Dennis. My first crush. Eighth grade. Six-foot tall, massive brown eyes, thick black locks draped over his right eye – locks he tossed back at regular intervals as if on a timer.
I spotted him at eight o’clock morning mass, sauntering back from Holy Communion – a recent, yet highly confident, newcomer to Sister Christopher’s eighth-grade boys’ class. He wore a lightweight brown sweater – with a moose appliqued on the front. The moose? A must for guys migrating from Minneapolis to Milwaukee. The moose screamed, “I left my heart in Minnesota.”
“Was it love at first sight? Did it happen in a heartbeat? Were pheromones implicated? All of the above. Butterflies were involved, as was Cupid’s arrow. Swooning? For sure, my breath was taken away. Falling? Yes, like a ton of bricks, but also – a swept away that tipped my head right over my heels.
My heart was hanging on my sleeve. And this Romeo saw it.
Yes, notes were passed. Past through my ‘best friend’ – my confidant and the only kid bold enough to make direct body contact with that dream boat. I pined, she penned, and Dennis plotted.
And that is why, one day in early spring, he stopped by my house after school with a pressing need to play Heart and Soul on our baby grand piano. I played the melody; he played the ‘dump de dump dump’ part – until he turned his head and pressed his lips on mine.
My first kiss! Oh my God!! I was heart, sinker, and soul hooked.
You do remember your first kiss, don’t you?
That first kiss is how I landed on first base in what was my very first sex education practicum. Even though I was in 8th grade, I still needed to learn the details regarding the whole doing it thing.
Sure, plenty of theories were floating around, but they all seemed stupid or gross. And everyone knew our fifth-grade girls’ sex education program at Our Lady of Perpetual Motion was of no help.
That curriculum consisted of a 30-minute black-and-white film starring fallopian tubes and eggs rolling down fallopian tubes. What? The film left us girls with a box of Kotex and plenty of questions, questions that rolled around in our brains unasked and unanswered.
We needed Dear Blabby, aka Abby Mullens, the oldest sister of Fiona Mullens, my soon-to-be x-best friend. No matter how dark, Blabby was our fountain of truth. Since we were in first grade, Blabby always told us younger kids the truth.
Here are just some of the informational bombs she dropped:
“Guys, there’s no Santa Claus. Guys, there’s no stork. Guys, babies come from ‘doing it.’ Guys, our parents ‘do it’ with no clothes on.”
We were constantly squinting at her shocking announcements but always eager for her clarifying words.
In eighth grade, we had to have a more accurate idea of what ‘doing it’ meant. We needed Abby – our Dear Blabby – for the real Q and A on ‘doing it.’
We sought a consultation, and she granted us an audience. Currently, a pre-med biology major at Marquette University, Abby invited us to her dorm for the truth.
There, Fiona, myself, and two friends settled in Zen position on Abby’s patch quilt rug – our ears open for insights about ‘doing it.’
Abby stood at her open casement window, the tweets of chirping birds our soundtrack. She faced our little group and began.
“They don’t want you to know about ‘doing it’ because if you know how exactly to ‘do it,’ then they worry you might actually ‘do it,’ and that is exactly why they won’t tell you about ‘doing it.’ They don’t want you to ‘do it.’ Even though, let’s face it, there will come a time when most of you will ‘do it.’ It’s a ‘keep ‘em in the dark’ strategy that never works! A head-in-the-sand idiotic philosophy. Do you remember old Oedipus Rex with the blind eyes? Ignorance is not bliss. Ignorance is dangerous.”
Abby turned to the whiteboard on her dorm room wall and erased a drawing of a heart valve, replacing it with a large baseball diamond.
“I’m using baseball to illustrate the usual steps in ‘doing it.’ Ladies, there are two key points: biology and passion, and you’ve got to manage both.”
Abby tapped first based with her magic marker, launching into lecture mode. “First Base, yes, ‘doing it’ starts on first base with the crushing and kissing. Crusher and Crushee send out messages, and it all begins. The crushing leads to the kissing. Lots of kissing. Myself, I’m a big fan of first base. Can’t get enough of that first base.”
Abby taps second base and clears her throat. “Second Base. The crushing and kissing lead to increased touching. Usually, guys touching breasts.”
Our eyes roll. Our Nuns warned us about this.
Abby re-taps second base. “Advancing to second base is up to you. You’re the coach and the runner. In or out – it’s up to you. In many cases, you may want in, but more often, you will probably want out—your choice. Just say, ‘No, but thank you anyway.’
I like that it’s up to me.
Abby taps third base. “Third Base – here is where things get dicey. Crushing, kissing, and touching advance to full-body touching – clothes on or off.”
See, I told myself. My mother never would have the guts to tell me this stuff. “Abby, are you sure we’ll want to do this?”
She nodded thoughtfully. “It may not seem all that appealing today, but someday, I promise, most of you will want to.”
I was not so sure about that. Sounded quite germy to me.
Abby tapped the top of the diamond. “Home Plate – this is the ultimate base when it comes to ‘doing it.’”
Abby pulled a textbook from her bookcase and flipped it open to diagrams of male and female body parts. She explained arousal and what happens during ‘doing it.’ She told us about male and female orgasm, highlighting that after ‘doing it,’ ten million male sperm start chasing one female egg. She told us about pregnancy – how it happens.
Then Abby tapped the board with some furry–testing us. “Girls, who gets pregnant?”
I raised my hand. “The girl gets pregnant.”
Abby hammered in the point. “Right, the girl gets pregnant and not the boy.”
She said, “Once you’re on third base, it does not take much touching for you to want to slide all the way to home plate. So, you’ve got to get ready to manage the sperm. Let pregnancy be your choice – not an accident.”
I returned to the scariest point. “Abby, did you say ten million sperm chasing one egg?” “Correct, one egg – ten million sperm – terrible odds. Therefore, you need the seventh-inning stretch.”
Abby drew a large number seven between second and third base. “Now, between second and third base, wise people take a time-out. Not for popcorn and hot dogs. But for conversations about the use of birth control. Let me say, in my experience, you will have to lead this conversation because chances are your partner won’t.”
Abby explained the role of doctors, family members, and Planned Parenthood in helping young people learn about and obtain birth control. “It’s the only way to manage ten million sperm chasing one egg. My point? Find reliable support.”
Like you,” I smile, grateful for having Abby in my life.
“You bet-ca. And that’s why I’m in medical school.”
Abby raised her marker. “One last point, Ladies. Most guys think this game is about sliding into home plate as fast as possible. That is not the game of love. You girls have got to help them slow down and savor the play at each base.”
So, there I was in eighth grade, and it was just like Abby said it would be. I was on first base – loving the crushing and kissing – imagining a summer filled with crushing and kissing.
That evening, as I headed to the mailbox, I spotted them. Fiona and Dennis – holding hands, sashaying up her driveway. Kissing!
My jaw dropped. I crossed the street – hands on my hips.
Wasn’t Fiona my best friend? The friend who delivered my notes to this very guy – my first crush? Was my friend stealing my first crush off of my first base?
“What the heck, Fiona? You know I like him.”
Fiona was not contrite. She glared at me, posing dramatically in her tank top and shorts. “Your problem is you’re stuck on first base!”
“Stuck? I love first base!”
“Well, to keep a guy like Dennis, you’ve got to get off of first!”
And that was the moment I knew: love is a game. But love does not have to be blind. It’s only blind until it’s not.
With Coach Abby’s help, I saw the play at each base. I knew I was in charge of my body – not Dennis or anybody else.
In eighth grade, I was on first base, exactly where I belonged; sure, someday, I’d go to second. I’d take that seventh-inning stretch so that when I hit third base, I’d be ready to enjoy the whole game – if – I wanted to.
My first crush? Sure, I got hit with a pitch, and stealing was involved – but there was no error. I looked up into that pink afternoon sky and watched Dennis peddle his bike – fading fast into the sunset – just a speck on the crest of a blacktop road. And I felt relief. I was playing first base, and I loved it – happy to wait for the one who’d play those bases with me.
MARY-FRANCES SCHNEIDER 