Margo, A Virgin

Margo and I have made a date to meet a local band "White Trash" to hear them play at a local club near campus and ask if they will play at our rally.I arrive early, followed in about fifteen minutes by Margo. Sliding in beside me in the booth, she leans and whispers, "Let's go outside for a few minutes."

Interested, I rise and follow her. She stops to take my hand, leading me around back. In the darkened alley, she produces a sterling silver cigarette case. "This was my dad's," she says. Inside are several carefully rolled joints. Producing my old faithful Zippo, I fire one up and we smoke rapidly in silence. When the glowing ember is about to burn my lips, she extinguishes it, places it carefully inside the silver case, and lights another. The taste is unusual, the pot stickier and sweeter than any I have tasted. "What kind of pot is this?" I query.

"Doatch Rope," she giggles.

"Dutch what?"

"No. Doatch Rope." Now she is really laughing. "You see, I save up all my roaches, open them and re-roll all the pot into more joints. Roach dope. With each generation, it gets stronger and stronger. By about the third generation it makes you talk funny, thus, doatch rope."

For some reason this is enormously funny. We finish the second joint. She carefully collects the roach in her silver case. We reenter the club, holding hands and giggling.

White Trash proves to be a very good band. Mostly they do songs of their own devising, with intricate blues riffs and gritty lyrics. During the break, Mark introduces us to the other members of the band. A mirror with lines of white powder and a tightly rolled hundred dollar bill circles the table. Margo snorts a line into each nostril then slides the mirror to me. I pause. Glance around the table. "Uh, I hate to be a geek here, but could I ask what this is?"

"Nose candy! Coke!" Margo whispers in my ear. "Do some, you'll love it!"

I lean and place the bill in my nostril, suck hard. All four lines on the mirror shoot up my nose at once, stinging, making my eyes water. Rather than being angry that I have inadvertently bogarted twice my share, everyone is amused that my inexperience has paid off. Don, the band member to my right, makes two more lines, snorts them, unrolls the hundred and licks it clean, then causes everything to disappear. Don, it appears, is the organizer, lyricist, and manager of White Trash. Also, if I am correct, he is the source of the coke.

Mark says, "It's true that I am the one who signed the sheet after I heard you speak at the auditorium, but we are all interested. I told the other guys here what you had to say and what you guys are trying to do. Everyone agrees that we want to be involved. Right guys?"

There are murmurs of general assent around the table. "So," Don says, "what can we do to help?"

I am floating, very relaxed in a soft cocoon of down, yet so alert, so alive. I feel a strong sense of power, of invincibility.

"How about if you play at the protest rally? For free," I add. "A band could really bring the people in."

"Boy, you don't fuck around," Don says. "Don't be afraid to jump right in and ask for what you want."

"Well, shit," I say, empowered and emboldened by the combination of drugs. "Ya can't end war and all that crap if you're gonna be shy about it. Right?"

"We normally make five to eight hundred dollars a gig," Don says.

I interrupt. "There's already enough assholes making a profit on this war. No way am I gonna start lettin' people make a profit off bein' against the war. Besides, we ain't got no money. The reason Margo and I are here is to find out what your level of commitment is. That's what we're lookin' for, people who are committed to using their talents to aid the movement. Not using the movement to aid their careers."

Don tried to interrupt, but I went on. "Besides, there's gonna be hundreds, maybe even thousands of people at this thing. Your name will be known all over campus, all over town. And, mark my words. Before this is over there's gonna be millions of people all over the country involved against the war. Pretty soon it's gonna be the 'in' thing to do. It's a good start on lots of free publicity for your band. It's good for you. It's good for us. And it's good for the country, the world."

By the time we leave the club, we have elicited a tentative promise from the group that they will play at the demonstration. In return, we will redo our pamphlets, adding the group's name to the thousands of leaflets we are now distributing daily.

Since I haven't checked with USP before making this agreement, and the band had not yet discussed it among themselves, Don is to call me in a few days to make the final decision.

Back on the street, Margo and I stand a moment, not wanting to leave each other. "Uh. It's still pretty early.

Wanna go somewhere else," Margo says.

"Sure, I'll buy you a cup of coffee." Walking over to Java Joe's, a nearby coffeehouse, she seeks out my hand and grips it tightly. Her hand in mine is tiny, so small and thin I am afraid to return the pressure. To me she seems utterly comfortable and composed, but her hand in mine is damp.

"You were great," she says. "Did you ever think of selling used cars?"

"It's just that I care so much! If I cared about used cars I could probably sell hundreds of them!"

"You're so serious. It was supposed to be a joke."

"I'm sorry, it's just that . . ."

"Please, don't apologize. I love your seriousness. It's why I try to get to work with you every chance I get. Er, that is, it's one of the reasons."

Over dark, rich coffee in the near total darkness, we share another doob of her doatch rope. The air in the room is thick with cigarette and marijuana smoke, so we attract no attention. We sit across from each other. She reaches to take both my hands in hers. "I have something I need to say to you. Please don't laugh at me. And please don't speak until I'm finished. This is going to be really hard for me to say, so please no matter what, try to understand and not to laugh."

"You've said please three times, so it must be serious. I'll do my best not to guffaw out loud, even though this dope has got me feeling kinda giggly."

"I don't know how to tell you this, but I'm a townie. I mean I take two courses a week at the college, but I live at home in town with my parents. And I'm . . . I'm only eighteen. But I'm done with high school." She was picking up speed. "I'm really smart and I was in all the advanced programs in school and I graduated early and I would be going to college even though I'm so young. Only, only . . . we, my family, doesn't have the money. So you see, It could be. I could be. And now I don't know what to do. I didn't mean to mislead anyone, to lie to anyone. Besides, I never really said I was a student or that I was older or . . ." Margo paused to catch a breath.

"It's okay. I mean who gives a shit how old you are or how much school you go to or anything?"

"But that's not all. You promised you wouldn't talk. Now please, before I lose my nerve."

I reach out to tenderly touch her cheek, to wipe away a tear captured there. "I'm not laughing, and I won't interrupt. I feel a special connection with you. You can tell me anything." A momentary look of irritation flicks across her innocent face, letting me know I should truly shut up.

"It's just. I"m a . . . That is I've never. I mean. Oh, shit." I hate the silence, hate her pain, her confusion, but I keep my peace, looking directly into her eyes, trying to send encouragement through the short space between us.

"I'm a virgin! There! I've said it!"

I force myself to keep a neutral look on my face, though the urge to laugh is strong. Finally I exhibit crossed fingers in front of me, as if warding off a vampire. "Oh no," I tease. "Not the dreaded virgin!"

"You promised," she cries, offended.

"Easy babe, I'm only kidding. I was a virgin 'til one month before I turned twenty, so it doesn't surprise me you are still one at eighteen.. Sounds pretty reasonable to me."

"But that's just it. I don't want to be. I want to be with a man, become a woman, only all the boys I've ever been with, ever had a chance with have always been so stupid, so silly and so clumsy. So, anyway, I've made up my mind . It's you I want to be my first. I want you to take me, to make love to me. I want you so bad I can't stand it. The day we sat on that bench, when I told you about my dad. When you touched my face, held my hand, I felt all funny inside and I got, uh . . ." her voice dropped to a whisper. " I started to get wet between my legs. That never happened before. That's when I knew."

I begin to respond, stammering "uh, uh, uh", red-faced and uncomfortable. She holds up her hand to stop me.

"I'm not saying I'm in love with you or anything, not asking that you love me. I only want my first time to be something very special, not some clumsy groping with a dippy boy. I know you could do this for me. I want you to. You don't have to answer right now. But think about it, okay? Now don't laugh at me, okay? I can take anything but your telling me what a silly little girl I am."

Now that she is looking for a response, I find myself speechless. The coffee house is filled with customers talking noisily. On stage, a folk guitarist is playing and singing. Between the two of us, the silence of questions unanswered, grows, surrounding us like a heavy fog. Her small hands tremble in mine. Her eyes hold mine, draw me with magnetic force that will not be denied.

"I don't know what to say. I'm sort of stunned."

"I was kinda hoping you wouldn't say anything. That you would just sweep me up and carry me away. I hope you're not going to make me beg."

"You know, I'm not all that experienced with women. Of course I'm flattered, overwhelmed. Dumbfounded, actually. I think I already told you I'm sort of living with someone. And I think, I'm pretty sure, I'm in love with her. And I am a lot older than you."

"Is that a no?"

"No. Yes. I don't know! You see, we have this, this, sort of, agreement, arrangement or whatever you call it. We live together for now, but we're free to do, to be with others if we want to. Of course, until now I didn't think I'd want too."

"Is that a yes?"

"No. I mean Yes. Shit! I don't know what I mean. It's a lot more complicated, a lot more difficult than it may seem to you. For example, I don't have a place, a bed. Lynette and I have agreed not to bring anyone else to our bed, so that's out. Then there's your age. It could be illegal. Your mom could have me arrested."

"I got you there, "Margo said. " I looked up the law. In this state it's legal if I'm eighteen, unless you force me, get me drunk, or drug me. In my pocket I have a signed, written statement explaining how and why I picked you. And I have a key in my other pocket to a motel room I've rented for the night. It's within walking distance. Anything else?"

"Don't you have to be home? It's already getting late."

"I've already lied about that, too. I've got it all set up. I'm not expected home until late tomorrow. So all we have to do now is talk it over between us. Work it out. I know I'm probably making you feel a little bit trapped here, that I've taken a lot for granted, but I've made up my mind. I'm going to have you if I've got anything to say about it."

"Let's get out of here and walk for a while. Talk for a while."

We walk and talk for quite some time. Though I am mightily aroused and flattered, I am reluctant, if not downright afraid, to accommodate her wishes. "Look," I tell her. "I'm not very used to expressing my feelings out loud, even if I can figure out what they are. It's only been a few weeks since I started to look at, examine my own ideas and feelings about anything, so try to understand that I'm trying very hard not to say something to offend you at the same time I'm trying to be open and honest. I'm confused as hell about my own self without having to worry about taking advantage of you. In my whole life you're only the second woman who ever wanted me. I don't know how to react to all this."

"So how is it taking advantage of me to give me what I want?"

"Look. I really don't think I . . .er. . . we should do this thing. I think I should feel like the older man who wouldn't take advantage of a beautiful young girl, but that's not how I do feel at all. I feel like a confused young kid myself. Truth is I'd absolutely love to have. . . er. . . make love to you, but I'm just not sure it would be right. I'm not all that experienced. . .er. . . that is not experienced at all, But now there's this girl. . .er. . .woman that I think I'm in love with, that I've just moved in with. And even though we have this, sort of, arrangement where we are both supposed to be free to, er, you know. . .uh. . .date other people. And I'm not sure about how I feel about that either."

I stop for breath and she jumps in. "Now you listen to me and don't interrupt. You can make up your own mind about your own body, your own feelings. If you have your own personal reasons for turning me down, that's cool. But don't make any decision because of what you think I feel or need or want. That's for me to decide. And I've decided. I've got the time. I've got the place. I've got the pill. And I've damn sure got the inclination. The only thing I don't have is the man. Now, I want that man to be you, but if you say no, I'll go to my second choice. And if he won't do it either, I'll go back to the coffee house and let a stranger pick me up. Don't you see that all this reluctance on your part just proves to me that I was right. Most guys wouldn't have thought twice about it."

"So! I'm old enough to decide this and I've made up my mind. And now it's time for you to make up your mind because we're here," she says, holding up a key on its large plastic holder and pointing. I feel like a foolish child, for she has led me to a point directly across the street from her selected trysting place, a moderately seedy motel.

Inside, she stands shifting her diminutive form back and forth self-consciously from foot to tiny foot. I, too, feel nervous, stand uncertainly across the room from her. The bed between us seems an ocean to be crossed. She begins to silently unbutton her blouse.

"Wait." I say simply. Moving around the bed to deemphasize its importance, I take her in my arms, kiss the top of her head. She turns her face up to me. "Scared," I ask?

"A little," she admits.

"Me, too." I reply honestly

I turn and sit her on the bed. I could easily carry her around the block, so small and light she is. I lean and kiss her lips warmly, easing her down on the mattress.

Lying beside her, I kiss her gently, then more passionately; put my arms around her and draw her to me. The kiss goes on and on. After a while I begin to caress her, touching every part I can reach, slowly, softly, gently. If I am to do this thing, I have decided, I will do it right, make it right, for her. She, in her trusting innocence, has chosen me and I am determined to do my inexperienced best, to make it the wonderful experience she hopes for. I remember the harsh crudity of my first time, atop a whore who, purchased without my knowledge or consent by two of my Air Force buddies, cared too little to pretend, while I sought only to shoot my seed hurriedly and repeatedly into any available female receptacle.

Without breaking the kiss, I pull partly away to fumble with her buttons, wishing I were more expert. Beneath her simple blouse, she wears no bra, so her pert, apple-like breasts are immediately exposed. The air in the room is somewhat chilly. Her nipples stand smartly up amid a forest of smaller goose bumps. Margo draws her breath in sharply, drawing breath from me, as I gently brush them with my palm. Her mouth clamped firmly now to mine, she is breathing my breath, inhaling my essence, imparting a mystical, almost spiritual feel to our encounter.

Leaving her briefly, I move to stand at her feet. I reach, unzip her jeans and reach for the waistband. She lifts her hips eagerly and slithers out of the denim.

In very few movements I am naked, casting my clothing wherever it lands. Her body before me is so fine and light, so thin and white as to seem almost transparent. She so tight, so new, that nothing of her shows from within. Between her slightly spread legs there is only a dark secret line, surrounded by fine, almost straight, very red hair, contrasting sharply with her paleness.

Eyes flickering open at the loss of contact, she smiles and reaches for my manhood, standing straight and strong, nearly touching my navel.

"Not now, not yet," I tell her. "Maybe later. You have trusted me this far. Will you trust me further, let me take charge?"

Her voice is shy and quiet as she gives her consent, turns her body, herself, over to me. As I stand looking down at her naked form, the thought which occurs to me, that this is she, my Virgin Mary, for real and in the flesh; nearly makes me go soft. A second later, the same thought renews my passion, spurs me on. Now I am in this completely for myself as well.

Starting at her feet, I kiss, lick, nibble my way slowly to her forehead and back again, pausing at strategic spots: the gentle curve of her flat stomach, her nipples, the sweet hollows above her collarbones, the tender arch behind each knee, the luscious sweep of her inner thighs. When my lips and tongue finally begin their curious, cautious exploration of that thin dark line at her center, she moans softly. I am amazed that the taste of her is so individual, so different from the dank musky taste of Lynette. She has almost no taste at all, like clear warm spring water, the distillate of her virgin center. I am patient and tender as Lynette has begun to teach me. Only much later, after she has cried out to her Maker, "Oh God! Oh my God!", do I enter her. There is only a slight shudder and whimper of pain as I press slowly, slowly, inward. I continue gentle gradual penetration and slow withdrawal for a very long time, though my body is screaming with the need for release. Eventually she throws her arms around me and draws me deeply in.

"Put your legs around me, too. Lock your feet behind me," I command! We finish with her hanging suspended beneath me, her body completely off the bed, at first swaying gently with each thrust, but finally swinging strongly back against each stroke. Her cheeks, chest, belly and thighs become suffused with a deep red glow. In our final synchronized race to completion, there is joy in mutual oblivion, bodies out of control, souls out of time; soaring, soaring; then plunging down, back to the present, to that wrinkled and sodden motel bed.

A while later as I withdraw, rolling over to keep her in my arms, I realize that she is softly weeping, wetting her freckled cheeks.

"Margo? Are you okay?" I say, holding her at arms length. "I'm sorry if I hurt you?"

"Ssh. Don't talk. Just hold me."

"But why are you crying? I didn't mean to hurt you!"

"Men," she says. "Will you just shut up and hold me for a few more minutes? We can talk in a little while."

So I lie there holding her and wondering, worrying. After a few minutes I hear that she is murmuring softly to herself. As her sobbing subsides, I can finally make out that she is repeating,"I knew it. I knew it," over and over.

She is talking now so maybe it is all right if I do. "What? What did you know? Is it all right? Are you hurt? Are you sorry we did this? What?"

"What I'm saying, what I mean you big dummy, is that I knew I was right to pick you. I knew you'd be the right one. I knew you'd make my first time as wonderful as you just have. You were so perfect, so right.."

"Then why are you crying?"

"Silly. I'm crying because it was so perfect, so wonderful."

"Then you're all right? You're not hurt or upset?"