Engaged on my seventeenth birthday, my fiancée’s parents were initially not pleased their only child chose a young, poor, Catholic, Asian to marry. Well, mostly they were upset with my being Catholic but could say little due to their failed status.
My fiancée and I helped support our parents versus their supporting us. We both endured our fathers cash raids, he for drinking bouts, me for gambling sprees. I also endured sibling "borrowing" but hid my savings in a secret bank, a carved-out niche in the sheet rock above and inside my bedroom closet door. No matter how hard they searched, my safe was never discovered and they had to officially “borrow.” I suspect my safe’s still intact if the current occupant even knows it's there. We both willing helped our mothers with cash pinches. My fiancée opened a real bank account in our names, one which required both signatures for withdrawals. Our marriage nest egg grew even while helping parents as the wedding date drew nearer.
His infatuation with me remained a mystery but I accepted I was to be married on graduation by wearing his ring, except to school where it was prohibited. There I wore it on a gold chain concealed from the nun's view under my blouse instead of the Saint Christopher's medal I once wore.
While poor and from a dysfunctional family like me, he had a future with his college graduation. I wanted escape from the monthly rent is due crisis, out of my cramped house and a husband who didn’t leave on the weekends. Not the best reasons for marriage but for me, good enough. Love, I didn't think of romantic love. Instead, I loved suddenly having a secure economic future.
I wanted a successful husband who went to work in the morning, didn't drive away in the evening, a home we owned with a white picket fence, a nice neighborhood and two kids. In return, I’d be a super wife and mom even though I didn't think of it that way. It was just a vague assumption. He didn't want to be his Dad and I was determined not to be Mom, a breeder stuck with kids and a hotel housekeeper, stuck with a womanizer.
Engaged to a man, the only one I ever kissed, provided a degree of self-confidence. A man loved me, whatever love was. I knew he was going to be successful, enjoyed cooking for him and enjoyed my “already taken” status. While controlling, he never belittled or physically threatened me. With him, I was safe, safer than being alone or at home were lack of money was a constant hazard.
He brought groceries to our house for me to cook, ate there and took leftovers to his parents resulting in my cooking for ten and our engagement pleasing all. I was happiest with him at our dinner table and me at the stove cooking, especially if Dad was there and we cooked together.
Friday nights we saw a movie and went for pizza afterwards or drove around but rarely stayed at either of our dingy houses.
We went to the County Fair and spent more time looking at the animals than the carnival rides but he did foolishly try to win a teddy bear. He had to settle on a pair of fuzzy dice to hang from his car mirror.
We did things which didn’t cost much like roller skate at the rink on the Alameda, watch San Jose State’s football team lose and go to the Rosicrucian Museum and look at mummies which was free. Once we went to the international flight section at San Francisco Airport. There we contentedly spent an evening watching travelers arrive and depart at the gates and imagined we were dressed up too and coming from or going to an exotic location like Tokyo. He took me to my senior ball with a dress I made.
He continued to live at home after his university graduation and start of work to be next door to me and save money. All went orderly to the path to our marriage, except one question.
There was the military draft. His student draft deferment ended on his January graduation. The scheduled wedding was not until June when I graduated from high school. The draft could swoop down, like it did on my older brother Rickie and take him away before or even after the wedding. The war in Vietnam required draftee fodder. Losing Ricki two years earlier was a crisis in our family which seared the danger of the draft in my mind. While he said we would marry regardless, his being in the army was not the security promised. His draft status initially kept our scheduled marriage uncertain, my future vague and our marriage unassured, despite the assumptions.
In January 1968, just after his graduation, his student deferment statues changed to ll-A, a technical civilian deferment due to his employment as an engineer at Lockheed Aircraft in Sunnyvale. It was the good job promised with no draft risk. With my graduation and his “good job” the deal was sealed. I was taken, promised, engaged; my marriage assured on high school graduation, my future set, an eighteen-year-old bride.
Mom became more pleased with our engagement as she knew him better due to his "honoring and protecting me" but still lectured about not getting pregnant. Like the nuns she didn’t talk specifics, just don't, inferring I was to remain a virgin. Once marriage was assured with the “good job”, however, being a virgin on the altar was no longer important to me.
Like puberty and menstruation, no adult talked to me about birth control or the "pill" which was starting to change the world. Among the girls at school, it was THE topic with the talk mostly of how to get "the pill." A few, very few, had a mother who went with them to the doctor and got them on "the pill". The nuns seemed flustered girls could "do it" and not be punished with pregnancy. The church was in turmoil over this earth-shaking change.
For me it didn’t matter. At seventeen I couldn’t get the "pill". You had to be eighteen to see a doctor without a parent present. Mom would never agree to take me to get "the pill". Sex was a taboo subject. To say,
"Mom, take me to the doctor and get me on the "pill" so we can start screwing.”
would in my mind, stop the earth's rotation. It was don’t ask, don't tell. She lit a few more candles in church to keep me a virgin and I never broached the subject of what happened in his car.
My fiancée could be arrested if we had intercourse, me being under eighteen and he over twenty-one but that didn’t happen back then. Lots of girls got married at seventeen and eighteen, typically not virgins on the altar. While we came close, we didn't, “do it”. Once our wedding was certain I was okay with it despite Mom's extra candles and the nun's admonishments. I figured my fate’s sealed; it doesn’t matter if I’m pregnant on the altar but he "honored and protected me." As with other things he took responsibility for my virginity, I belonged to him and he wanted me a virgin on the altar. I was pleased he wanted that, it meant he loved me.
We shifted, however, from just kissing good night to ‘necking” and "petting" as it was called. Our kissing went well beyond the church’s three second limit for a mortal sin to occur. Then it happened. After a movie, parked overlooking Steven's Creek Dam, we were grinding against each other on the front seat, fully clothed, what was called “dry humping” back then. I felt his erection pressing against his pants, pulled my blouse and bra up and had him kiss my nipples for the first time. While he did, I lifted my skirt and put his hand on my panty crotch.
As he kissed my breasts and rubbed my panty protected vulva, my pelvis bounced up in tune with his rubbing. I climaxed in a shudder, four months before our scheduled wedding. He was the more surprised at my ardor and exclaimed I was, “Vixen,” as I straightened my clothes and sat up. I was not sure who Vixen was but, thereafter she was my sexual persona.
I bought bullet bras and nylon panties at Macy’s, to make Vixen feel and look sexy. “Necking” and "petting" became our sex life. Soon after the Steven’s Creek Dam climax, we were alone in his house while his parents went out to a movie. He started kissed me while we watched TV. I got up from the sofa and lead him to his bedroom. I laid on his bed, opened my blouse, unhooked my bra, pulled my skirt up, and my panty down while he kissed, fondled and pawed. I opened myself for him. He laid aside me, rubbed my vagina but didn’t undress and mount me. My pelvis leaped up in rhythm to his stroking and I climaxed.
I then unbuckled his pants, pulled them and his shorts down and saw for the first time his penis, erect and throbbing. Unlike my brothers he was circumcised. Too inexperienced for oral sex to put it in my mouth I kissed it and stroked it until he ejaculated.
When his semen spurted out I jumped back in amazement. I stared transfixed as it sputtered and then squeezed out the last dribble as it deflated, got up and washed the goo from my hands in the hall bathroom. I got a wet towel and cleaned up the distinct, faintly bleach smelling, spewed mess from his spent penis and thighs, proud of my accomplishment. Thereafter his penis was tagged Squirt.
Dissipated we lay next to one another and he fell asleep. I was awed by a feeling of power. We were almost caught by his parents when they returned home early. I woke him up and we rushed out of the bedroom as his parents came into the kitchen from the attached garage. I suspected they thought we did more than we did.
Even with our "petting" he remained inexperienced and didn’t understand my magic clitoris button. He scolded Vixen we could not "go all the way", preached our marriage was still inchoate when she became too aggressive and kept his “honor and protect” promise.
Vixen still took soapy showers. I fantasized about movie scenes, making bad boys spew and a penis ejaculating inside me.
Author Notes: With marriage assured a girl makes herself sexually available but her fiancee keeps his promise to honor and protect her.