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Sitting naked side-by-side in the somewhat scary and private atmosphere of my brother’s bedroom, our conversation has stayed in my mind for decades, not because of the emotion or the nakedness or the intensity of the moment, but because Barbara became so incredibly practical about things. She even apologized at one point for ruining the mood. She said we could always get the mood back, and we might be able to eliminate some of her fear if she knew what was going to happen and how.

“Look,” she said finally, “I guess I know what it is. I just want to avoid nasty surprises. I need to know how it works.” Her voice and attitude had taken on a whole new tone; humorous and gentle, as if it were I who needed reassuring.

“What exactly do we do? How do we start? Do we make out until I’m ready and then, I don’t know, do it? Or could we break me in slowly? What would be best, or the least painful for me?” She looked at me and smiled, then she laid her head on my shoulder, grabbed my hand, and asked, “What do you think?”

Unfortunately, I couldn’t think very well at that moment. Things had gotten all jumbled in my mind: the love, the affection, the sexual desire, the fact that we were actually sitting together naked on a bed calmly talking about how we were going to have sex. Finally, I said, “You know, I have a feeling it’s only going to hurt in the beginning, I mean when we first start. I think it might be okay after that.” I quickly added, “But I don’t know if that’s true. How could I?”

As part of our earlier pact to always be completely honest with each other, I had let her tease me into admitting to my previous sexual relationship with Barbara Wilson, though I had not gone into gruesome detail, and that’s exactly what she wanted now—details. So, after a few false starts, I managed to explain that Barbara had not been a virgin, and I told her about the rape, about her boyfriend’s huge member, and how I thought that was why I felt lost inside her. She got a kick out of that, laughing, then apologizing, then laughing again. I went on to explain to her, however, that I was sure I was much larger now, at which time she looked down between my legs and said with a sly grin, “You don’t look so big right now.”

“Yes,” I said, “and wouldn’t it be nice if I could stay that way for our first time?” Of course, as we talked my erection started making a comeback, and she looked at me with a sort of grimace. “Oh, well,” she said, “I guess that option’s out.”

After a few moments of thought, I asked her, “What is it, do you think, that scares you most. I mean, I know it’s probably the physical pain and all, but is there something else that makes it scary? Something you haven’t even thought of yet, like, uh, the blood or something, or maybe that I might not be able to stop if you want me to?”

“Blood?” she nearly shrieked. “What do you mean, blood?” I realized then that she didn’t know anything about this, and that not knowing what to expect truly was her biggest fear.

“Okay, okay, calm down a minute and let me explain something to you.” I knew from street talk and from my dad’s medical books that a virgin had a thing called a hymen, which on the street was called a cherry, and when a girl lost her virginity, this little membrane would often tear and bleed. In fact, after I thought about it, I figured this tearing probably caused most of the pain when a virgin first had intercourse. I took her hand in mine and began to massage it gently as I clued her in.

“You see, there’s this thing, a kind of thin little piece of skin that partly covers the, uh, opening, if you know what I mean.” She nodded and I continued. “Maybe it’s there for protection of some sort in younger girls, I don’t know, but when a girl first...does it, this thing often gets torn and it sometimes bleeds a little.” Actually, I didn’t have any idea if it bled a little or a lot, but I thought it might be best at that moment to go with “a little.” Though I didn’t want to give her any kind of false sense of security, and I was definitely not trying to talk her into anything, I added, “It’s one of those things that happens and you can’t get around it.” She laughed at my unintended pun, but I ignored her and continued. “It’s something that signals your going from being a girl to being a woman.”

Barbara thought for a minute, then said, “Okay, so there’s going to be some blood. I guess I can deal with that. Heck, I deal with it every month now. But you said something about maybe not being able to stop if I wanted you to, remember?”

“Yeah.” I tried to think of some way to explain how hard it is for a boy to stop once he gets started. After a some concentration, I thought I might have found a way.

“Remember when I described orgasms and getting to the top of a mountain?” She nodded. “Well, for a boy it’s like the reverse, like going down a mountain instead of up. Once a boy gets started, it’s like rolling down a steep hill in a car with no brakes. You feel like you have to get to the bottom no matter what.” I then went into a detailed explanation of the withdrawal method Barbara Wilson had taught me, and how it was hard to do even though I knew I could still have an orgasm.

Ever since the other Barbara and I had split up, I’d tried to get some rubbers, so I would never have to go through that frustrating withdrawal bit again. I finally found them in the bathroom of a local gas station, where I could lock the door and buy them from the machine for a quarter. Of course, all I did was end up socking them away (literally, in an old pair of socks hidden at the back of my closet), as the opportunity for intercourse had never come around again. Until, perhaps, this very day. It came to me then that it might be a good idea to go get them before we got started and I forgot.

We hadn’t broached the subject of a possible pregnancy, which seemed kind of weird to me at the time, but I guess Barbara trusted me to know about these things and take whatever precautions were necessary. In fact, my discussion of pregnancy prevention using the withdrawal method didn’t even seem to pique her interest, because her response had nothing whatsoever to do with that.

“That’s what I was talking about, that thing about not being able to stop,” she said. “I think what worries me most, beside the pain, is not being in control—having it hurt really bad and not being able to stop it myself. I mean, you’re supposed to be on top right?”

“I, uh, guess,” I said hesitantly. “I’ve never done it any other way, but I suppose there are other ways. Wouldn’t you think? I mean some ways that would make it possible for you to stop things if you don’t want to go on? Don’t get me wrong. Even though it would be hard to do, I think I could stop if you wanted me to. I mean, the way I feel about you now, I bet the love would be stronger than anything else, and I wouldn’t continue to hurt you unless we wanted to get past some point where the pain might go away.”

She seemed to be thinking hard for a while, then she said, “Okay, let’s do it a little and see how things go. But let’s try not to go too far at first, just experiment a bit. Would that be alright?”

“Sure,” I said, “anything you want,” but all the talk had killed the mood for me, and I didn’t know how to begin. Again, Barbara made the first move.

“Can I touch you?” she asked, averting her eyes and letting her shyness manifest itself for a moment.

“Uh, yeah, yes, certainly,” I said, and watched as her hand slowly moved toward my once-again-growing erection. She touched it gently at first, then wrapped her hand around it as if to check and see how thick it was.

“It’s growing bigger right now,” she exclaimed as if I, too, might be surprised by this.

“Uh, huh,” I said, “That’s what happens when I get excited.”

“Oh, sure, I guess I know that. But, well, seeing it happen is kind of weird. Boy, is it getting big now.” For a moment she stared at it, fascinated, then she said,” This top part, it’s a lot bigger than the rest. Do you think that’s what hurts?”

“Probably,” I said, “but I don’t know if it’s only that or if going in too far hurts too. Geeze, Barbara, I don’t have any idea. Maybe it’s both or maybe something else altogether. Maybe it’s your hymen and once we’re past that everything will be okay.”

She considered that for a moment, then said, “I think that’s it. Think about it. If it was anything else, it would probably hurt bad for a long time, maybe forever, and girls wouldn’t do it at all after the first time. But they do, or we wouldn’t have any babies, right? So I’ll bet it’s a first-time thing when the hymen gets broken. And even if that’s not all the pain there is, whatever else has to get better pretty fast, dontcha think?” Her mood had once again turned humorous and kind of jaunty, as if she were ready to handle anything by looking it straight in the eye and staring it down.

“I, uh, guess so. That makes sense to me,” I said. “But I’m not sure about any of this, and I don’t want you to hate me if things don’t go exactly like we hope they will.”

With that, she squeezed me really hard and took my chin in her other hand, turning my face towards her. “Does that hurt,” she asked. “You bet.” I answered with a grimace. She squeezed harder. “Do you hate me?”

“No, I could never hate you,” I said, my voice rising an octave.

“Do you get my point?” she said as she slowly released the pressure to my great relief.

I nodded, “I think so,” I said quietly.

“You think so?” she said, reaching to grip me again.

“Okay, I get it, I get it.”

And she once again grabbed my face and looked me in the eye. “Look, you numbskull, what I’m trying to say is, I love you as much as you love me, and no amount of pain or mistakes or anything else is going to change that. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Okay, now I have an idea.”