!!!!!*****WORKING DRAFT*****!!!!!
The morning after what Esther called our “consciousness raising session”, I remembered that Mike had told me his first varsity swim meet would be at Brandeis that afternoon. We couldn’t see each other, he said, as the team went up together on a bus, ate lunch as a group, swam, then went back to CT right away. But Brandeis was on the Fitchburg train line, and I could go see the meet anyway, even if I couldn’t talk with him. I’d never seen a swim meet before.
The first thing I noticed, all the boys on the team sat around in just their swim suits, which were tiny little things, slung low under the belly button, and barely covering their butt cracks. They constantly shook their arms and legs, a jangly dance of muscle and bone. Mike had a little thing he did with a partner, where he locked his fingers behind his back, straightened his arms, and the other guy pushed Mike’s hands up towards his shoulders. This pressed his upper arms against his sides, making his them appear large, smooth, and powerful.
He only had one race, towards the end of the meet. I knew the idea was to finish ahead of the other boys in the pool, but each time, it was different. Different strokes, from the undulating butterfly to the lazy backstroke. Different distances, from the explosive two length freestyle to a seemingly endless one which took almost 20 minutes. And then there were the divers. Running forward, jumping up from the end of a teal colored springboard, then twisting, flipping, and finally slicing through the water’s surface, some with floppy splashes, others, the better ones, straight and clean. They looked like dynamic sculpture, making art with their bodies.
Finally, Mike stepped onto a starting block over at one side of the pool. He’d told me, “I’m maybe the worst swimmer on the team. There’s another guy in my year who’s the designated breaststroker. I’m just there to fill out the lanes. If I get a third place, I’ll be doing well.”
The white suited starter, holding his pistol straight overhead, shouted “To your marks!!” and everyone walked forward, curled their toes over the edge, reached down, and grabbed the block. After the gun went off with a puff of smoke, Mike exploded forward, arms outstretched head extended then tucked between his shoulders. With a slight bend at his waist, he sliced into the water. Underneath, he pulled his arms back, kicked hard while bringing them forward. He lunged his head up into the air, took a sharp breath I could hear in the stands, then launched into a rhythm of stroke – breath – kick, a foot-high swirling bow wave out in front. Eight of those cycles, then he touched and turned at the wall, pushing off hard, repeating the whole thing three more times. When he finished – he’d come in fourth – he stood at the edge, heaving, spitting, coughing, until he hauled himself out. He dragged himself back to the team bench, slung a black and red striped towel over his shoulders, and sat slumping head down. The coach was talking earnestly with his winning teammate, surrounded by half the team, pounding his back in congratulations. Apparently his win gave them enough points to secure victory for the day. Off to the side, one other guy came over to Mike, leaned over, smiled, and seemed to say, “Strong work.”
Thanksgiving was the following Thursday. Mike and I were both staying at school, ostensibly to study, write papers. He planned to drive up Friday morning, we’d spend the day in Cambridge and Boston, maybe go to Lynn shore Drive where he was born, seen Nahant and Salem. I realised we hadn’t talked about what to do after that.
The dorm food service was closed for the weekend, but we’d had a turkey dinner for those few girls who’d gotten permission to stay on campus. I’d secreted leftovers in the lounge ‘fridge, so we wouldn’t have to buy dinner. We ate up in my room, where I told him about my secret trip to Brandeis.
“What?” he asked. “You were there and didn’t come over to talk to me?”
“I was up in that balcony, where the stands are. What was I supposed to do, holler at you? You’d probably say I was embarrassing you.”
“Probably right.” He took a contemplative bit from his turkey sandwich. “What’d you think?”
“This might sound a little funny, but I’d never seen you like that before.” He raised his eyebrows, so I went on. “That’s a side of you I haven’t really paid attention to, the guy who likes to swim, who can swim well enough to be on his college team…”
“I told you, I’m the worst one there. I’m not sure why they let me on, maybe because there’s only one other breaststroker?”
“Even so, it’s different. It’s not something you do with words, like a poem, or talking with me. It’s something you do with your body. What do you think about when you’re swimming in a race?”
Typical of Mike, he pondered that seriously. Satisfied he understood, he said, “I’m not thinking of anything other than how hard my body is working, making sure my arms and legs are doing what they’re supposed to.”
“What’s that like?”
He chuckled. “It’s about the only chance I get to have my brain shut up.”
I stroked his arm, feeling, probing a little, trying to remember what he’d looked like when he was stretching before the meet.
The next Friday, we met again with Esther. The other girls she’d brought last time must have gotten scared off by the mirrors, as only Jeanne and Marcia were there with me. I’d been anxious all week, holding inside a nagging worry I’d carried since Mike and I spent the night together in Cabot.
Esther sensed right away I needed to unload. After serving us some tea, and chatting about the snowstorm on the way, she looked at me and said, “Janie, you’re usually so perky. You seem quiet tonight. I haven’t even seen you smile yet.”
I’d been able to hide my fear all week, going to class, studying, joking in the dining room. But here, where the subject was our bodies, where we knew we’d come to talk about sex, it all came flooding out.
Before I knew what was happening, I blurted, “Can you get pregnant if he doesn’t come inside you?” Jeanne and Marcia stopped rattling their tea cups, frozen on my words.
“What happened, Janie?” Esther asked. Her face was full of sympathy and concern. “Did he go in and pull out before…?”
“No.” I was shivering. “No. We were in bed together mostly naked. We almost feel asleep, but there isn’t really room for two of us there, so we kept waking each other up. It was like I lost my mind or something, remembering seeing him at the swim meet on Saturday, then feeling his skin, warm, and smooth. I pulled him over on top of me. I kept my legs closed, but let him push down between them. He started moving – we both stated moving – and next thing I know, he’s quivering, shaking, almost, and moaning. Then I felt wet down there, I don’t know if it was him or me, or both of us.”
The room was quiet, the steady ticking of the kitchen clock the only sound. Jeanne broke the silence. “Do you think he…”
Feeling stronger, I completed her thought. “…penetrated me? No, I checked after he left, with my mirror. It’s still intact, and there was no blood. Just a goopy spot on the sheet.”
“Ewww,” Marcia whispered, shaking her head.
Esther firmly said, “Janie, you’ve got a health service here, right, at the college? Go see the doctor first thing, talk to him, ask about birth control, OK?”
Reluctantly, I answered, “Really? Even if we don’t ever do that again?”
Esther said, “Oh, you’re going to do that again. Believe me, you’re going to want to do that again.”
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