Virginity is dangerous

Missy Gilmore was sixteen and a virgin. Every boy in the county had tried to rid her of that stigma. And every strikeout was duly noted on God’s scorecard.

Science was to blame for Missy’s virginhood. Like many girls in the early ‘60s, she wore a girdle but not to just flatten and shape; her girdle protected her virginity like chastity belts did for medieval maidens. I started dating Missy because of the mystique of virginity. I wanted to get rid of mine; my friend Cowboy told me to do that I needed a partner.

Missy was no prude. She liked kissing and upper-body touching and her hand found its way into my pants by our second date. And she didn’t mind having her lower body parts rubbed through the girdle. In fact, she insisted upon it. Rubbing between the belly button and knees was, is and always will be fun. But rubbing those places through sticky plastic-like material is like rubbing a shaved pig’s ass. You rub something. You feel something. But … what?

It was a moonless night in May when I was girdling to beat the band with Missy in the front seat of my '56 Ford. I had secured an entrance to the top part of the girdle with my right hand and was in that sucker about wrist deep when she inhaled sharply – out of lust or as a defense move, I never knew which – and my hand cramped. The pain was akin to circumcision with a rusty butter knife. The inside of her girdle was like an oven; her stomach was sweatier than a tomato picker in August.

Later that night I made a pact with God never to go girdling again. I was a basketball player and almost lost my shooting hand to a piece of woman’s undergarment.

(From "Uncertain Times" -- published in 2008. Available at Amazon.com, barnesandnobles.com and other fine Web site.)