I Lost My Virginity

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Exposed

I Lost My Virginity

03/12/2025

The winter weather in Arkansas can be fickle. At Christmas you may think you are going to escape cold weather for the rest of winter and then comes chilling wind and freezing rain, the weather of the most wretched kind.

Or there may be balmy days with sunshine and mild breezes and blue skies. So it was at the end of 1969. While the weather wasn’t particularly terrible, it was typically cold for the time of the year. I spent New Year’s Eve with my new girlfriend.

As we awaited the New Year we necked and listened to the countdown of 1969’s top 89 on WLS AM radio. Necking is all we did. She was 21 and I was 18 by only a few months. We were both virgins. She was “saving it” but what she was saving it for, she never said. I was not saving it at all. I just didn’t have anywhere to put it. I liked that she was older. It was a turn-on to me and allowed me to be deluded that such a relationship would make a man out of me.

Her name was Debbie. Or Diane. No matter. She’s not the heroine of this tale, so let it go. I knew how the night would end. We would make out while the New Year came in. About a half hour later her mother would rap on her bedroom door and remind me it was time to go home, and to home I’d go, walking the few blocks to the trailer I was renting.

I had no car, yet, and not even a bicycle. My travel was limited to how far I was willing to walk or where my girlfriend was willing to drive me. The walk home was therapeutic. The chilly air arrested some of my seething hormones and the walk helped relieve a miserable case of blue balls.

As I stated, the weather can be fickle. Over the next few days, the temperature increased daily until on a glorious Sunday, it was over 70 degrees with lots of sunshine. It was the kind of day that serves as a tonic. It puts a spring in your step and boldness in your heart.

What I should have done was go to my girlfriend’s house and let her dissipate some of my springtime-induced passion to the limit her savings account would allow. What I did was decide to go hitchhiking. Remember, this was 1970 and psychopaths had not yet been invented. One could hitchhike or pick up hitchhikers safely. Even girls.

I changed into what I thought was appropriate hitchhiking clothes: neat and clean but not dressy, and I stuffed a hooded sweatshirt, a couple changes of underwear, and a change of clothes into a military surplus rucksack and hit the road out of town. I can’t say I walked. I was happy. I was elated. I skipped. I was practically manic. I think I laughed out loud a couple of times.

It didn’t take long to catch a ride. Hitchhiking was easy back then, especially in the country. Hitchhiking was a cheap way to travel long distances if you were willing to invest some shoe leather when rides were hard to come by, like at night and in towns. By the time the sun was getting low, I was in Hardy, a town where I had friends. I had gone almost a hundred miles. Not bad.

I located my friends’ house and basically invited myself to spend the night. They were a family whose names I can’t remember. There was a son and a daughter close to my age, maybe a year or two younger, and we were friendly. Their parents allowed me to stay without objection. I remember the daughter was good-looking and had a nice figure. But she’s not the heroine, either.
The next morning I noticed the weather had turned. That fickle, fickle weather.

The sky was thick with dark clouds and they seemed to hang low. The temperature was getting colder, too. I couldn’t stay with my friends and I didn’t want to turn back. So I did what my limited options allowed. I got back on the main highway out of town and pressed on. At this point I really didn’t know what I was going to do next. I had no destination in mind but I didn’t want to return to where I started. That would be too . . .
defeatist. Besides, I had nothing there: no car, no job, and no prospects.

What I did have was a roommate I couldn’t stand and a girlfriend who liked to neck but was keeping everything else in a lockbox. I pressed on, hoping an inspiration would strike. The temperature continued to drop until it was below freezing. I put on my hooded sweatshirt, the warmest garment I had brought. By late morning it began to snow. It snowed hard. I was cold but at least the rides were easy to catch. In Gassville a young couple gave me a lift. “How far you going?” they asked. ”How far are you going?” I asked back. “Fayetteville, Arkansas,” they said. I thought it was strange they said it like that: Fayetteville, Arkansas. I knew what state Fayetteville was in, but that is when the inspiration struck. “I’m going to Fayetteville, too.”

Now it’s time for a little back history. During my senior year in high school, I took an elective in chemistry. My teacher was fresh out of college and so was only four, maybe five, years older than me. His course of study in college I soon learned was zoology, and he was looking for a suitable cave where he could study cave insects for his Master’s degree in entomology. I knew of a few caves in the area and offered to be his guide.

The more caves we visited, the more caves we discovered. We spent a lot of weekends together looking for and exploring caves. Along the way I became a spelunker, and we became very good friends. His name was Dave (not really). Dave eventually found a cave that suited him and for the next two years, every six days, we would visit that cave. I acted as his assistant, taking the temperature of the different sectors of the cave, recording humidity, documenting what creepy-crawlies we found during our visits.

One day he proposed we visit central Arkansas and explore some real caves, much larger and more complex than anything in my home county. We took some time during Christmas vacation 1968 to explore some of the caves of Stone County and the surrounding counties. At night we camped. I learned that camping in the winter is a lot of fun. A couple of days into our adventure he mentioned a girlfriend he had in college and that she lived near where we were. He wondered if she was home and if she might welcome a visit. I was all for it.

I wanted to know what kind of girls he dated during his college years. Normally, he was very straight-laced and, while not religious, he acted as though he were. He drove an old Ford Falcon, when a pickup truck would have been more suitable for his entomological and speleological pursuits, and he didn’t have any vices I could see. We were living in the 60s and the 70s.

People were listening to the Beatles and Steppenwolf and psychedelic music. He listened to the New Christie Minstrels and the Kingston Trio. I certainly am no trendsetter but I was a hepcat compared to my super square friend. Naturally I was curious about his women. When we found a telephone he called her. Yes, she was home and of course he was welcome to visit. Even if he was bringing a friend? Yes, the friend was welcome, too.

Now, when I imagined his college sweetheart, I envisioned a coed which, as we all know, looked like the girls in Animal House. I pictured something five-foot three or four, blonde hair, looked good in a sweater. I expected this and more from his girlfriend because he was a very nice looking guy. The young woman I met was none of those things. She wasn’t grotesque but I doubt if she was ever elected homecoming queen.

She was 25 years old, maybe five feet tall, and had a shape like a kitchen appliance or the box it came in. But she wasn’t fat; just not thin. She had a Habsburg chin and thick glasses. Her dark hair and dusky colored skin bespoke of her Native American heritage. She had a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. She had a bosom but not an ample one. She wasn’t at all what I had pictured. Her name was Berniece (not really).

Berniece lived with her mother. Both of them were very good people indeed, gracious and friendly. The mother served us tea and cake. Dave and his lady friend talked of old times and current events. She was very intelligent and well spoken. She showed us her comic book collection which was enormous.

To this day I wonder if she still has it and if she does, what it is worth. Before the evening was very old I no longer saw a girl of less-than-average looks but a very pleasant and likeable person. They offered us a place to sleep for the night and we gladly accepted because sleeping on the cold ground gets old in a hurry. I departed from her home the next day as her friend and we agreed to keep in touch.

During our correspondence over the following months I learned many things about her: that she was an English teacher but was returning to the university in Fayetteville to pursue her Master’s degree, and that she had a job in the museum at the university’s Old Main.

Enough history. It’s time to get back on the road. The drive between Gassville and Fayetteville was slow going. The roads were slick and snow was falling fast. The Arkansas Highway Department has no snow removal equipment to speak of except the sun. By the time we reached Fayetteville, and I was dumped out at Old Main, the snow was at least eight inches deep and still falling. I arrived on the Twelfth Day of Christmas. I knew she worked in the museum and I found my way there.

When I entered the room she was sitting among friends, chatting. She looked up and squinted at me. “I know you,” she said.

I explained to Berniece that I had been hitchhiking and had been caught on the road by the storm. She told me that she and her friends were having a little Twelfth Day of Christmas party to end the day. She told me to come home with her and to quote Bob Dylan, she would give me shelter from the storm. The school had closed because of the weather, as had most other businesses and functions in town, and she was free to go home. She lived within walking distance from her work, in the basement of a large house which had been converted to an apartment. It was not yet twilight when we arrived at her home. Her basement apartment was not fancy but it was warm and comfortable. She had a small table top television and basic cable. She kept the TV tuned to the local weather. There were a few posters on the painted concrete block walls, mostly of her favorite singers, like Joan Baez. There was a photograph of Allen Ginsburg scotch taped to the wall. She had photographed him when she recently had met him. She had a Woodstock poster.

All this happened a very long time ago and I have forgotten many of the details. I don’t remember what we ate that night, only that we did not go out. I do remember that after dinner she surfed through the TV channels looking for something worth watching and finally settled on a movie called “Charlie Bubbles.” We didn’t pay much attention to the movie engrossed as we were in our conversation. We didn’t notice much of it either, until the last few minutes which were very strange. “I think it’s surrealism,” she said.

After the movie the television was tuned back to the weather. Berniece wanted to show me her musical instruments. She opened a case and held forth a dulcimer, a genuine McSpadden pumpkin seed dulcimer, and she was very proud of it. It was the three string type, not four, and she demonstrated it a by strumming a few chords. After replacing the dulcimer in its case, she displayed her twelve string guitar and again she strummed a few chords. It was in tune and sounded good. Next she displayed her six string guitar. As before, she strummed a few chords but this time she began to sing. I was amazed at her voice. She sounded great. Listening to her play her guitar and singing was a treat. She sang modern folk tunes: Cohen; Baez; and Dylan. I don’t know how many songs she sang but she put on quite a concert. For me, it had been a long day following a night of little sleep. The warmth and comfort of the room had relaxed me but she was singing me to sleep. She began her last song of the evening, a cut from Bob Dylan’s ‘John Wesley Harding’ album. The name of the song was ‘I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight.’ By the end of the song I was nodding.

“You can sleep in my bed,” Berniece said and led me to her bedroom. I was groggy from my need for sleep. I lay down and was asleep almost immediately.

When I awoke the room was dark but there was enough ambient light to see dimly. Berniece was in the bed beside me. She wore a one-piece flannel pajama outfit with short sleeves and short legs. It had a zipper in front. I was still more asleep than awake but my sense of mischief made me take the zipper tab between my fingers and slowly pull it down. I didn’t know if she was awake or sleeping. I expected that if she were awake she would rebuff me. Instead, as the zipper neared the bottom, she sat up and shrugged the garment off her shoulders. I found myself in bed with a half-naked girl for the first time in my life.

Contrary to the message movies deliver about high school nerds and their clumsy first attempts at sex, Doing What Comes Naturally comes pretty naturally. I brushed my fingers across her nipples and took her breast into my hand. Her breasts were small but firm and cone-shaped. They were topped with nipples shaped like macaroons. After an appropriate amount of fondling and kissing I helped ease her pajamas off her hips and down her legs. I had arrived at one of the meaningful milestones in my life, a moment I knew I was going to remember for the rest of my life. I suppose if I had been more awake and alert I would have been more panicked but I wasn’t and events proceeded smoothly and naturally. My fingers brushed through her sparse pubic hair. One of my fingers sought out the cleft between her legs and found it. It was wet. I positioned myself between her legs which she parted. When my cock penetrated her, it was as easy as fitting a key into a lock.

I entered her and she was wet and willing. The motion was natural and effortless. So this was sex. It was good but less than what I had been led to expect. That is, until I felt a tremor deep within the deepest core of my being. The tremor turned into a spasm that rocked my entire body. It was a feeling I had never experienced before. This was my first sexual experience. This was my first climax. I had never even masturbated before. For a moment I was forced to wonder if what I had experienced was normal. It only took a couple of minutes before I was ready to go again and discovered that, yes, it was normal. “I’m coming,” I whispered to her even though I had never heard the word ‘coming’ used in a sexual context before. Even so, I had used it correctly. Finally, I was one of the initiated. Through a person’s young life they hear the word “climax” but has no idea what it is, what it means. Then they learn what it means and life is never the same again.

The next morning, in the light, I had the opportunity to examine her body more closely and at leisure. She was young and while she was ample sized her skin was taut and firm. Having no experience judging the female form I couldn’t tell if her component parts were good, bad, or acceptable. There was a track of hair that ran from her pubis to her navel which I found very exciting. In fact, everything about her was exciting because she was female and available.

Outside, it was very cold, below zero with more than a foot of new snow. All the businesses were closed as well as the university. Berniece and I snuggled in our nest and lived on love. To me birth control was not something that weighed on my mind but it did hers. Almost from the beginning after our first night, before sex she injected a foamy spermacide from an aerosol can into her quim. It was unsightly but at least I didn’t have to wear a rubber.

Day by day we continued our love fest until she announced that she had found a job for me at the university as a reader for the blind. Reading aloud is not my favorite activity but I was willing, wanting to pull my weight. After a couple of days she resumed her schedule at the university. She worked all day and I worked part of the day. In the evening she’d prepare dinner and then we’d go to bed early. On days she didn’t work we’d be in bed by lunch. Each day was very much the same until one evening about a week or ten days after I arrived, she told me, very seriously, if I ever wanted to take another girl to bed, I could. I was shocked.

I couldn’t imagine such a thing or wrap my head around it but she had just folded space with her mind and I was in a far-off place without having moved. In the years since then I have learned to believe it. I now wonder if her offer included her involvement, too. I don’t know what was the source of her generosity but I’ve never encountered it in another woman.

After talking about it briefly, Berniece and I decided to get married. I didn’t really want to but I was very young and very naïve and felt it was the honorable thing to do. We knew we couldn’t get a license in Arkansas so we caught a bus to Tahlequah, Oklahoma, only to learn we couldn’t get a license there either. We didn’t have much money, not enough to buy a decent meal but we had enough to buy a loaf of day old bread from the bakery and a container of pimento cheese spread. As hungry as I was, it was one of the best meals I ever ate. We had our return tickets to Fayetteville and we returned home defeated.

I thought of my friend, Dave, who introduced Berniece to me and thought it would be fitting to give him a phone call. When I reached him he was clearly put out. People were frantic, he told me, because I had just disappeared. My parents, knowing he and I were friends, were calling him to learn if he had heard from me. “Call them,” he told me, “or I will.” I did call them eventually but not right away. My conversation with Dave left me heavy hearted. I knew he was right and I also knew I could not continue to stay with Berniece. I no longer wanted to. I didn’t want to go home either but it was the better alternative.

I called my parents and let them know I was safe and sound and staying with a friend in Fayetteville. They wanted me to come home and wanted to know where I was living. I told them.

When they arrived to take me home, I had my rucksack with the few items I brought. I sat in the backseat of my parents’ car with my mother while Berniece sat in the front with my father, attempting to explain to him why he should let me stay. I felt like the child I was. It was an argument I didn’t want her to win and after a few minutes she only sounded pitiful. I wanted to leave. Eventually Berniece got out of the car and my mother resumed her place in the front seat. Bernied and I did not kiss good-bye. We did not hug good-bye. My father simply drove away.

The last I saw of her then was her standing on the sidewalk with her hands by her side.
It’s a long drive from Fayetteville to my home in northeast Arkansas. Six hours on two lane winding highways, the whole trip in the mountains. After we arrived home I went to my room and loaded Judy Collins’ “Wildflowers” album into my cassette player. It’s the album with Leonard Cohen’s song “Hey, That’s No Way To Say Good-Bye.”

I cried.

Berniece in the rear view mirror was not the last time I saw her. We continued our correspondence and did not sever our connection. A couple of months later she told me she was attending the folk festival at Mountain View with some friends. We agreed to meet there. I found her and her hippy friends who were traveling in, what else? a VW microbus. I had ridden my Honda motorcycle the hundred miles or so from home. Berniece, her companions, and I scouted the roadside looking for a likely place to camp. We found an abandoned house with an overgrown hedge to provide us privacy. That night Berniece, the hippies, and I sat around a fire, passing around a bottle of Ripple. I’ve never been much of a conversationalist and just listened to the hippies. By and by, we all grew sleepy and slipped off to our sleeping bags. Berniece’s bag was beside mine but we only used one. It was the middle of April but the weather was so mild we did not need blankets. Or clothing.

We spent the festival weekend together, listening to bluegrass and watching cloggers. We viewed exhibits and generally enjoyed our time together. Never once did we talk about our time together in Fayetteville. We didn’t talk about the future. Sunday, the last day of the festival arrived. Soon it would be time for Berniece to return to Fayetteville and for me to return home. One of Berniece’s hippies whispered a secret to Berniece and she whispered it to me: he has hash and wants to know if we want to get high. I was curious and agreed. We climbed into the VW and he filled an aluminum foil pipe, lit it, and passed it around. I had tried marijuana before without effect. Hash was a different animal. I was soon very stoned.

I don’t know if Berniece was stoned or not but her tongue was certainly loosened. We stood outside the microbus and she insisted I tell her what our future was. I thought that issue had been resolved months before. I’m not an eloquent speaker but I managed to communicate to her that she and I were not a couple and never would be. She left for Fayetteville with her hippies while I fended off a woman trying to sell me a fringed suede vest. I prepared to return home.

The next time I saw Berniece was a year later at the next folk festival. It was entirely by accident. I was there with my current girlfriend, Alice (not really) and we encountered Berniece. I don’t know how she did it but Berniece managed to separate me from my Alice. Once she had her ear, she recounted our history and warned Alice against my parents who would “swoop in” and try to take me from her. Alice wasn’t exactly pleased by what she heard but wasn’t upset by it either. Alice had an opinion about what Berniece said and was only too glad to share it with me.

Much later, Alice and I had been married for several years and living in a house we had bought. This was before computers, Instant Messaging, and email. I certainly would not have risked corresponding with Berniece but somehow we managed to stay in touch. One November, I told Alice I was planning a motorcycle trip through the Ozarks to view the fall colors. I told her I would be gone three or four days and planned to camp during my trip. In actuality, Berniece and I conspired for me to visit her in Fayetteville for a couple of days. The weather was favorable the first half of my journey. After I crossed the ferry at Lake Norfork, the weather turned rainy and cold.

By the time I arrived at Berniece’s apartment I was soaked and hypothermic. I couldn’t get warm. She put me in a hot bath to soak and kept my wine glass full. Eventually I warmed up and we had dinner while she laundered my wet clothes. Once again she invited me to her bed. Now I was experience and knew what I was doing. Iknew her buttons and how to push them. Once again she spread her legs and gave me shelter from the storm. The next day she had errands to run and I was invited to go along. At one point we ran into a friend of hers and she introduced me as “an old lover.” The next evening was another quiet evening at home. We watched a TV special with Leon Redbone. We listened to some of her favorite albums: Jacques Brel is Alive and Well and Living in Paris; and Janis Ian, Between the Lines. Our last night together was for “old time’s sake” and not “new beginnings.”

My two days with her was time well spent. It was not melancholy and did not hold forth false promises. When it was time to leave, it was truly time to leave. It was the last time we were to spend the night together. I rode off on my motorcycle. The sky was overcast but not threatening. The temperature was mild. On the return journey I really did tour the mountains for the fall colors. That year they were spectacular.

The next and last time I saw Berniece was many years later. She lived in Little Rock. I had had a career in the Navy and was going to college in Little Rock as part of my veteran’s benefits. Berniece and her girlfriend were living in a huge house in the old part of town. I visited her at home and we talked about old times. There really wasn’t much to say because we both had been there, and done that, and we hadn’t forgotten.

She was proud of my having secured a prestigious scholarship and pleased I would be spending a semester abroad. I told her I wanted to take a walk. As we strolled on the street I put it to her plainly: I wanted to be her lover again. I didn’t love her. I don’t believe I ever loved her but I didn’t tell her that. I craved continuity in my life. She was polite when she declined my offer. She told me she was espoused to her girlfriend. Espoused. That’s the word she used.

I’ve always meant to get back to her, drop her a line. Send her a card. Give her a call. I never quite got around to it. I saw she had a Facebook account and downloaded a fairly recent photograph of her. She looks much the same as she did the first time I saw her at her mother’s house. She was greyer but that’s to be expected.
I’m glad I knew Berniece. I’m glad she was my first lover. I can’t imagine any other circumstance that would have been as painless and trauma-free. She shaped my tastes and attitudes for a lifetime. I wonder if she thinks about me as often and as well as I do her. I hope so.

Poster: Cousin Chuck

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