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I’d always thought that my first time would be romantic. It wasn’t. Like I said, I didn’t love Junior Jenkins.

The back seat of the car was uncomfortable. Like I said, I’m tall and a little on the wide side. I really didn’t fit, laying down in the back seat of a car. There were other cars parked next to us on both sides, too. I assumed that the kids in those cars were doing something similar, but still. I mean, I was on my back, my skirt was up to my waist. My goodies were right there for all to see.

Once Junior started, it was painful. I didn’t think it was supposed to hurt; it was supposed to feel good; great, even. He just pushed in. I’d say he was trying to slam it in, but there was too much resistance. I wondered if my goodies were too small.

That reminds me, I didn’t know anything about the size of cocks. I’d seen horses. Of course when I gave Junior a hand job I knew he wasn’t built like a horse. I didn’t expect that he would be, but at the moment, his cock seemed to be too big for my little goodies.

“Junior go slow. It hurts.”

I know he was trying. Finally, it felt like he was in. It must be natural. I started moving my ass; my fat ass. Junior started bucking on top of me. I say bucking because once a year a Texas rodeo came to town and I watched the bronc riders. That’s what it seemed like Junior was doing. Up and down, in and out Junior went.

It was still painful. Worse, I was using the arm rest on the back door for a pillow. My head was bouncing against it. That hurt, too. Then it was over. Just like when I gave Junior a hand job, it didn’t last too long. The dirty deed, as we called it back then, was over.

I was unimpressed, but I was no longer a virgin. “Cindy Lou, that was great.”

I was happy that Junior was pleased. I was pleased that I was no longer a virgin; pleased that I was a woman. I was hoping that it would get better with practice.

Practice: I was hoping that Junior and I would get to practice a lot. I knew that lots of kids in my school went down to the lake to do the dirty deed.

It wasn’t to be at least not with Junior Jenkins.

Disaster struck. My father was in the Navy Reserves. He had a full time job at a factory. He joined the Navy Reserve after he did his two years after being an active duty sailor.

With the Vietnam war expanding, the Reserves were called up. My father’s Gulfport, Mississippi unit was called up and sent to San Diego. My mother thought it best that we follow.

Junior and I only had three more nights together, and to my dismay, one of those nights was during my period. The other two times, I didn’t think it got any better. It still hurt and even though I didn’t have a way to compare, it seemed to be over much too quick. Just as bad, I had a headache from my head banging against the arm rest.

Suddenly, I was in an alien environment. No rebel flags. No singing ‘Dixie.’ And there were brown and black people everywhere. They sat next to me on the bus; they used the same bathroom. And everyone talked funny. They could barely understand me and I couldn’t understand them.

I’d finished high school and enrolled in a junior college in San Diego. In my class, there was a Mexican girl sitting next to me, and a colored boy sitting on the other side of me. I mean right next to me. I was shocked. If you knew Mississippi at the time, you’d understand why.

Then it got worse. This black boy handed me a note, “Do you understand these calculus problems? I don’t. Want to meet for a coke after class and we can try to figure them out together?”

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