While puberty’s puppet shadow romantically fantasied during soapy showers, I remained boy shy, embarrassed of my background, full lips, big teeth, skinny body, and enlarged breasts. If a boy tried to talk, I assumed he wanted to mock me. My siblings already assured me I was ugly. I didn't need supplemental verification.

Attending Notre Dame ensured there weren’t boys to evade at school. Riding the bus meant I left too early and returned home too late for interaction with neighborhood boys. My good grades, ability to cook, sew, help run the house, these were the assurances I was better than others, if unattractive.

In the morning, Mom and I walked to a bus stop on Story Road, a couple of blocks from our house. We rode the bus together, her to work and me to school. In the afternoon, if we met at the downtown bus stop, we rode home together.

On a cold, 1967 January afternoon, Mom and I walked home together from our Story Road bus stop. Next door to our house, I met my future husband. He was twenty-one, I, sixteen.

His family, in a step-down, had just moved in. They were white. He was washing his car on his driveway. As Mom and I passed, he looked up, a washrag in one hand, a hose gurgling water in the other and smiled openly. I assumed it was a smirk about us being Asians or my looks and pretended not to notice him. Mom smiled back.

The next afternoon, again blustery cold, I walked home alone, a hand-knitted sweater over my school uniform blouse. When I turned the street corner to our house, I saw him on his front porch. I changed my gaze to the discarded Christmas trees along the curb awaiting pick-up and increased my gait. I wanted to pass by unnoticed, my books and Pee Che folder held in front for defense.

He left his porch perch, boldly stepped on the sidewalk, blocked my path and asked, when I tried to go around him.

"What school do you go to where you need to ride the bus?"

Who does he think he is to speak to me without an introduction?

I hugged the books and Pee Che folder closer, looked down at my feet, then back up to face him.

He knows where I go to school by my uniform. He knows why I ride the bus. What makes him think he can block my path?

His hair’s almost blond, cut short, not a crew cut, just short with a little wave in front.  He’s just short of 6 feet, not a lot taller than me. Crystal blue eyes, he’s got crystal blue eyes.

Glancing away I responded meekly, "Notre Dame." Wishing I’d said, "It's none of your business!"

He replied, "I go to San Jose State in the morning, the college downtown, near Norte Dame, I'll give you a ride in my car tomorrow."

More affronts, asking me to drive with him and not asking my name, then admitting he knew about Norte Dame and assumes I’m stupid don’t know about the college.

"No, I can't. I ride with my mother."

Relieved I had an excuse to getaway.

"I'll take both of you".

"I know her answer, no!"

I walked past him without replying to his asking what my name was. In my room, I was pleased I’d, at last, summoned the courage to put him down. After setting my books on the dresser I wrote on my Pee Che folder, "Crystal Blue Eyes" then scribbled it out. I didn't tell Mom what happened.

After dinner, he showed up at our front porch and told a brother he needed to talk to Mom. When she came to the front door, he introduced himself.

"Hi, just moved next door and drive to San Jose State in the morning. You take the bus. Would you like a ride instead?"

"No, I leave early, go work, 7:15, go with daughter."

"That's when I leave, we can all go."

Mom thought about saving dime bus fares.

"What you charge?"

"Free, I just don't want to see you wasting time and money on the bus. It’s a free ride."

“I think about it. I ask husband."

She closed the door on him without saying more. He stood on the porch a moment then realized she wasn’t coming back and walked away. Her saying she was asking Dad was her excuse to get rid of him, her polite no. The next morning, however, his car was waiting in our driveway.

With no reason not to, we climbed in the back seat and exchanged names. I expected an agenda such as charging a dime or snide comments but he simply chatted about the cold weather and possible rain then dropped me off and said.

"Study Elizabeth."

He sped off with a pop of the clutch to take Mom to work. Girls standing around by the curb asked who he was.

“He’s just a neighbor.”

The pattern was repeated but after a week, when I got out of school, he was waiting for me.

“Elizabeth, over here, I’m here to pick you up. Hop in. We’ll go pick your Mom up. Come on, I’m not going to bite you. I promise.”

I stood next to the passenger door as he coaxed me in through the open window, nervous to ride alone with him. I’d have to sit on the front seat. It’d look stupid to ride in the back as if he was my chauffeur.  Disconcerted, hesitant, I got in and scrunched next to the door. Classmates looked amazed to see me get a ride, a ride with a young man with a 1957 hardtop Chevy.

Mom was walking toward our downtown bus stop when we caught up with her. She smiled seeing us, got in and forced me next to him. For the first time, I could smell him, a hair pomade scent with a hint of vanilla, possibly, greasy Dixie Peach. 

The next morning, we sat in the front with Mom sitting next to him. I became relaxed on the afternoon trips and scooted next to him if we picked up Mom and enjoyed the envy of classmates.

At sixteen, I was old enough to get a driver's license. After being chauffeured awhile, he showed up at the house on a Saturday morning. When I opened the front door, he asked.

"You want a driver's license?"

He replied to my vigorous nodded response.

"I'll get a learner's permit application and test study booklet. When you pass the test, I'll teach you to drive."

Worried Mom would overhear and say no, I put a hush finger to my lips, smiled agreement, closed the door and told Mom he’d just came to say he’d drive us Monday even though it was his Spring Break. She had started to worry about his interest in me but counted the dimes saved.

With his Spring Break, the week before Easter and Norte Dame's the week after, I went to school on Monday while he didn’t. He drove with the excuse he needed to study at school. In the afternoon pickup, he handed me a learner's permit application and study booklet before we met Mom.

I hid them in my Pee Che folder and in the security of my room, completed the application and read the booklet. Tuesday, during school lunch break, I walked to the county courthouse and got a copy of my birth certificate from the county registrar. I learned my mother's maiden name; I was born at home and was relieved my father's name was on it.

My next-door driving instructor got an affidavit for my parent's signature to allow me to get a license as a minor. I shuffled it among school papers for their unquestioned signatures. Neither read what the school had them sign. With the study book memorized, application and parental consent completed, I subtly said while driving to school with Mom.

“I’ve studied, completed my homework and am prepared for my test.”

“Great, you’re ready to rock and roll.”

Mom assumed we co-conspirators were referring to a school exam. That afternoon, before we picked Mom up, he asked when I could take the test.

“On Good Friday, the nuns, troop us over to Saint Joseph's for the Stations of the Cross. I’ll sneak out of the group when we walk through the civic center park and hide at the corner behind an aspen tree. Pick me up there at noon.”

As a condemned sinner, I no longer cared about church orthodoxy. If the priest knew my soul status on taking communion, I’d be excommunicated.

At noon Friday, the students were trooped over to Satin Joseph’s, herded by vigilant nuns. As the group gaggled through the park, I drifted back and hid behind a tree, my school uniform an exclaiming of my escapee status. His car drove to the curb, I scrambled in and escaped undetected. Free for three hours, we drove to the Department of Motor Vehicles where I answered simple questions and got my learner’s permit. Before we picked up Mom, I agreed to take my first driving lesson early the next morning.

I was up, out the door and at his house by 6:30 AM before anyone at home was awake. He sat in his car with the engine running awaiting me. I climbed in and, as usual, scrunched next to the passer door. He smiled.

“My little mouse, always ready to scurry away.”

At least I am not his duck or bean pole. Is he commenting on my Oriental nose? What’s this, I’m his?

He patted the seat area next to him. I scooted over, the biggest move in my life. Thereafter, I was his.

He drove to a secluded hill, faced the car downhill, parked, got out, came to the passenger side and eased me behind the steering wheel. Sitting close, he explained the ignition key, the parking brake, the floor brake, clutch and gas foot pedals, and shift lever leaving me totally confused.

With the gears in neutral, the parking brake on, he said.

“Use the ignitions key to start and turn off the engine. Turn the key right to turn off and left to turn on but before you turn it on, tap the gas pedal on the floor to goose some fuel into the carburettor.”

I turned the key to the right. The motor shut off. I tapped the gas pedal, turned the key left and restarted the engine. After I mastered this, he showed which was the clutch pedal, had me push it in with my right foot, took my hand and guided me through the “H” pattern of the gears. It was our first physical contact, a nervous sweaty one.

Confident I knew how to locate each gear on the stick steering wheel column, he had me shut the car off and let me release the clutch pedal.

“Elizabeth, you’re going to start the car in neutral, push in the clutch pedal with your right foot, shift to first gear and ease off the clutch until the car jerks forward. It’ll probably kill the engine but that’s okay, you can just restart. As soon as you feel the car wanting to jerk forward, push the clutch pedal back in until you get the feel of the transmission engaging when you release the clutch.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for this. Tell me again what to do.”

“Just do as I say.”

I followed his directions, the beginning of doing what he said to do. Soon I could tickle engage the transmission and quickly push the clutch in without killing the engine.

“Good, good now we’re ready to let the car creep forward in first gear. First, put the transmission in neutral.

Good, now let the clutch pedal out and push on the brake pedal with your right foot. Good, good, now release the emergency brake."

“Emergency brake? Where’s the emergency brake?”

"Sorry, that's the parking brake. It's also called an emergency brake. Good, good, now let the brake pedal out a bit. Good, push on it again. See how the car wants to roll down the hill when you release the brake?”

 “I think I’d better go home now.”

No, no, you’re doing great. Don’t worry. Now we’re going to cheat a little. Push the brake pedal with your left foot and take the right foot off.

Good, now push the clutch in with the right foot.

Good!

Now slide the shift lever into first gear.

No, that’s third.

Okay, good, now it’s in first. Now ease the clutch out to tease the transmission in.”

The car jerked forward and the engine died.

"Okay Elizabeth that's the trick of driving a stick shift, It's three pedals, brake, clutch, and gas. You ease out the clutch to tease the transmission in while easing off the brake then switch the right foot to the gas pedal. It appears complicated but once you get the knack, it’s easier than riding a bicycle.”

‘It took me a long time to learn to ride a bike. My older brother showed me.”

To simplify it in my mind, I named the pedals, brake, God the Father, clutch the Holy Spirt and gas, Jesus.

With the car in first gear, I released first God the Father, eased out the Holy Spirit and as the transmission kicked in gave Jesus a tap.

The car lurched forward with my sweaty palms clutching the steering wheel.

“Okay, okay, push the clutch and brake pedals back in!”

Confused, I left my right foot on Jesus and slammed my left foot on the Holy Spirit as the car coasted down the hill, the engine racing.

He leaned over me, pulled on the emergency brake, took control of the steering wheel and shifted the transmission into neutral. The car slammed to a stop

I took my foot off Jesus and the engine idled. “We better stop now before I destroy your car.”

No, no, that was better than I expected you to do! We just need you to keep doing it until you get the knack.”

It was a lie but I liked it and submitted to his control.

With the help of gravity, repeated attempts, more stalls, the Trinity eventually magically joined in harmony and the car moved forward in first gear. Soon the knack of comingling God the Father, the Holy Spirit and Jesus were easier than riding a bike.

He switched to the level stretch at the base of the hill. There, I repeated the process without the aid of gravity and after a few more stalls and jerk starts, I got to where I could move the car without killing the engine or jilting forward. Once I was confident at this, he made me shift to second, then third gears as the car raced to fifteen, then twenty miles an hour.

With wet palms, steering wheel and shift lever, I changed gears without his hand guidance. Relentless, he gave no succor and had me drive back to face the hill upward.  There, I struggled again, until I could get the car into gear and move uphill, without stalling.

We stopped after this accomplishment at a donut shop where he had coffee and me, tea. I rushed to the restroom to dry as much of me as I could. Back at the table, he kept smiling and telling me he knew I could do it while I fretted about body moisture.

Back at the car, he told me not to use my left foot unless necessary or I’d wind up pushing on the brake and gas pedals at the same time. He kept me driving until I could do stop signs and stop lights but after three hours, I panicked. I’d been gone longer than intended and knew my absence would be questioned at home. Why wasn’t I there to fix breakfast?

I had him drop me off at our Story Road grocery market where I bought a bottle of maple syrup, then walked home, still fretting over perspiration. By 10, everyone was up. They stared at me when I walked in. Mom demanded to know where I was.

“I’m sorry. I ran to get here. I met Julie; you know Julie. She has a new hairstyle. Cut short and bobbed in the back. I told her to stop by the house but she couldn’t. She has a boyfriend! I ran home when I realized how late it was."

I lifted my hair as if bobbed. As a condemned sinner, I’d become a good liar with Dad’s example.

He’d told a whopper with me in the passenger seat when stopped by a cop for speeding. He convinced the cop he wasn’t really speeding, just rushing home, a falsehood created by saying I wasn’t well. Then he diverted with a couple of truths. He explained Mom was Filipina and was the hysterical type. The officer asked where I felt ill. I whined.

“All over!”

He gave us an escort home and Mom was hysterical to see a cop car pull up. Dad tied his lie to diversion. When I questioned him about it he, explained how best to lie but to save them for when necessary.

Julie did have a new hairstyle and a boyfriend. I used the run home to cover my clothing sweat marks.

Lying with diversions sidetracks inquiries of your falsehood. If your lie is subsequently questioned, remembered the diversion and forget the lie, that’s what Dad said. 

My lie was forgotten as they gulped down the overdue pancakes. The topic of conversation shifted to why I wasted money on real maple syrup, a second schemed diversion. Dad didn’t eat pancakes. He looked at me askance and smiled while he ate his fried noodles but asked no question.

The following week was my school Easter Spring Break. Each afternoon, I walked to the Story Road market and drove out its parking lot for another lesson. Monday morning, after my Spring Break, he stood next to the car in the driveway and announced to Mom as we approached.

"Guess what? Elizabeth’s driving today."

Mom didn't believe him but he had me pull my learner's permit from my purse. Behind the wheel, I started the car, he sat next to me and Mom was next to the passenger door.  To her amazement and muttered protests, I adroitly backed out the driveway. On the street, her amazement grew to a comfort level. I pulled up to school, the girls nearby stared in amazement, I hopped out and he drove off to take Mom to work. My school status rose.

Soon afterward, I went with him, chaperoned by Mom, for my driver's test. With my rabbit’s foot talisman as a backup, I passed without difficulty and was issued a California driver's license with standard-issue, deer headlights picture, stare. My dark face, slanted eyes, and big lips looked back at me. It was my certification passage to adulthood, more defining than the Catholic Church’s sacrament of Confirmation. Dad let me drive the Buick to get his cigarettes and take Mom to the store for shopping.

My family status increased but Mom, worried about, "boy next door", as she called him. Dad referred to him as, "white devil", "yáng guǐzi" in Mandarin or as "guǐlǎo", in Cantonese if on a second bottle of plum wine.

Until getting my license, we were just neighbors. Soon after teaching me to drive, he came on a Saturday morning when Dad was on one of his weekend escapades and asked me to drive to San Francisco. Mom protested but with insouciance, I got in his car backed out our driveway and drove off, he next to me, an unofficial announcement he was a boyfriend.

I drove the Bay Shore Freeway, (aka Bloody Bay Shore), without a divider back then, to San Francisco. There he had me park at the base of a steep hill. I had sweaty palms from driving the freeway and on the city's confusing streets but he didn't let me rest. He told me to drive up the hill and stop at the crest.

With his prodding, I succeeded in not stalling at its crest and other steep hills he selected. By the end of the day, I could stay stopped at a steep hill's crest and make the light when it turned green without killing the engine. My legs were and ached but I was proud I’d harmonized the Trinity pedals on San Francisco’s steep hills.

He then guided me to Fisherman's Wharf. There, I assumed the next lesson was about parking but he had me park in an easy diagonal slot and turn off the engine. Turning to him questioningly, he leaned over and kissed me on the lips, my first boy-girl kiss.

Before I could respond, he got out, came around, opened my door and took me by the hand to Alioto's Restaurant. In the restaurant, I tried to act sophisticated with a boyfriend old enough to drink with a driver's license that aid I was a sixteen. I ordered cioppino, the first suggestion of the waiter.

Afterward, he drove home, me next to him. In front of my house, he kissed me again, longer and harder.

I giggled. He asked what was funny.

“I’m sixteen and never been kissed.”

I opened the door, ran in the house, undressed, showered and lay in bed with one hand cupping a breast and the other feeling my lips in wonderment. I had a boyfriend, me an ugly duckling.

After his chauffeuring, driving lessons, hanging around our house, and more kissing he was an official boyfriend, we always together. I couldn't believe a man, someone old enough to drink, a college student, wanted ugly me.

The weeks flipped past. Our entwined free time-shifted from driving lessons to getting to know one another chatter, but not the conversation. We talked about what songs and movies we liked, public affairs opinions, who our families were at the surface level. It was not intimate like with Julie who I blabbed everything to, including the kisses he took, none of which were longer than three seconds. It was puppy love, me the puppy.

At the end of my junior year, on my seventieth birthday, he asked me to see the musical movie, Camelot, at the California Theater on downtown’s First Street.

He showed up at the front door wearing a tie and sports coat. An elusive premonition overcame me as I changed to more formal attire. Re-dressed, back in the living room, my perplexed conjecture was the evening included a special birthday present.

Downtown, he splurged and parked in an attended parking lot rather than drive blocks looking for a free space as normal. When the attendant gave him two quarters in change for his dollar, I checked to see if they were silver which were disappearing from circulation.  Double luck, both were silver. I proffered two replacements but he simply gave them to me. Instead of requisitioning them as additions to my silver coin stash, I decided to convert them into a Kennedy silver half dollar for Mom.

Double luck but why’d he squander fifty cents to park, then give me the quarters? Is he treating me like a queen for my birthday? No, he’s afraid for his car. Downtown’s seedy now. Even Heart’s Department store’s closing.

The theater, now restored, was sinking into disrepair back then. The "old days", of ushers with cone flashlights guiding patrons to their seats a distant memory. Even in its faded glory, however, the theater's stereo speakers, big-screen presentation, opulent art deco décor, and the opera-like balcony provided a presentation not experienced at a drive-in or on a television screen. They lack a grand movie theater's dark, intimate connection with fellow viewers, a mystical connection only vaguely captured in modern multiplex theaters.

There was, however, smoke. Each seat had its little ashtray on an armrest. Moviegoers could puff away during the movie. To ask them not to would be met with an incredulous look, of.

 “What’s your problem?”

Looking up, the projector’s flickering light passed through the haze on its way to the screen creating a kaleidoscope of hues.

Seated together with popcorn and drinks, my mind wandered into the world of the movie.

What's the message, music, songs, love, love’s betrayal, happiness?

What do the simple folk do?

It’s a Cinderella tale. Guenevere’s an idiot. What more does she want? How can she be unsatisfied? Sir Lancelot’s a liar and a betrayer. I’d be loyal to my king.

After the show, we strolled, hand in hand, among the First Street throng to Original Joe's, a popular Italian restaurant landmark. The movie’s lyrics flitted about in my mind as melody residue.

It's not the earth the meek inherit.

It's the dirt

That’s my inheritance, dirt. I’d never be Guenevere, a fool for Sir Lancelot. I’d be happily-ever-aftering, Queen of Camelot, Camelot my Cinderella story.

Down the street, a WWII era searchlight scanned the sky in front of a war surplus store, the hum from its diesel generator faintly audible. Its light beam pierced the night sky in a rotating pattern, seeking shopping moths, not the enemy bombers it was built for.

Dad took us on a family searchlight adventure. He drove us packed in the Buick, to its source which announced the momentous event of a new furniture store, a marketing gimmick.

How about me? I yearn for a beam to pierce my night sky. Like Dad, I look for hidden meanings. Does the beam foretell an omen? Is it predicting a domestic furniture future for me? Is my newfound boyfriend a gimmick?

He had a reservation at Original Joe's. With name confirmation, we were led from the crowded entry to a red leather upholstered booth.

I’d eaten lunch there a few times with Mom when I was flush with cash. She’d come over from the hotel next door and I walked over from school. It was the first time I was there for dinner. Seated, we smiled in silence at one another across the booth table. The waiter came and handed us menus.

I noticed things cost more at dinner time versus lunch. He ordered their signature custom made ravioli dish for us. It was more expensive than spaghetti, an omen the night was special

Our order taken, we returned to staring at one another as the waiters, with a white towel draped over one arm rushed to and fro. Pasta at Original Joe’s came with a sniff of sophistication. We piled on parmesan cheese to ensure we got our money’s worth. With bread dipped in olive oil and balsamic vinegar, we ate our ravioli and mulled mundane observations about the movie.

I drifted into thoughts of Mom who worked as a maid next door.

Mom works so hard. She saves her Kennedy silver half dollars but never manages to fill her little stash box. How I love her, her and her maids naughty guest tales.

Interrupting my musings of silver and Mom, he asked.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

My mind switched to him. What’s he thinking? Why me? What’s he think about me? 

“A penny, aren’t they worth a dollar, a silver dollar?”

Silver was stuck in my mind since getting the quarters.

“Worth more than that. So what do you think?”

“I can’t believe I’m seventeen and going to be a senior.”

He kept staring, as if trying to say something but stuttered something inane about King Arthur. It was as if something eminent was up. At last, I said.

“You want a picture of me?”

He returned his attention to his pasta, dusting it with more parmesan cheese.

Getting dressed up, paid parking lot, silver quarters, movie theme, searchlight beam, Original Joe's ravioli were omens. I didn’t connect them.

Parked in front of my house, he kissed me, kissed me again, for almost three seconds, as if for reassurance. He pulled away, looked at me oddly, reached to the glove compartment, opened it, fumbled about, and took out a small jewelry box. He handed it to me but said nothing. Opening it I saw a ring, its little diamond light beam in a silver setting beaconed up.

Without taking it out, I turned and asked, incuriously, "You want to go steady?"

"No, I want you to marry me."

Closing the box, I looked down in confusion, a tear in my eye, saying nothing.

"Are you saying no?"

A few months earlier I’d never been kissed. Now I was facing a marriage proposal, one by a man hardly known. I sat silent, then asked.

"You want to marry a skinny, just seventeen, Asian, still in high school?"

My question, in truth, was to me.

"Me, poor, high school girl, just turned seventeen, Asian, marry a white man, five years older, graduating from university?"

"When I first saw you, I wanted you. We won't marry until you graduate. I’ll have a good job. I know I can’t offer Camelot but give me time, I can. Just nod yes."

I wouldn’t graduate for a year, a forever time to me then. Confused and seeking a diversion I replied.

"You need my parent's permission."

I gave back the ring.

"I'll ask them in the morning,"

He kissed me passionately, for the first time longer than three seconds. My breasts pushed up against him. He interpreted it as my consent to marriage. Breaking free, I ran in the house. On my bed, I tossed in confusion, still, a girl, life-changing too fast but wanting out of my house. Then I realized, it didn't matter.

My parents will say no.

The next morning, Saturday, he came over. Dad atypically was at home for the weekend. I stayed by the stove, looked down, absentmindedly cooked breakfast and pretended not to know the purpose of his visit.

He knew enough to ask Dad first and motioned him to the backyard as the house was too small for a private conversation. Dad, glad for an excuse to smoke, got his cigarettes and followed with his cup of tea.

I assumed Dad would say I was too young, still in school and he was not letting his only daughter marry a white devil. After Dad's cigarette and tea they returned with Dad nodding to me and smiling, his blessing. Next, he took Mom. It took longer and she returned crying but also nodding acquiescence.

He told them we wouldn’t marry until I graduated, he had a good job and he would "honor and protect" me. I suspected Dad's agreement was due to one less in the crowded house and the potential of a son-in-law to borrow from and Mom's tears of my not going to college were offset by my marring someone responsible, unlike Dad.

My brothers were excited at the potential of having their own bedrooms. No one asked if I agreed as they congratulated me while I served breakfast, stunned at the spontaneous change of my status.

So, it was, that Saturday morning, the day after my seventeenth birthday, my fate was decided. I was engaged, a girl, already taken, who in a year would leave home and school to become a man's wife, a man hardly known. It was as simple as that.

Suddenly, home and school, my focal points, no longer mattered. They were temporary lapses until marriage and having kids. I was "promised to another" and expected to be an adult but was still a girl. The parking lot, quarters, movie, searchlight, restaurant were omens. I just didn’t connect them and mused.

What’s a simple folk girl to do? I’m engaged, a simple girl is getting married, that’s what I got to do.

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 Dad 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 sheetrock, inside my bedroom closet, above the door. No matter how hard they searched, my safe was never discovered.

I suspect my safe's still intact and the current occupant unaware it’s there. 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.

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 the 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 wanted a husband who went to work in the morning, didn't drive away in the evening, a home we owned, a nice neighborhood, and two kids. In return, I'd be a super wife and mom. He didn't want to be his Dad and I was determined 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 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 were free. Once, we spent an evening at San Francisco Airport and watched 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 professional 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 graduation. Our 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. The Vietnam War 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 requisite security promised. His draft status initially kept our scheduled marriage uncertain, my future vague and our marriage unassured, despite the engagement.

Just after his graduation, his student deferment status switched 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" my betrothal sealed. I was taken, promised; marriage assured on high school graduation as 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. The church stridently condemned "the pill" which was changing the world. Among the girls at school, it was THE topic with the talk mostly 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 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 "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 "the pill" so I can have intercourse.”

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 him.

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, pregnant on the altar. While we came close, we didn't, “do it”. With our wedding assured I was okay with having intercourse 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 kissing goodnight 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 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. Vixen, thereafter she was my vagina 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 kissed me while we watched TV. I got up from the sofa and led 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 mount me. My pelvis leaped 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 spewed and sputtered, then squeezed out the last dribble as it deflated. 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 from his spent penis, testicles and thighs, proud of my accomplishment, awed by a feeling of power.  Thereafter his penis was tagged Squirt.

Dissipated we lay next to one another and he fell asleep. 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.