Do Tampons Take Your Virginity?: A Catholic Girl's Memoir (11 page)

She grabbed it from the corner of Brad’s room, saying nothing. Her face was streaked with tears. She was chubby and not very attractive. Her eyes were lined with raccoon-thick black eyeliner, which was running down her cheeks.

The following year, Goth Chick and I shared a history class together. She spoke to me once or twice. She told me that she had fallen in love with Brad and that seeing the two of us together crushed her... but she wasn’t mad because the two of them were never “exclusive.”

I felt sorry for her.

After Goth Chick left, I steadied an icy smile on Brad. She had interrupted our date and I wasn’t pleased.

I hissed like a pit viper and said, “You know, Brad... it’s fine if you want to date other girls. But I’m not a whore. I don’t share. So you have to decide right now if we’re going to date each other. I don’t date more than one person at one time and I expect the same courtesy from you.”

Brad’s eyes widened. This was a lot to digest on a first date. I was deadly serious. I smiled again, tilting my head to one side. I gave him the ultimatum again, through clenched teeth. “I could leave, if you want to think about it,” I said quietly.

“I want you!” he sputtered.

“Great.” I smiled. “Let’s get back to dinner.”

That night, we only kissed. I didn’t take off my clothes. Brad was enthralled.

I became a fixture at the frat house and I slept with Brad most nights, although we didn’t have sex until a few months later.

Eventually, I told Brad that I loved him and that we were going to have sex. Right now.

“Hey, baby—I love you. I’m ready to fuck.”

“What do you mean? Right now?!” Brad’s eyes popped.

“Yes, now. Go bum some condoms from your friends.” I smiled at him and started removing my clothes. He ran outside and I could hear him running up and down the stairs looking for condoms.

My bluntness shocked him. I was only eighteen, but I already had all the moves. Unlike other girls, I was uninhibited and relaxed about my body. Don’t get me wrong—my body wasn’t perfect, but I didn’t have any hang ups about it. My father never demeaned my appearance.

Growing up, I heard, “You’re a crazy bitch and I wish your mother had aborted you!” and “No man will ever want a crazy bitch like you!” I never heard, “You’re fat” or “You’re ugly.”

So I didn’t care if we fucked with the lights on or if he touched my asshole or fucked me this way or that way.

“Touch this, kiss me there, I like this.”

I was a drill sergeant. I talked dirty, I sucked his dick, I did it all. Two days after we had sex for the first time, Brad whispered that he loved me, too. Tearfully, he told me that he had never said, “I love you” to any other woman. It was the truth and I knew it.

I was loyal. I defended Brad to all of his frat buddies, who called him the “house geek.” They said he smelled and I replied back that he “smelled great.”

One day, one of his frat brothers, deep in his cups, asked me incredulously, “What the fuck are you doing with Brad?”

“I like him,” I said and smiled. The guy just shook his head.

About six months into the relationship, Brad went down with his frat buddies to a huge party in San Diego. This was a common occurrence in fraternity circles—a group of young men will travel from chapter to chapter, partying at each house.

Brad asked if he could go to the party and I said, “Yes, of course. I trust you.”

In San Diego, Brad’s frat brothers got him wasted and locked him in a bedroom alone with a horny fat chick. Brad fucked her.

In the morning, all the frat brothers drove home in silence. Brad wasn’t going to tell me about his little indiscretion, but the other brothers threatened to spill the beans if he didn’t come clean. This was a huge breach of fraternity etiquette—but I found out later that enough of the brothers wanted a shot at me that they forced him to tell me, thinking it would end the relationship. They all wanted their own chance to fuck a “good girl.”

They were wrong that they would be able to fuck me, but they were right about the relationship.

Brad came to my dorm room two days later and told me about the “affair.” He started bawling immediately. He begged me not to dump him. I just stared at him. I didn’t cry. Instead, I grabbed my friends Heidi and Dora across the hall. They chased Brad out of the building and into the street, yelling obscenities. They threw trash at him.

He didn’t run. Instead, Brad walked slowly back to the frat house. He cried all the way home. I watched him from my dorm window, his long body shaking with sobs.

My friends came back and we hugged it out. Of course, all my girls said Brad was an asshole and that he deserved to die, blah, blah, blah.

My friend Dora said, “I never liked that fucker—I just never told you.” Heidi bobbed her head in agreement. We went out for ice cream at 2 a.m. We talked about boys for a few more hours and then went to sleep. That was it. I got over it quickly.

On to the next one.

For the next six months, Brad sent me roses, cards, and gifts. He called me every day, begging me to take him back. He sent fraternity pledges to my apartment repeatedly. He left drunk messages on my voicemail. He tried to find me on campus. He broke into the dorms and came knocking at my door. I refused to let him in.

“You cheated, and I don’t eat leftovers,” I told him. I never let Brad touch me again.

The other guys at the frat house invited me to parties. Sometimes I accepted the invitations, arriving with a butch girlfriend who effectively cock-blocked every guy there. The other guys at the house were pissed—their plan had backfired. I never dated another fraternity guy again.

I kept going to their parties. Stone cold sober. Sometimes I even went alone. Brad was always there, staring at me. Sometimes he looked angry. Brad always had a date, usually a chubby girl. I laughed. My fishhook had entered his heart. It would stay there forever. It was only six months of his life, but I know he still thinks about me. They all do.

I know, because I still think about James. The pain of your first heartbreak never leaves you. You just cover it with dirt. But it’s always there, like poison in the soil. Nothing grows in that spot ever again.

Three years later, Brad found me working at a shitty sports bar. I had been paying my way through school working two shit jobs—the worst of which was a demoralizing cocktail job at a sports bar. I was forced to wear a cheerleading uniform.

I was friends with only one other server, a young schoolteacher named Amy. She worked nights to supplement her meager teacher’s salary. Amy was the only other waitress with a degree, so she was “good enough” to be my friend. Amy and I were the only servers who wore uniforms in our actual size. All the other girls cut their shirts to reveal more skin. We laughed and called them sluts.

I was one semester away from graduation.

Brad came into the bar and watched me for a few minutes from a dark corner. I waved at him and he perked up and walked over to me.

“Hi, Brad. How are you?” I said politely.

“Great, great... it’s good to see you.” He looked down at the floor, his toe playing with a piece of trash.

“I’m tired—this is my last semester, then I’m off to graduate school.” I smiled again.

I was snotty and told everyone I was going to graduate school. I was fiercely proud of my accomplishments and I clearly thought that I was an academic.

“Can we go out for coffee sometime?” His voice cracked at the end of the sentence.

“No.” I smiled.

“Please, Marie... just coffee... nothing else,” he begged. His eyes began to water.

I leaned down slowly from the beer tub and stared at him, straight in the eye, still smiling.

“No.”

He stood there for a few minutes, then hung his head. He had begged, me... BEGGED... Brad’s shoulders slumped; he walked away like an old man.

That cocktail job never got any better, but it paid the bills. I eventually graduated with honors. I earned my BA in four years, working two jobs the whole time. To this day, it is my greatest triumph.

I never made it to graduate school.

1992,
AGE
19

My father’s cousin Victor lived on a dairy farm in Central California with his wife and kids. The farm was big—at least 100 acres, which was considered a large plot of land in California, even back then.

Victor raised goats and dairy cows. He owned hundreds of them. Their house was always spotless, but everything smelled like cow shit. I mean everything. I could feel it hanging in the air, like soup. Eventually, we all got used to it, but the first few hours were terrible.

We visited Victor at least four to five times a year for family events—baptisms, weddings, and funerals—all the requisite family gatherings. Victor had four kids. A handsome teenage boy with premature baldness, fraternal twin teenage daughters, and a toddler girl (the over-forty mistake).

The twins were Luisa and Lourdes. They were tall, thin... gorgeous. I was jealous of them both. I was about ten years old, and they were teenagers, so they couldn’t be bothered with me. They all ignored me.

All the siblings were popular. The twins were both cheerleaders and the son was a football player. Even the baby was cute.

When I was seven, I was jumping on Luisa’s bed, playing. I jumped too hard and broke one of the boards holding up the mattress, so I fell off the bed and bumped my forehead. The twins picked me up and I was crying. My father came in and saw the broken bed.

He yelled at me, “Did you break this?”

I cowered like a frightened rabbit and my cousins looked on impassively. They knew what it was like to grow up in a Portuguese family. My father didn’t need to worry about Child Protective Services here. All the kids got beatings. They knew the drill.

My father backhanded me across the face. His wedding ring caught my lip, breaking it against my teeth. I turned and covered my face, and he kicked me, launching me into the closet. I didn’t get up. I just huddled in the corner of the closet, crumpled on top of the shoes.

My father balled his fists and bit his tongue, like always. I knew he was weighing the benefit of beating me in front of his family. At that point, the twins piped up, coming to my defense.

“Oh, please stop... she was just playing. She didn’t do it on purpose.”

My father stared at them, calming down. His vanity clearly wouldn’t allow him to continue. He left the room after shooting me another dirty look. I was sure I would get a real beating when we got home, but for now, I was safe.

Luisa and Lourdes smiled at me, slightly uninterested. I was grateful for their intervention.

“Marie, you have to learn how to stay out of trouble, or you’re going to get hit all the time. Try to calm down,” Luisa said.

“The doctor says I’m hy-per-act-ive.” I replied, offering up an excuse. I sucked my lip, which was pulsing frantically with its own heartbeat.

“Yes, honey, we know that. But you still have to be good. Try harder. Otherwise, your daddy is going to spank you,” Lourdes said.

They were practical girls. Their father ran the household with an iron fist, just like in our house. The only difference is that they had stoically accepted their situation and I had not.

As we all matured, the twins seemed to get even more beautiful, but they were shockingly thin. I suspected anorexia. It may have been the only thing about their lives that they were able to control. They both married local boys and settled into life as housewives in the Central Valley.

I didn’t attend either wedding. At that point, I was already in college and had broken all ties with my father’s side of the family.

I found out that Lourdes’ husband cheated on her. She left him, but did not start divorce proceedings. They were married in the Catholic Church and Lourdes didn’t believe in divorce.

They separated, and Lourdes started dating a Mexican, a very handsome young man with a good job.

Her mother was displeased, but could do nothing to prevent the relationship. A few years later, Lourdes’ husband approached her and asked for forgiveness. He wanted to go to marriage counseling at the church, which was suggested by their priest and also Lourdes’ family. She wanted to be a good Catholic, so she agreed to the counseling.

Lourdes went home and told her Mexican boyfriend that she was going to reconcile with her husband. He was devastated—inconsolable.

He screamed at her, “I love you! I love you, Lourdes! Your husband treated you like a dog! How can you go back to him?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m a Catholic and I cannot reconcile this sin. I’m still married and my husband has asked for forgiveness. I must try to be a good wife.”

He left, screeching tires in the driveway. Lourdes started packing her things. An hour later, he returned with a gun. He begged her to stay, while also threatening her. Lourdes, in her terror, could do nothing but scream for help and cry. Apparently, the neighbors heard Lourdes screaming, but no one called the police. Wives screaming for help are a pretty common occurrence in the Central Valley and no one pays much attention.

The police were eventually called, but only after they heard the gunshots. Lourdes’ boyfriend killed her, then turned the gun on himself.

I heard about the shooting months later. Another cousin, Barbara, came into Chili’s, where I was working as a waitress, and told me about it.

“I can’t believe you didn’t even show up for the funeral, Marie. Everyone was expecting to see you there. You should have made an attempt to come.”

Silence.

“Soup or salad?” I asked.

She frowned and ordered her meal, eating in silence. She left without tipping me or saying goodbye.

I didn’t know what she wanted to hear. Deep down, I was angry. All my life, my father’s side of the family turned a blind eye to what was happening in our house. None of them called the police. None of them tried to save my mother.

My mother and I suffered unimaginable cruelties for years. At least Lourdes’ death was quick and painless. In a weird way, I felt that she was lucky.

Part of me expected them to advocate for us, but they never did. So I didn’t care what happened to Lourdes.