falling in love with jesus and nancy reagan

“Cottage cheese?”

“Yes.”

“Eww!”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Yes, that is disgusting,” Mrs. Krause assured us. “But that, unfortunately, is one of the possible outcomes of sexual intercourse.”

Mrs. Krause had just informed us of a lesser-known consequence of sex – vaginal discharge that resembled cottage cheese. She had gone through the gruesome symptoms of sexually transmitted diseases: boils and oozing sores, burning and itching, creepy crawlies clinging to our pubic hair. We listened with mild interest, doodling in our notebooks and yawning off sleep.

Cottage cheese, however, was something half of my class ate every day for breakfast. It was a food product that we actually consumed. To associate a sexual side effect with a beloved breakfast food was just wrong. Was she trying to scare us off of sex or dairy products?

Mrs. Krause was our religion teacher. She was filling in for our health teacher, Nurse Ruby, who was out with the flu. Mrs. Krause seized this opportunity, holding us hostage and terrorizing us with her tales of possible genital woes.

Rumor had it that Mrs. Krause had once been a nun who hadn’t been able to keep her libido tucked neatly under her habit. She wore long, shapeless skirts that blended into the gray walls. Her blouses were loose and buttoned right up to her neck. Her lips were puckered as if she were holding pins between them, ready to sew scarlet letters onto our uniform sweaters.

“That’s right, girls. Sometimes you can get an infection from sex. And that infection will produce thick, chunky discharge, much like cottage cheese, that will be present in your underpants and all over your genitals.”

Our faces curled as if we were smelling spoiled milk. Mrs. Krause spread her legs and bent her knees, looking down and pointing at her own nether regions.

“Your genitals will become swollen and red. A burning itch will consume you. The only way to sooth the terrible itch is to take a bath in oatmeal.”

Great. That made two breakfast foods I would never eat again.

“You know how it is, girls. You’re alone in the basement with your boyfriend. You’re on the couch. It’s dark. Your eyes are closed.”

At this point, Mrs. Krause closed her eyes and traveled to her own basement memories. She swayed back and forth to some imaginary rhythm. The class perked up, leaning over desktops to see what would happen next.

“Things get hot and heavy. Your shirt’s still on, but your bra’s long gone. His hands are creeping up your stomach towards your….”

We all sucked in our breath, looking wordlessly at one another as Mrs. Krause began to pump her pelvis back and forth, hands traveling up her blouse. Her face flushed crimson as a sweat moustache appeared on her upper lip.

“Your privates start to tingle. Your mind is saying no, but your body is shouting yes!”

“Oh, baby. Yes!” Someone moaned from the back of the classroom.

We all snickered and giggled, and Mrs. Krause’s sexual spell was broken. Her eyes shot open. She looked the way I felt in those dreams where you’re giving a speech in front of your class, and you suddenly realize you’re naked.

“Enough, girls! This is not a laughing matter. This is your future we’re talking about here. One lustful night can ruin it all. Do you want your genitals to look like cottage cheese?”

“No, Mrs. Krause,” we responded solemnly.

“Remember what Nancy Reagan said, girls. Just say no!”

“Um, Mrs. Krause?”

“Yes, Jeannie. What is it?”

“Wasn’t she talking about drugs when she said that?”

“Nancy Reagan was referring to whatever is immoral, whatever will crush your soul.”

“I don’t remember her mentioning my soul.”

“Well, it was inferred. So when you are in that dark basement, when your body is begging you to give in to temptation, ask yourself – what would Jesus do?”

“Why would Jesus be in the basement with my boyfriend?”
Before Mrs. Krause’s neck veins could explode, the bell rang and we quickly got up and headed for the door.

“Girls. You are not alone on that couch. Jesus and Nancy Reagan are sitting beside you. Cottage cheese, girls. Remember!”

We filed out of class, one by one. In that instant, the entire class took a silent vow to abstain – from cottage cheese – forever.

“What does it feel like when a guy comes inside of you?’” Nurse Ruby read off of the slip of paper in her hand.

We fidgeted in our seats, desperate for the answer but not wanting to seem too interested. Now that Nurse Ruby was back, we returned to our regular routine. Health class always began this way. Nurse Ruby had each of us write an anonymous question about health or sex (the questions were always about sex), on a piece of paper and drop it in the question box. She would then answer a few questions honestly and openly. It was the best ten minutes of every day.

“Well, let me see. It doesn’t hurt or burn. A little squishy, maybe. Very quick, like a squirt. Warm and wet. I hope that answers it for you.”

Nurse Ruby was the mother we all wished for. She was patient and calm, never shocked or repulsed by our questions. She responded to each question as if she were simply telling us the time. Our own mothers would have dragged us to confession by the hair, showering us in holy water and demanding the demons be gone from our damned souls.

Most of our questions dealt with sex and how not to get pregnant. Would douching with Coca Cola after sex prevent pregnancy? (No.) Could you get pregnant if you jumped up and down after sex? (Yes.) Were you still a virgin if you had sex while on your period, and could you get pregnant while you had your period? (No, and yes.)

Nurse Ruby showed us our first actual illustration of a penis as if it were the periodic table. I had seen my fair share of penises – after all, I had a brother and three years worth of professional babysitting and diaper changing. But those were itty-bitty penises. These illustrations were of full-grown men, with wiry hair and bulging veins. It was like the difference between a Chihuahua and a Great Dane.

Nervous giggles sizzled through the room like electricity. Some girls covered their eyes while others strained to memorize every detail.

“That’s it?”

“It’s not what I expected.”

“It’s so ugly.”

“That thing’s not getting inside of me.”

“I thought it would be bigger.”

“The good ones are.”

“It’s not the size of the wave. It’s the motion of the ocean.”

“Ladies, calm down,” Nurse Ruby interjected. “The size of a man’s penis is no more important than the size of your breasts. It’s what a man does with his penis that matters.”

I had never been so confused. What did she mean? What was a man supposed to “do” with his penis? I thought it was simple, like those illustrations that showed how to put a model airplane together. Put Peg A into Slot 1. What else was Peg A supposed to do? Flip burgers? Change a light bulb? Shovel snow? How many different ways were there for Peg A to get into Slot 1 anyway?

“What’s the matter with you?” Mom asked when I dragged into the house that afternoon.

“Nothing,” I responded on my way to my room.

I had barely been able to look at Mom, or Dad, after what I had heard. It was horrible. I didn’t know if I could look either of them in the eye ever again.

One night a few weeks before, I had woken up, needing a drink of water. Just as I was about to get out of bed, I heard Dad groan the way he did when his back went out. I wondered if he would need the heating pad, which was buried under my bed. As I was searching for the heating pad, I heard Mom and Dad’s bed creak like Erin was bouncing on it. I froze, feeling my blood run cold throughout my body. Every hair on my head stood on end. The creaking became more insistent and Dad’s grunting became louder. And then, I heard it.

“Oh, John. It feels so good!”

Mom only ever sounded like that when she was eating cheesecake. I doubted she was eating cheesecake while Dad was jumping up and down on the bed.
Mom continued to moan as Dad grunted like he was pushing a Cadillac up a hill. I wished I could pound myself in the head with a hammer to cause amnesia, or pour acid into my ears so I wouldn’t hear those horrible noises anymore. I burrowed under my blankets and pinned two pillows over my head, humming the Star Spangled Banner to drown out the sounds.

I knew my parents had sex. Of course they had had sex – they had three children. But, up until that moment, I had honestly assumed that they had only had sex three times! I mean, they didn’t ever hug or hold hands. Dad didn’t even call Mom by name. He whistled at her whenever he needed to get her attention. I wasn’t naïve. I knew other parents had sex. My friends had told me stories about walking in on their parents, or finding secret books and tapes stashed under mattresses. But my own parents? Why did they have to have sex?

Coming home from school that day, I was still traumatized by knowing, and hearing, about my parents’ sex life. There was no way I could ask Mom the questions I had brewing in my head after Health class. She would automatically assume I had asked so I could put the answers to practice. No, that wouldn’t do. There was only one solution – I had to slip my question into Nurse Ruby’s question box.

I wrote and rewrote my question that night, trying to disguise my handwriting so Nurse Ruby wouldn’t know the question had come from me. I constructed big, fat letters with hearts over the i’s, unrecognizable from my usually neat and restrained penmanship. There was no way Nurse Ruby could identify the author of the note now.

The next day, I raced into Health class before any of the other students arrived. I placed my note on top of the others in the question box and ran to my seat. As the other students took their seats around me, I tried to slow my breathing and calm my pounding heart.

“Morning, girls,” Nurse Ruby smiled.

“Morning, Nurse Ruby,” the class responded. I moved my lips, but no sounds came out. My mouth was a parched desert.

“Let’s see what the question box has for us this morning.”

Nurse Ruby reached her hand into the box and pulled out a note – my note! I could tell it was mine: I could see the purple ink through the white paper. (I had used one of Erin’s purple pens to further cloak my identity.) My heart pulsated in my ears so loudly I was afraid I wouldn’t hear the answer to my question.

Nurse Ruby smiled as she unfolded my note. As she read my question, however, her face rearranged itself into a question mark. Creases folded over her forehead. Her nose wiggled like a rabbit’s. Her lower lip worked itself up and down as she scanned the question again and again.
Nurse Ruby flipped my purple-scripted paper over, staring at its blank back. She searched the classroom with her worried eyes, and then studied the question once again.

“What’s it say?” someone asked.

“Just read it. We can take it.”

“Yeah, we wanna know.”

I squeezed my hands together and sent up a fervent prayer: please God, don’t let her read my question out loud. Please send a 40-day flood or a plague of locusts or even a good old-fashioned fire drill, but don’t let Nurse Ruby read my question out loud!

“I’m sorry, girls. I’m just not understanding this question. I’m trying to think of a proper response, but I don’t know what to say.”

“Maybe we can help.”

“Yeah, we can figure it out.”

“Just read the question!”

“All right, here goes.”

Nurse Ruby’s usually composed manner was crumbling somewhat. It was clear that I was an even bigger freak than I had feared.

“The question is: ‘what does a penis do?’”

“Like, what is its profession?” a girl asked.

“It gets you pregnant.”

“Gives you herpes.”

“Keeps you up all night.”

A wave of laughter rippled across the classroom. My own manic giggles swelled up and overpowered the voices around me. My cackles were louder and lasted longer than that of the girls around me. I had joined in so as not to be suspected as the author of the note, but now my uncontrollable outburst was drawing unwanted attention to me.

“Oh, that’s funny!” I gasped, tears pooling in my eyes. “What does it do? Who wrote that? Come on, ‘fess up!” I chuckled as the others’ laughter subsided.

“All right, Noreen. Settle down. We don’t want to embarrass whoever wrote the note. I would just ask that the girl who wrote it rethink the question and submit it again. Next question.”
I exhaled a mouthful of air, and my heart settled back into my chest. My relief at not having been found out was quickly replaced once again by my confusion over a penis’ capabilities. I decided that the question box was too risky to try again. I would just have to live with not knowing.

School wasn’t all about sex ed. I learned that cramps could get you out of Algebra and onto a cot with a hot water bottle and a mid-morning nap. Mr. Guerrero, our Spanish teacher, could be talked out of a quiz if asked questions about his family home in Spain. Cool Ranch Doritos on a Kaiser roll was the cheapest, and tastiest, meal in the cafeteria. Walking on the wrong side of the stairs would get you punched in the shoulder by a jaded upperclassman. Punching a jaded upperclassman in the gut after she punched you in the shoulder would get you both detention.
I made another discovery that I did not think was safe to share with anyone: I was absolutely, head over heels, running through a field of wild flowers in love - with high school. I cherished every several-hundred-page textbook that I lugged around each day. I daydreamed about the symbolism in The Great Gatsby the way other girls pictured their prom dresses. I loved cramming for exams on the bus and reading late into the night, knowing I would be exhausted in the morning from having done so much homework. I shined the pennies in my loafers and proudly wore my nametag. I was, in fact, a closeted nerd. And nothing could have made me happier.

Nothing, that is, except for having a boyfriend. For the first time in my life, I felt like a normal girl. I had a boyfriend who kissed me on the lips, with tongue, and it wasn’t on a dare. I had someone who actually thought I was pretty. All of the other girls seemed so Barbie doll perfect, with porcelain skin and lipstick that never seemed to smudge. I had seen girls reduced to puddles over a single little pimple visible only through the lens of a NASA telescope. What must they think of my toad-like complexion?

Making friends with girls had always been difficult for me. Boys were easy – I knew how to throw a baseball, catch a football and climb a tree. I might come home bruised and scraped after a day of roughhousing with the boys, but girls could gut you with their razor sharp tongues. I knew what I looked like, and no amount of eyeliner or blush could hide it. So, I looked for our common ground and stood firmly on it.

When meeting a girl for the first time, I brought up Steve almost immediately to seem (and feel) normal. I practically introduced myself by saying: “Hi, I’m Noreen-I-have-a-boyfriend-he’s-the-greatest.” Or, if a girl were talking about a movie she had just seen, I’d add, “Oh, my boyfriend Steve wants to see that.” A girl eating a slice of pizza would prompt me to say, “My boyfriend Steve just loves pizza. It’s his favorite food in the world.”

I felt like a fraud. I had become one of those girls, the ones I had always despised, the ones who only talked about their boyfriends. But surprisingly, it seemed to work. I rolled my eyes with the other girls who complained about their boyfriends’ disgusting habits and annoying taste in music. I could go on double dates, and rest my head on someone’s shoulder in a darkened movie theater. Slowly but surely, I settled into my pockmarked skin and walked a little taller in my penny loafers.