The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(13)

He made a big deal out of the comics and magazines, some of which were issues of Playboy. I recall being surprised. I’d seen Playboy in the rack at 7-Eleven, so I knew what the covers looked like, and I knew each issue had photos of naked women in it. But I’d never seen the inside of one or any alleged nude pictures. So, we went back to the cot and looked at them together. I thought we were doing something really wrong, but I didn’t care. It was thrilling. I was with a boy whom I liked and thought was cute, and we were alone, and we felt safe. And I was fascinated by the magazines. When Eddie opened up the centerfolds to show me what they were all about, I couldn’t believe it. I was shocked but also, I must admit, a little turned on. It’s possible I didn’t fully comprehend those feelings at the time, or perhaps I had already experienced pleasuring myself by that age, even before that day in the bomb shelter.

I don’t recollect how it started. We were talking about the women in the magazine, and why they would pose that way. Eddie said it was to “turn on men.” I was curious as to how that actually worked. He told me about erections, or, as he called them, “hard-ons.” I’d certainly never seen anything like that. At previous babysitting jobs, I’d changed baby boys’ diapers so I knew what a penis looked like, but not one that was aroused. I don’t believe I’d ever seen my father’s at all.

“Do you have one of those now?” I asked, wide-eyed, my jaw to the floor.

“What?”

“What you said. A … hard-on.”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Do you want to see it?”

My heart pounded in my chest. I answered, “Yes,” and he showed me.

I’m pretty sure I was speechless. Here, the memory goes out of focus. Maybe I watched him for a while. I don’t quite recall everything, but at some point, a few minutes later, I was showing him what I had between my legs. He stared and touched himself. And that was it. I don’t remember buttoning up and leaving the shelter, but we must have done so quickly because I do recall getting that feeling of claustrophobia again. The cool dampness of being underground had gotten to me. How would I have ever lasted if I had to live for days in a bomb shelter in the event of a real-life crisis?

That night, in my own bed, I couldn’t sleep. I thought about what had happened. I couldn’t get the image of Eddie out of my head. Was he unusually big for an eleven-year-old, or was it simply the fact that I’d never seen an erection before? Had I experienced an orgasm that afternoon in the bomb shelter? Probably not, but it was close. One thing was for sure: I learned that day how pleasurable sexual activity could be.

Whether or not Eddie intentionally initiated the event is unknown, but it was clear that he knew more about what he was doing than I did. I mean, he was looking at Playboy magazines in private, and he had no problem with me knowing about it, or gazing at the pictures together with me. He was obviously already into sex. At eleven years old, in 1966, Eddie knew terms and expressions I’d never heard before. When I was older, I recognized that Eddie had a confidence with his sexuality, more so than what was normal for an eleven-year-old. Where had he learned it from?

As for me, I admit to being precocious. Boys did interest me when I was twelve. And Eddie was mysterious, cute, and cool. But before that day, I had never, ever experienced with a boy what Eddie and I had done, and I couldn’t believe I was willing to do so. I went right along with the program and enjoyed it. It’s a memory for which I have mixed emotions.

We met again in the bomb shelter just a day or two later. We experimented with kissing. It was the first time I had kissed like the adults you see on TV and the movies, with the tongue and all. I thought it was fantastic. Just to have a boy’s arms around me felt wonderful. Jimmy the cat, who was down there with us, wanted attention but we weren’t giving him any!

We had make-out sessions in the bomb shelter two, maybe three, more times. Once, Eddie wanted to show me his erection again, and I said that I didn’t want to see it.

“I thought we were going to do what we did last time,” he said.

“No, let’s just kiss.”

We continued, but I could tell he wasn’t very happy.

In the month of June, 1966, Eddie Newcott and I officially became boyfriend and girlfriend. We kissed a lot. The other kids made fun of us, so we did our best to avoid everyone. My mother expressed concern, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. Eddie lived right across the street, and if we couldn’t visit each other at our respective homes, then we’d meet at the park. We made out in the derelict yacht. We kissed in the airplane cockpit.

The hiding place in the floor of the bomb shelter also became the medium for a game. We would be somewhere, the park perhaps, when Eddie would say, “Davy Jones’s Locker.” That meant it would be up to me to go to his backyard by myself, when he wasn’t around, and sneak into the bomb shelter. I learned how to lift that concrete slab in the floor and search the hiding place. Several times, Eddie left me notes or presents. A package of M&M’s. Notes that were the eleven-year-old equivalent of love letters, written on Big Chief ruled tablet paper and printed in block letters—a writing style that Eddie kept throughout his life. “For my prinsess across the street,” one note read. There were drawings of lips, meant to signify kisses. I wish I’d kept those early communications from Eddie, but at the time I was afraid to do so. My mother or father might find them, and I feared they wouldn’t understand.