In that era of so-called sexual liberation, it was illegal in Massachusetts to prescribe birth control to an unmarried woman. In college, I’d lied to get the pill. I’d made sure the doctor in Boston knew that I was a doctor’s daughter.
He had family photos around his office, a wife and a son and a daughter. I hoped he would see some version of his daughter in me and at least pretend to believe that I was married. He wouldn’t want his daughter getting pregnant out of wedlock.
Abortion was a serious crime, as it would be for several more years. When my best friend in high school got pregnant, she’d had to go Puerto Rico for an abortion, accompanied by her bewildered, immigrant parents. None of us were certain about what sex meant or didn’t.
Was it a recreation or a commitment? How did you keep the heart from being confused by the body? And what did any of it have to do with love, whatever that was? You slept with people you met at a dinner party, with fellow guests staying with mutual friends. A friend brought home a guy who lived in a cave and whom she’d picked up at a swap meet in Orlando. You didn’t expect sex to be more than it was.
It could be transcendent. Or not. You pretended to have no expectations, even when you did.
Sometimes you had sex with someone because it seemed less complicated than saying no, though you knew that the person would have been perfectly gracious if you refused. There were frequent misunderstandings. Possessiveness and jealousy wer.
