Chapter One: Is That All There Is? Larry won’t sleep with me because he’s noble. Most college guys want to sleep with me because they’re not. Whatever I do I’m screwed. I’m filled with ennui and read lots of Kafka. I elect an entire course on him and wind up feeling worse. The guy could send a cockeyed optimist off the ledge. I write reams of bad poetry pulsing with sexual images of snow thawing, blood spurting, ultimatums for resisting the nose of fate. I am slowly going out of my head. Most of my friends have already done it. Everyone talks about it. I want to save myself for Larry, my first love, but he doesn’t want me. Why wait for love or marriage? I could be dead tomorrow. My father died six months ago of chronic heart failure. He was 58-years-old. In March, I’m still vacillating about my virginity when I meet Charlie in the CCNY cafeteria. He slouches, at the table next to me, leering like Brando in Streetcar. My friends Ilana and Dorothy are oblivious, but I can’t ignore him. My heart begins to thud. “Nice Jewish girl?” He smirks, pointing to my ham and cheese sandwich. I shrug. “I was raised Orthodox. Now I only eat ham and cheese or BLTs.” Kowalski Jr. pulls up the empty chair next to mine. He sits so close our thighs brush. I inch away. He cackles. “I’m Charlie. And you’re?” “Debbie.” I push my plate away. Charlie picks up the remaining sandwich and devours it. Then he wipes his mouth with his hand. I look down at my lap. My hands feel wet. Charlie murmurs. “So, Debbie, you’re a virgin.” “What?” I feel myself flush and glance at my friends. They’re whispering.  He begins massaging my back. I stiffen. “I can always spot virgins.” "You can sniff us out, huh." I'm glad he can't see my face. My cheeks are burning. "You're all right." He stops rubbing, but doesn't drop his hands. I check my watch. My next class is in five minutes. I push Charlie away and gather my stuff. “Can’t wait to get away from me?” He groans. “All the cute girls leave sooner or later.” I start walking away, almost tripping in my haste. I’ve never met anyone as ballsy as Charlie. He’s sexy, but I’m not sure I like him. “Hey, Debbie, you dropped something,” Charlie calls after me.  I stop and turn. Charlie picks up the book and scans the cover. “L’Etranger.” His eyes narrow. “My lucky day. A smart and pretty virgin.” I wag my finger at him. “You’re bad.” “And you love it. JAPS always do.” I grit my teeth. JAP is short for Jewish American Princess. I just love being reduced to a stereotype. “I’m not a JAP.” “Right.” Charlie smiles slyly. I grab my book and rush off. “See you around, sexy.” Charlie is twenty-one and nine credits shy of a BS degree. He should be in grad school or working, but Charlie pretends not to care. He’s always joking, but behind that insolent grin, I suspect there is a hurt little boy. He starts dogging me in the cafeteria, the lounge. My friends become his friends. He insinuates himself into my life as smoothly as baby oil. I am flattered when I’m not feeling confused or mortified. One sultry morning in April as I write in my journal, sitting shoeless on the campus lawn, Charlie ambushes me, grabbing my notebook. “Hey, what’s this? I am a flame burning with passion. I am a body pumping with blood. I am a soul elevated for thought. I am Dionysius, liberator of all. Blood rushes into my face. “Give me that back.” I jump up, squinting against Charlie and the sun. He looks me up and down. “Hot stuff. Hard to believe.” “Gee, thanks,” I say. “Now give me that.” I snatch my journal. He starts gyrating. “Ooh, baby, you want me.” I groan. Just as he knows I melt when he calls me baby, it’s his face I see when I turn out the light. In late May, I say goodbye to Charlie. I’m moving to Queens. We drink Sangria from mismatched glasses and toast my future at his sublet apartment on W. 118th Street. I swallow fast and feel buzzed. We start to make out. It’s hot. There’s no air conditioner. Charlie urges me to shower with him. How romantic. Afterwards he drapes me in a towel. I feel cool and relaxed. Before I know it, Charlie is on top of me, thrusting away. After a quick flash of pain, the moment I’ve been waiting for all my life is over. Charlie crows. “I feel good. Did the earth move for you, too, baby?” I smile. Something moved, but it wasn’t the earth. He looks at me reprovingly. “I used a condom this time. But I hate them. You’ve got to get the pill.” I nod. “I’m thirsty. Want anything?” “Ice water.” I look down, feeling shy. I hate my naked body. “You may want to clean yourself off.” In the bathroom, I look in the mirror. I’m glowing. I touch my face. I’m officially a woman! I shower again then join Charlie in the kitchen. “When I was younger, women called me an Adonis.” Charlie prances in the nude, guzzling a can of soda. I gaze at him. Charlie is broad-shouldered with a tapered waist and strong muscular legs, but he’s getting a double chin and his stomach bulges. He has light brown curly hair, finely chiseled cheekbones, and a dissolute mouth. Charlie fixes himself a hefty cheese sandwich and offers me a bite. I don’t want anything but water. I don’t care about appearing dainty. Desire kills my appetite. Between mouthfuls of food, Charlie studies my body. I sense him memorizing every imperfection and suck in my belly. Okay, so I’m not Twiggy, but I have good legs, eyes, and hair. Charlie says none of the sweet words I long to hear. There is no love in his eyes. I don’t love him either, but I want to feel something since he is my first. After wolfing down the sandwich, he burps several times. I stare at him. He starts singing “We Won’t Get Fooled Again,” strumming an invisible guitar, but all I hear is Peggy Lee’s voice: Is That All There Is? If That’s All There Is, My Friend, Then Let’s Keep Dancing, If That’s All There Is. A week later I’m crouched on a plastic chair at Planned Parenthood, waiting to be called. “Debbie Reiser. Debbie…” They call my name twice before I realize they mean me. I used Charlie’s surname as a precaution. I stand up and try to smile at the nurse, but my jaw is tight. Two hours later, I leave with a vial of pills and a wicked smile. If my mother only knew. But the wonder of birth control ends a week later when I develop cramps on both calves. I can’t walk and panic. “It could be a blood clot,” says Susan, one of my best friends. My mother and sister have a history of varicose veins and clotting. I am going to die. When mom goes out food shopping, I toss the packet of pills in the incinerator. I finally discover the real source of the cramps. I’ve been biking several miles a day on my new Raleigh three-speed and strained my muscles. But I never swallow another birth control pill. I return to Planned Parenthood for a diaphragm. I hate the way it smells. I’m never sure if it’s in right. When I tug it out after six hours inside me, yuck, the diaphragm makes a squishing sound as pungent spermicide and love juices spill down the drain. Sometimes I find traces of my blood on the rim. My Svengali now exhorts me to use tampons. I am amazed at how easily the applicator slides into place. It’s so much cleaner and more comfortable than napkins. Turning me on to tampons may just be Charlie’s greatest contribution to my life. Charlie moves out of Manhattan and into his mother’s home in Astoria, Queens, an hour and two buses away from my apartment. Unemployed, Charlie takes up the full-time job of criticizing his mom and me. I see him maybe five or six times that summer, waiting for the orgasm that never happens. Oblivious to my needs, Charlie fancies himself a great lover, thinks talking dirty makes him good in bed. Sometimes I look at him as though he’s this roguish character from a novel. If he’s fictitious, his off-color remarks about women pass for amusing. But when his comments turn personal, I lose my sense of humor. “Will you look at the size of those knockers,” he says, drooling over Anna, one of my friends visiting for the day. Now that I live on the beach, it seems I’ll never be lonely in the summertime. “She’s not that pretty.” Anna has great cleavage, but her stringy brown hair and brown eyes are ordinary. He snorts. “Who cares about her face?” Then: “Why don’t you have tits like that?”  I look away, biting my lips to keep from crying. “If you lost twenty pounds, it wouldn’t matter.” My chin quivers. I start walking down to the ocean, instantly soothed by the pounding of the surf. The louder it breaks, the calmer I feel. Charlie hates women. His first girlfriend broke his heart and now every woman is a cunt. The one time I met his mom, a divorcee with grey insurance company skin, they argued constantly. I’ll never forget Mrs. Reiser’s dowdy clothes, her dead eyes. Charlie could have been kinder. My mother always says that men who mistreat their mothers make lousy husbands. Mom loathes Charlie. When he opens the refrigerator, helping himself to food, Mom says nervy. I say macho. When he picks his toenails at the table, she says disgusting. I say assertive. My brother knows Charlie from Columbia and despises him. I don’t know the story, but am sure it involves a woman. I defend Charlie. Not for him. For me. After eighteen years of passive obedience, I’ve finally developed a voice. It may be defiant, reckless, masochistic, but it’s mine. By mid-July, Charlie’s bad boy charm has faded. He never takes me out or brings anything. He denigrates me. I want to break up, but don’t know how. Mom provides a way out. She will take me to Amsterdam, Paris, Nice, and Cologne. Despite her ulterior motives, I am grateful. Five weeks later, I return home feeling like a woman of the world. I met charming men and women, visited famous monuments and museums, and tasted exotic foods.  Charlie calls. “You sound different,” he says. “What were the European guys like?" “It’s none of your business.” “Want to go to a party Friday night? I’ll drive you there.” Charlie picks me up in a used truck. He’s working as a contractor. It’s a sign of growth. Maybe he really has changed. As we sit in the parking lot of my development with the engine idling, I chat about my trip while Charlie scans the directions. “I loved Amsterdam. The Dutch people are friendly and speak fluent English. I went to this rock-and-roll club. The Paradiso. It was so cool. Kids were lighting up Js. Paris is beautiful and French food, ooh la la…” I stop. “Sorry for babbling. I’m starting Brooklyn College soon and I’m nervous.” He looks up smirking. “Bring your diaphragm?” “What?” “I thought you might want to fuck. It’s been awhile.” “Are you for real?” I tremble with indignation. “Wait, Don’t be mad. I’m sorry,” Charlie looks abashed. “You know me. I say what’s on my mind.” I fold my arms. “I missed you, baby.” He reaches for me. “Bullshit.” I recoil, inching towards the door. “I was your first,” he says plaintively. “You still care about me.” “No, I don’t.” I turn the handle, my back to him.  “Please, Debbie, give me another chance.” He seems sincere. But it’s too late, baby. It’s too late. “Goodbye, Charlie.”