Um, Everybody Else "Experimented" With Their Female Friends, Right?

Over time, we scrapped the pretenses of a story line and went straight to humping. It was just part of what we did -- just like riding bikes, setting things on fire in the cemetery and raiding our big sisters’ Sassy Magazine stashes.

Nov 3, 2011 at 6:00pm | Leave a comment

Veronica wanted to play Joe Versus the Volcano. One of us would be Tom Hanks (Joe) and the other would be Meg Ryan (Patricia). The focus of our game would be the romantic component, and it would involve passionate kissing.

I decided I’d play, but there had to be rules. A Kleenex must remain between our mouths to protect us from full-on lip contact. (This was also to protect me from Roni’s chronic sinus condition which left her a serious case of death breath.)

I suggested "Pretty Woman" for the next role playing session. Hookers had it made. Say that you didn’t end up with a rich guy; you still got to wear slutty outfits and have your own apartment and get paid for DOING IT. What could possibly go wrong?

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We took turns playing Vivian and Edward. Vivian would negotiate her fees, collect piles of Monopoly money, then go on a shopping spree for fancy outfits in the closet. The Pretty Woman concept evolved into an escort service. We made a service menu in one of my spiral notebooks. Patrons would have three choices: slow sex (love making), fast sex (spirited boinking), and blow jobs.

Blow jobs were exorbitantly expensive because GROSS! Who is going to let a man pee in their mouth? (We were in 5th grade and our sex ed so far had only covered how our own bodies worked, and we were sorely misinformed by our peers on how boys functioned.)

Using a walkie talkie, the john would call the madam and arrange for his preferred call girl. Misty or Celeste or whoever would show up to his hotel room with the menu, take his order and his cash. Then, they’d hump until they got bored and decided to go play Nintendo.

Over time, we scrapped the pretenses of a story line and went straight to humping. It was just part of what we did -- just like riding bikes, setting things on fire in the cemetery and raiding our big sisters’ Sassy Magazine stashes.

Veronica and I were inseparable. We took advantage of every available opportunity for a sleepover and shared most of the same classes and extracurricular activities. Veronica convinced me to take summer computer course to guarantee that we’d get to see each other every day. Sometimes, we even dressed alike.

When we were forced to be apart, we would write each other notes in using our own secret code system to complain about how unjust it was that we couldn’t go on family vacations together and what total bitches are moms were. And, then, other times, we fooled around. I didn’t have romantic feelings for Veronica, I just had hormones that I didn’t know how to deal with.

Occasionally, we’d reassure each other that we weren’t doomed to be gym coaches. (I know, I know. It’s an ignorant stereotype. We were KIDS.) This was just practice for when we had sex with boys. Besides, we always kept our underwear on. Everyone knows a cotton crotch is the best insurance against catching homosexuality.

I wasn’t exactly ashamed about what we were doing, but there was an understanding that it should remain private. Being marked a “lezzie” would be social suicide in our junior high world. And had we been found out by our parents, I doubt we would have been allowed to continue to see each other, which was unthinkable.

Everything changed the summer before 9th grade. Veronica was busy cultivating her classical music tastes and loading up on activities for her college applications. That cramped my style. I had a look to cultivate. The halls were going to be filled with an entire four grades of boys! I had to find the right shade Glints and spend babysitting money on baby tees at Contempo Casuals.

It was tough, but I worked up the nerve to tell her I thought it would be best if we weren’t friends anymore. She didn’t take the news well. She told me if I abandoned her, she would tell everyone I was a lesbian. I explained that would implicate her as being a lesbian too.

“I’ll tell them you MADE me do it,” she retorted.

I hedged my bets and faced freshmen year without her. As far as I know, she never made good on that threat, and I didn’t breathe a word. High school wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I had difficult time making new friends, so I spent Friday nights watching 20/20 with my parents. I was shy and overweight with frizzy hair and braces.

When I finally engaged in heavy petting with a guy for the first time, it was awkward and unsatisfying. It seemed like the idea of fooling around with a boy was more interesting and fun than actually enduring it. Though I did not have feelings for girls, my disappointing hook-up with opposite sex made me consider that I might, in fact, be gay.

Eventually, around 16, I found myself being attracted to guys, rather than just thinking I should be. Some of my trysts were pleasant, others were not. But as I became more confident and comfortable with body, I no longer questioned my sexual preference.

But while I've met women who cop to similar experiences, I recently shared this story with one friend who wondered if I might have been molested. WHAT? I mean, you guys did this too, right? Right?