“Of course it stinks if he didn’t just wash it! Think about all that jangly hot meat, crunched up and wrapped tight in undies and jeans. They walk around all day with that pile of stuff getting sweatier and sweatier with no vent, no windows. What’s it supposed to smell like, fucking peach cobbler?”
“Oh. My. God, Deanna. I am never—”
“Yeah, you are. You are. ’Cause once he gets his hand down there, something changes.”
“What?” I really don’t know if I want to know or not. But… Yeah. I do. “What changes?”
“You change. It’s like the switch to superhero when an emergency happens. Dude goes from mild and polite to ‘Yee haw, I’ll kick your ass, now watch me fly.’ You make the same personality switch when a guy gets you going. But you don’t turn into a superhero—you turn into an animal. You stop giving a fuck. You’re like, ‘Let’s go.’ He knows that, which is why he’s trying to sneak his hand down there. It’s up to you to decide, while you’re still human, if you want to let yourself make that flip to fuck it.”
“Holy shit. I don’t know about all this.”
“You don’t have to know. It’s just what happens. It’s, like, natural. Didn’t you learn this shit in biology class?”
“Not like this I didn’t!”
“You know what they never taught me in bio? That dicks can get all bent up.”
“Shut up.”
“No, seriously. Gregory’s dick—it’s crooked.”
“Whaaat?”
“For serious. It’s like”—she puts her fist in the air with her arm straight out, then bends it at the elbow—“this is his dick. Swear to God! Like this.” She shakes her bent arm a little, to make sure I notice it.
“So…what? Why?”
“He was in a scuba accident. He went too deep and lost his oxygen connection. He raced the fuck back to the surface, but coming up from that deep so fast, the change in pressure somehow…bent his dick.”
“Is it weird?”
“The dick?”
“Yeah! Does it look weird?”
“I don’t know. I mean, how many dicks do you think I’ve seen? I’m not the dick expert!”
“Deanna?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m moving to a convent.”
26
STILL OCTOBER 1989
TWO YEARS, SEVEN MONTHS, AND TWO WEEKS OUT
Perry O’Sullivan is a kid who graduated last year.
Perry O’Sullivan is really cute and rich.
Perry O’Sullivan is Gregory’s best friend.
Perry O’Sullivan told Gregory he thinks I’m cute.
Perry O’Sullivan, Gregory, Deanna, and I went on a double date.
Perry O’Sullivan asked me out again.
Perry O’Sullivan took me to his house when his parents weren’t home.
Perry O’Sullivan is really cute. And rich.
Perry O’Sullivan started kissing me.
Perry O’Sullivan wanted to take a shower with me.
Perry O’Sullivan laughed when I said I was too nervous.
Perry O’Sullivan said wearing his boxers over my undies in the shower was really stupid.
Perry O’Sullivan got mad when I stepped into, then right out of the shower.
Perry O’Sullivan doesn’t know my little sister said her father made her shower with him.
Perry O’Sullivan stayed in the shower when I left his house.
Perry O’Sullivan hasn’t called me since that day.
…and neither has Deanna.
27
JANUARY 1990
TWO YEARS AND TEN MONTHS OUT
Deanna finally called to tell me she has a new boyfriend. Only he’s a man. He lives in New York City; he’s some kind of plumber; he owns a business. Deanna has a manfriend.
She’s been taking her car into the city and staying with him. In his apartment. Above his plumbing store. I swear to God. She tells her dad she’s staying at my house, and she just…goes. I know she only called to make sure I’ll stay her alibi. After three months with zero friends, though, I don’t even care.
Why should I care what her reasons are, because we’re here! In the city! Right now! It’s un-be-fucking-lievable! When we got here, Deanna drove around the block for forty-five minutes, looking for a parking space. Finally, she goes, “Fuck this,” and slams on the brakes, double-parking next to a spot that’s “reserved.” She stalks over to the traffic cone and folding chair in the should’ve-been-empty spot, and she, like, throws them up on the sidewalk. Then she’s back in the car doing this bullet-smooth parallel park, talking the whole time, like, “Fuck-kin, shove yer cone up your ass. Not your patch of pavement. Key my car. Watch what happens. My boyfriend sells metal pipe for a living.”
“Dee?”
“What.”
“Who’re you talking to?”
“Cunts. Come on.”
She grabs her fringed black leather purse and her Marlboro Lights and slams her door, hard. But once we get walking, she calms down.
“So here’s the deal. Glen’s taking us out to eat”—Glen is Deanna’s manfriend—“and later, we’re meeting up with Curtis.” Curtis is Glen’s best friend, and also, Curtis is a male model. “There’s no extra room at Glen’s place, so you can stay at Curtis’s.”
“Um, Dee?”
“Yeah.”
“How old is Curtis again?”
“Same as Glen. Like twenty-eight, twenty-nine.”
“And he’s…does he know I’m a virgin?”
“He’s not gonna try to rape you, Cyndy. Promise.”
“Or shower with me?”
“Here! Look! Glen’s store!”
It’s a beautiful store. Picture the
main stoop on Sesame Street, where everyone meets. On the right side is Oscar the Grouch’s garbage can, but have you ever noticed on the left side is a little gate with a ground-floor window behind it? That’s where Glen’s store is: below street level, behind a window, with stairs leading down to it from the sidewalk. It’s so cool.
As we go down the stairs, I have to make myself not do something corny, like grab Deanna’s hand and kiss it. Because how is this even happening to me? It’s Friday night and I’m in the city with no grown-up, no staff, going underground into a store to hang with the owner. Like, no way.
Glen’s really different from Gregory. He weighs more than a hundred pounds, for one thing, and his face is red, not gray. But Glen’s not the main attraction; his store is. It’s like a dollhouse blown up to human size, with perfect mini-bathrooms everywhere you look. There’s one for every kind of millionaire, manly-man to girly-girl. You can tell who each one is for by the color of the wood in the cabinets and how much decoration is on the knobs and faucets. There’s even, way in the back, a plain old small-tub bathroom for regular people. But the prize—the pièce de résistance—is the golden tub on a pedestal right in front of the window. I barely say hi to Glen before beelining over and petting it.
“You’re right, Dee Dee. She is a hippie,” Glen says. He comes over to the tub and turns on the faucet.
“It works!” I say. Okay, I squeal. “You could take a bath right here, next to this giant window, with all of Manhattan walking past?”
“All of Brooklyn, but yeah.” He’s smiling. Guys always look cuter when they smile. “And here, check this out.” He points at some silver buttons next to the faucet. “When the tub fills up, these make the magic.”
“What magic?!”
“Bubbles. And colored lights.”
“Who can afford this? How much would this cost?”
“More than a new Toyota but less than a new Porsche. You wanna get in?”