My Jewish roommate was sleeping with her boyfriend. And she wasn't shy about telling me what they did and occasionally tossing me out of our room so they could be alone. I think she enjoyed my wide-eyed reaction.
For my part, I unloaded angst about trying to break away from my "lace-curtain Irish" upbringing and how I didn't have the courage to start.
My father was a policeman, my mom stayed at home to raise us. I was the only daughter (second child of six) in a close-knit and strait-laced family in the Irish section of The Bronx, New York.
My role in the house was to help mom maintain order, including bathing the boys, so I took for granted seeing naked males who occasionally developed erections in the bathtub. I was a day student in a convent school, then enrolled at a nearby catholic university. I lived at home in my freshman year but was allowed to live in the dorms as a sophomore.
Myra got me to double-date with her. She encouraged me to "pleasure" myself and showed me some pictures and was pretty graphic about things she did, to herself and with her boyfriend.
She pointed out that, if I was serious about changing my life, I had to break out of the way I viewed the world, particularly men. She encouraged me to "fool around" with my dates, which led me to be kissed for the first time. I probably went out with a dozen guys that year. With each one, I touched and was touched a little more. I even let one guy fondle my breasts through my blouse. I gave him a handjob through his pants.
My parents had said I could take my junior year abroad. While the university had residence programs in Europe, I was smitten with a California Christian college's program that put 600 students on a ship and sailed around the world, stopping in about 45 ports during the eight-month voyage. After I was accepted, Myra got me to go to student health and get on the pill.
I decided this had to be my "Transformative Year," when I would be completely free of my parents and would remake myself. Just because I was on the pill didn't mean I would become sexually active, but now I would have the choice.
There was one required course, a lecture-and-discussion program that focused on world issues. It was taught by two senior faculty with discussion sections handled by about a half-dozen junior faculty. My section leader was Peter, a graduate student in urban studies. Gossip was that he was cutting a wide swath through the student body. He would focus on a "deep" girl, get her to come to his cabin, and ask her to scratch his back. They would wind up in bed but would soon break up, yet remain friends
He was 26 and charming. He had an ironic style and a self-deprecating sense of humor. He black hair was untamed and he sported a bushy black beard. His teaching style was aggressive questioning and persistent follow-up, very intense, even intimidating.
As the ship would approach a new port, Peter would select a few students from this and his other class to explore the city's infrastructure with him. He said that you can learn everything about a city — how it grew, what the original geography was, its governmental structure even — by poking around its innards. In the first class meeting after the boat left port he had the students lead the discussion of what they had learned. At first the discussion was simple-minded and obvious, but it soon evolved into sophisticated comparative analyses of different cultures.
Peter selected me and two others for Istanbul. He had us up at sunrise to witness entering the port, an unforgettable experience. We were the first ones down the gangplank, met our guide, and piled into the taxi for the day. We visited the waterworks, underground rivers, garbage dumps, and the sewage treatment plant. The day ended with a wonderful dinner and we were back on board by 7:30.
The others were exhausted and headed off to their rooms, but Peter was bubbling with enthusiasm and asked me to walk around the decks with him.
"It's criminal that they think so little of their waterways that they pumped raw sewage into them up until 10 year ago?" he said, indignantly.
"I'm reeling at the way the Muslims plundered the Christian sculpture and used it as foundation stone," I said. "It's incredible the disinterest these people had about their past!"
We walked around the middle deck and the conversation gradually shifted, to the personal. He quizzed me about why I had chosen this program and what I thought about it. He asked me who I was and what I wanted to do with my life.
At first I held back, but soon he had drawn me out and I told him about my Transformative Year.
"You've got a lot of guts doing this, Mary. Most of the airheads here have their lives already planned out, and it's boring. I hope you succeed."
I turned the questions to his life and ambitions. He told me about his fears of not getting a "real" college teaching job, that he wouldn't ever have the chance to do what he loved so much.
By 9:30 it was getting dark and chilly. He invited me to his cabin.
Peter sprawled on his bunk and I sat in the chair. As we talked he began to fidget. He asked me to scratch his back. He motioned me to sit on the side of the bunk and he rolled over on his stomach. About 10 seconds later, when he realized that I wasn't going to move, he flipped back.
"You won't scratch my back?"
"No, you can do it yourself."
"Like a bear rubbing up against a tree?"
"That would work, you're inventive."
"So what's the real reason?"
"I've heard about you."
"Oh? Tell me."
I blushed at the directness of his question and stammered something foolish about seduction. Then, not wanting to say anything more, I folded my hands in my lap and looked down, my mind a blank.
Peter swung his legs over the edge of the bunk and sat up. His eyes bore into me.
"No, I'm serious. Tell me everything you've heard."
I sighed, exaggeratedly. "Okay. You draw a girl out, get her to come to your cabin, you get her to scratch your back, and you get her into bed."
"How often has this technique worked?"
"They say at least a dozen girls have slept with you. Where's your scorecard? Do you carve notches here?" I said, angry at being challenged and having to make up a number. I got up and moved to the doorframe, pretending to inspect it closely.
