Odell Duke
WARNING: This article is part of Today’s Teen “Backroom” section. Only read this content if you have parental permission. Parents should be monitoring all internet access, we are not responsible for content viewed if parents do not take an active role in censoring what they wish for their child to see and not to see
“I knew I should have gotten you on the pill sooner,” was my mother’s unemotional reaction to finding out I’d just lost my virginity. I was sixteen.
It had been driving me crazy, really. I needed to tell my mom, I just had to. So that night, I got her away from my sister and whispered that I needed to talk to her. I followed her outside onto the back porch and where she lit a cigarette, looked at me expectantly.
“I had sex with Michael.”
She didn’t go bat shit crazy on me. She didn’t softly tell me how disappointed she was. Instead she said, “Okay… Did you think it was gross?”
Yes. My sweet, adorable mother thought I’d find sex so icky that I would never take off my panties again. Dream on, Mother. Dream on.
However delusional she was, I felt grateful that we could sit out there for a while talking and sharing a feeling that many girls aren’t able to share with their crazy moms. Plans were made to go to the health clinic.
My sister even got brave and came with us.
At the clinic I was asked the most awkward questions: When was the last time you had sex? Did you use a condom? How many sexual partners have you had in the past year? Does your mother know you’re here? Will you put some pee in this here cup?
So I surrendered my pee, a bit of my blood, and my great blood pressure (yes, I do have good blood pressure), and I was sent back to a waiting room.
A woman came in and put on unhelpful movies about sex and birth control; my sister and I had no choice but to watch them. After countless mind-numbing minutes I was called in for the big shebang… my first pap smear. I stripped down to my socks, put on one of those terribly uncomfortable hospital gowns, and walked to my doom.
Feet here and here… no get on the edge of the table, lean back; this will be a little uncomfortable… Just a little? Here I am, feeling so embarrassed with this strange women shoving god knows what inside of me, and she is casually carrying on a conversation with the nurse as if she is just cutting my hair!
“Blah, blah my daughter just graduated from Kindergarten. Isn’t that the cutest thing you’ve ever—No sweetie, wider, I need to get a sample of—there. Anyways, she had her little cap and gown, the poor thing was way too small for it.”
My last stop at the health unit was the long awaited pills. There was a nice woman who explained all about the pills to me. But before handing me the pills, she gave me a baggy full of nice treats that every sexually active girl should apparently have. First, she stuffed in enough condoms to have supported all the soldiers in the Vietnam War. Then she gave me a spermicidal lube for my girly part that still has never been used. There was the magic Plan B pill that I was reminded cannot be used as regular birth control. And lastly I received the magic pills I had come for…
My experience with getting on birth control is definitely better than most. I didn’t have to tell a million lies and sneak behind the all powerful parental units’ backs; I didn’t have to deal with a raging or extremely disappointed mother. Instead, I got hit with the mom that wanted to talk to my boyfriend afterwards. I got hit with the mom that made sure to tell us that sex was not at all like the pornos. I got hit with the mom that wanted to keep us safe.
