Lara Reznik - The Girl From Long Guyland Read Free Page B

“Have you ever thought of the irony that our mothers had to keep it a secret if, God forbid, they got deflowered.”
    “Or no one would marry them is what my mother always said. She told my sister Rachel that when she discovered her in bed with her high school boyfriend,” I said.
    “And here we are, the first generation in women’s history, embarrassed by our virgin state.”
    I felt more connected to Denise now that she had shared her secret. We hung out together in the lounge listening to the Bodine girls brag about their sexual escapades and winked at each other. Rarely did we join in the conversations other than to nod. I mean, what could we add? How do you follow stuff like, “Oh, my boyfriend gives the best, you know, shit with his tongue?” Or, “Jimmy’s got the biggest cojones I’ve ever seen.”
    A few days before Christmas break, Denise went to visit Joey alone. She didn’t come back all night. The next morning, I knew what had happened the second she walked through the door. “You did it!”
    She cocked her head to the side. “I think the whole sex thing is overrated.”
    “Really?”

    “Shit, yeah, no big deal. He kisses you a while and his hands wander down your bra. Then he rubs your boob with one hand, slips the other in your pants. Next thing you know, he’s got his thing inside you and he’s jerking up and down. Bada-bing, he’s done, and lights a cigarette.”
    “Did it hurt when you got your… you know, hymenijiggie broken?”
    “A little.”
    “Do you love Joey?”
    “I-I don’t know. Just glad to have gotten the damn thing over with.”
    I thought Denise’s reaction was really strange. It shattered the childhood fantasy I had from watching romantic movies like West Side Story or Gone With the Wind. Denise made it sound about as exciting as getting your teeth cleaned.

    WHEN I RETURNED HOME to Long Island for winter break, I felt alienated from everyone there. My parents were on my case for staying up late, talking long-distance on the phone to Denise, and refusing to go to synagogue with them on Friday night.
    One night, my mother barged in my room and caught a glimpse of me in my bra and panties. She clucked her tongue and said, “Looks like you’ve gained a few, honey.”
    “Well, maybe I have,” I said. Cafeteria food choices were limited. I’d been eating more than I should have of comfort foods like macaroni and cheese and pizza. Ma had kept my sisters and me on portion-controlled diets all our lives.
    “It’s important to watch our figures, honey.” She reminded me that I’d never find a husband if I got too fat. Especially a Jewish doctor or lawyer. “They can afford to be choosy.”
    I was five-foot-seven and weighed about one hundred twenty-five pounds. “I’m not Twiggy,” I said, but she made me feel self-conscious even though everyone else said I looked slender. Besides, I wasn’t so sure I was interested in a ‘nice Jewish doctor.’ But I didn’t dare share that information with my mother.
    My sister Rachel had married a pompous lawyer who bragged about all the money he made. She was only three years older than I but living in a world of china patterns, bridal chests, and maternity clothes. My old high school friends had changed, too. One of them asked me if hippies ever took baths. Had I ever really fit in with these girls? Maybe it was I who had changed.
    While I was home, we received news that a neighborhood boy, Billy Klafter, had been killed in an offensive on Saigon. He was a gangly kid with red hair and freckles and a discolored front tooth. As children, we had played tag and chased fireflies on balmy summer nights. In high school, Billy and I hung out together at the bus stop playing dumb games like Twenty Questions. It pained me to think I’d never see his freckled-face again.
    In deference to Billy, I peeled off the American flag sticker my father proudly displayed on his Buick. At dinner that night Pop brought up what had happened to