Initially, my fiancé’s parents were upset their only child chose a young, poor, Catholic, Asian to marry. Mostly they were upset with my being Catholic.
My fiancée and I helped support our parents instead of their supporting us which negated their objections. We both endured Dad cash raids, he for drinking bouts, me for gambling sprees. I also endured sibling "borrowing". I left petty cash in my top dresser drawer for their “borrowing” and fore hid my big money in a secret spot in my bedroom closet. There, above the door, I’d carved-out a little niche in the sheetrock to hide money. No matter how hard they searched, my cash stash was never discovered.
I suspect this safe spot is still intact and the current occupant unaware it’s there. My fiancé opened a real bank account in our names, one which required both signatures for withdrawals. Our marriage nest egg grew even while helping parents.
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’d once wore.
While poor and from a dysfunctional family, like me, he had a future on his college graduation. I wanted an escape from our family’s pernicious monthly rent is due crisis, out of my cramped house and have a husband who didn't leave on the weekends. Not the best reasons for marriage but, for me, good enough. I’d be satisfied with a husband who went to work in the morning, didn't drive away in the evening, a home we owned, a decent neighborhood, and two kids. In return, I'd be a super wife and mom.
We agreed, he didn't want to be his Dad and I was not to be Mom, a housekeeper, supporting a womanizer, stuck with a brood of kids.
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 and appeared to be genuinely attracted to me. With him, I was safe, safer than being alone or at home were lack of money was a constant hazard.
A man loved me, whatever love was, the only man I’d ever kissed. I didn't think of romantic love. I loved a secure economic future.
Engaged to him provided self-confidence. He brought groceries to our house for me to cook, ate there and took leftovers to his parents resulting in my cooking for two families 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.
Saturday nights we saw a movie and went for pizza afterward 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 for me. 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 spent an evening at San Francisco Airport and watched international travelers arrive and depart to exotic locations. He took me to my senior ball with a dress I made.
He continued to live at home after his January graduation and employment to be next door to me and save money. All went orderly to the path to our marriage except one issue, the military draft.
His student draft deferment ended on his January graduation. Our wedding was not until my graduation in June. The draft could swoop down, like it did on my older brother Rickie, and take him away. Losing Ricki two years earlier in Vietnam seared draft’s danger in my mind. His uncertain draft status after his graduation kept our scheduled marriage uncertain and my future vague despite our engagement.
After his graduation, however, he started work as an engineer at Lockheed Aircraft in Sunnyvale. His student deferment status switched to ll-A, a technical employment deferment. It was the good job promised without draft risk. My betrothal became sealed. I was taken, promised to him to be an eighteen-year-old bride on my high school graduation.
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 be bad girl, inferring I was to remain a virgin. Once my marriage was assured with the removal of draft risk and his “good job”, however, being a virgin on the altar was no longer essential to me.
Like puberty and menstruation, no adult talked to me about birth control. The church stridently condemned the world changing “pill”. Among the girls at school, it was “the” topic with talk of how to get the “the pill." A few, very few, had a mother who went with them to the doctor and got them on the "pill". The Notre Dame nuns were suddenly flustered girls could "do it" and not be punished with pregnancy.
At seventeen, I couldn't get the "the pill" on my own. 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 and to say,
"Mom, take me to the doctor and get me on the "the pill" so I can screw.”
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 and I never broached the subject of what happened alone with my fiancé who could be arrested if we had intercourse, me being under eighteen and he over twenty-one. That didn’t really happen back then. Lots of girls sixteen and seventeen got married pregnant on the altar.
We didn't, “do it”. With our wedding assure I was okay with it despite Mom's extra candles. I figured my fate’s sealed; it doesn’t matter if I’m a pregnant fiancée on the altar. He, however, "honored and protected me", as promised. As with other things he took responsibility for my virginity. I belonged to him, he wanted me a virgin on the altar, I was pleased he wanted that, it meant he loved me, it was as simple as that.
We shifted, however, from kissing goodnight to ‘necking” and "petting" as it was called. Our kissing went well beyond the church's three-second time 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”. I felt his erection pressing against his pants, pulled my blouse and bra up and had him kiss my breast 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 pushed back in tune to his rubbing. Suddenly, 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. Vixen, thereafter, was my vagina persona for him. I never mentioned my vagina persona, Cobra, and her soapy showers.
I bought bullet bras and nylon panties at Macy’s to make his 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 to a movie. He kissed me on the sofa while we watched TV. I got up from the sofa, led him to his bedroom, 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, but he didn’t mount me. After I climaxed, I 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 jerked back, stared in transfixed amassment as his penis spewed and sputtered. I squeezed out the last dribble as it deflated in my hands. I got up and washed the goo from my hands in the hall bathroom, got a wet towel and cleaned up the faint bleach smelling, mess off his spent penis, testicles, and thighs. As he pulled his pants back on, I was proud of my accomplishment and awed by a feeling of power. Thereafter his penis was tagged Squirt.
Dissipated we lay next to one another. He fell asleep. His parents almost caught us when they returned home early. I heard their car, woke him up and we rushed out of the bedroom while his parents came into the kitchen from the attached garage. I suspect they thought we did more than we did but we did do a lot.
Even with our "petting" he remained inexperienced and didn’t understand my magic clitoris button. He scolded Vixen about wanting to go all the way, preached our marriage was still inchoate when she became too aggressive and kept his “honor and protect” promise. We agreed, Squirt and Vixen, were to not to meet until our wedding night.
Vixen still took soapy showers. I fantasized about movie scenes, making bad boys spew and a penis ejaculating inside me.
I didn’t fantasize about my fiancé during soapy showers. It wasn’t he was unattractive or unsexy. He was in a different category, respectable.
Author Notes: With marriage assured a girl makes herself sexually available but her fiancee keeps his promise to honor and protect her.