Bermuda Socks (1983)

Now that my parents aren’t together anymore, my dad takes me away practically every school break, to tropical places like Club Med and on cruises. For my eighth grade Spring Break he takes me to Bermuda, to this place called the Elbow Beach Hotel.

“Look at those colors, Babe! They don’t have colors like that back in Philly,” he says from behind his camera, snapping close-ups of purple hibiscus flowers.
“Yeah, I know Dad,” I say, rolling my eyes. At this rate we won’t get to the souvenir shops until he’s stooped in front of every bush on the island, which means I’ll probably never get anything. Next he makes me stand inside this gazebo in the middle of town where the police usually direct traffic. I grit my teeth while he directs me to look into the distance and smile with my mouth closed.
“Act natural!” he shouts across the street at me. “Don’t look at the camera! How about getting the hair out of your eyes?” I grip the railing and mutter to myself, just take the damn picture.

We rent a moped and I sit on the back clutching his belt loops. For about five minutes the road is straight and the hibiscus flowers blur purple and red by the side of the narrow road, but then we fall over turning a corner.

“God damn it, they have some sharp turns here,” he huffs, brushing gravel from his pants. “Are you alright?”
“I cut my knee,” I say, bending over and squeezing the skin around the wound, filling it with blood.
“Cut that out, Elise. You’re just making it worse.” He shoves his crumpled handkerchief at me.
“Is this used?” I ask, squinting up at him, sweating under my helmet.
“No, it isn’t used!” he says, like it’s an unreasonable question. “Look, wipe the dirt out of there, and I’ll put some Methiolate on it when we get back to the room.”
Nobody I know except for my dad uses Methiolate, and they all live to tell about their cuts and scrapes. It stings like hell and stains your skin this nasty Hawaiian Punch color, but he’s the doctor, so I guess he knows what he’s talking about.
“Can’t I please get my own moped?” I ask.
“You heard the lady at the rental place, Elise. You have to be fifteen.”
If only I was fifteen, I think, positive that I’ll never get there, that I’ll be thirteen and at my dad’s mercy for the rest of my life.

When we’re not sightseeing, we take it easy by the water. He gives me quarters for the video arcade and shuffles down to the beach, a bottle of Coppertone and a Bermuda newspaper tucked into his beach towel, while I hang out by the pool.

One day, this really cute older guy with wavy blond hair comes up to me.

“Hi,” he says. “Why aren’t you at the beach?”
“I don’t know,” I respond with a shrug.
“There’s a beauty contest going on down there. I don’t know why you wouldn’t enter,” he says, giving me a little wink.
I know about it. It’s a contest for college girls.
“I’m not in college.” Not to mention that I have no boobs and no tan.
“Neither am I,” he says. Does that mean he’s older? Younger? A dropout? “Do you have change for a phone call?”
“Sure,” I say, and reach for my pile of quarters on the concrete.
“I’m Marcus.”
“Elise.”
“Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he says, and holds out his hand for the quarters. I am too shy to press them seductively into his palm like I know I should, but then he pockets them and holds out his hand to shake mine and that’s when we officially touch. I dart my eyes from his face, suddenly feeling shy. He thanks me and with a second wink, says he’ll see me around. I think I’m in love.
* * *
I showered first so I’d have time to dry my hair and then feather it with my curling iron. My dad dozes on the bed in his big white Fruit of the Loom underpants, glasses propped on the tip of his nose, his chest scarlet red, except for the bright white creases where the sun didn’t reach him, under his man-boobs.

I packed my nicest clothes: black suede Peter Pan ankle boots, corduroy pants, and Ralph Lauren button-down oxfords. I don’t have any prissy sundresses or flippy little sandals like other girls wear on vacation because I am a city girl and people will know that by looking at me. They’ll wish they had black suede boots like mine.

As I wind a long strand of fake pearls around my neck to make a choker, my dad pours himself a shot from the bottle of Jack Daniels he keeps in his doctor bag.

In the Seahorse Dining Room, at a table for two by the window facing the pool, I order a cheeseburger, French fries, and a Coke. My dad offers me the cherry from his Manhattan but I scrunch my nose and shake my head because it tastes like earwax, drenched in “booze,” my dad’s word for alcohol. I eat my French fries with my fingers, one by one, dipped in ketchup until I notice him glaring at me. I scowl and pick up my fork.

“This is a nice restaurant,” he says, hunched over his crab cakes. “Does your mother let you eat with your fingers?”

In addition to Marcus, I have a crush on our waiter, Giovanni, who has an Italian accent and bleached-blond hair that hangs down over one eye. He smiles at me as he places an icy Coke on the table, the straw-paper spiraled around the tip, and believe me, he would ask me out if it weren’t for my father and my braces.F

“Isn’t he cute?” I ask my dad, in an effort to make friendly conversation.
He gives Giovanni the once-over while poking at his drink with a plastic sword. “He’s cute all right, a real cutie. Want me to introduce you? Maybe you can go out on a date.”
“Dad!” I whisper, through my teeth. I wish I could kick him under the table and get away with it. He has no right to make fun of my blossoming womanhood.

After dinner he goes back to the room to read in his underpants, and I go outside and sit on the concrete wall by the pool, lit for night. I can see Giovanni bus tables in the dining room from where I’m sitting, so I spy on him, fingering the pearls around my neck nonchalantly, the way a real woman would.

A fat teenaged boy does cannonballs off the diving board, which clangs every time he jumps and I have to duck from his gigantic splash. He’s ruining my romantic mood so I chant under my breath, “Drown, drown, drown.” When Giovanni disappears from sight I watch the fat boy dive. Every time he climbs out of the pool his bathing suit almost falls off and, and every time he pulls it up he looks at me, which I don’t appreciate because I am way out of his league.

From behind me someone says, “So we meet again,” and when I turn around, Marcus is smiling at me, the corners of his green eyes crinkling. He’s wearing the same shorts and thin white T-shirt from this afternoon.

“Hi,” I say, trying to keep my lips closed around the metal in my mouth.
“What is a beautiful girl like you doing out here all by herself?”
“Um, I’m here with my dad. He’s inside and I wanted to be out here.” I hope that sounded sophisticated.
“What was your name again?” he asks, and I tell him, but wonder how he doesn’t remember my name when I spent the whole day thinking about him.
“Marcus,” he says, touching his chest.
“I know.”
“It’s very peaceful out here,” he nods, lifting himself up onto the wall next to me. I watch his arms get muscular and manly, and watch his cute butt lift into the air. I want those arms around me, loving me. I want to squeeze his butt. Marcus gazes at the night sky, the pool, and the ocean beyond like maybe he knows that I’m staring.

“Yeah, except for him,” I say, jutting my chin at the cannonball teenager. I want to tell Marcus that the Cannonball teenager is ruining our romance, killing it before it gets a chance to bloom the way it should. Will he catch on? Oh God let him catch on.
Marcus laughs for a couple seconds and then suddenly squints at me, tilting his head.

“How old are you, beautiful lady?” I look at the ground, my face heating up all over again. The compliments stream out of his mouth like angelfish. Nobody’s ever called me beautiful before, besides my mom. And nobody’s ever called me a lady. But still, I hate the question he’s asking. The fate of my entire life rests on the answer.

“Uh,” I stall. Then, like a gift from God, I remember how my mom handled the situation when she met her boyfriend Bob—she’s thirteen years older than him.
“How old do you think I am?” I ask, lowering my voice a notch.
“Uh, fifteen,” he guesses.
“Something like that,” I say, tilting my head to one side, finally smiling with my mouth closed. All right, Mom, I think, and feel like I just scored a touchdown or something. Thank God he didn’t guess twelve.

Marcus is twenty-three. We shake our heads and frown in a way that says, isn’t it a damn shame, because we both wish I was older. Nonetheless I calculate in my head that I was born in 1967 and am a sophomore in high school, in case it comes up.

Marcus says he dated a girl once who was fifteen, but he thought she was nineteen. “Hmm,” I answer, and wonder if he dumped her when he found out the truth.
Then he starts rubbing my shoulders, which feels pretty good and I go, “Mmm,” so he knows I like it. “One of the best ways to get to know someone is to give them a back massage,” he says, and then I give him one, praying I’m good since it’s like a test I have to pass in order for him to like me.

When that’s finally over he pulls me onto his lap in a lounge chair and smiles like maybe he’s laughing at me.
“What?” I ask, wondering if maybe I failed the back rub test, or if maybe there’s a booger hanging out of my nose.
“You’re so young,” he says, “but I like you.” I guess I passed after all.
“Are these things gonna hurt me?” He points at my mouth.
“No one ever got cut before.” I smile at my cleverness. I’ve kissed three guys so far, with tongue.
“I guess we’ll just have to see,” he says as he tips my chin up to meet his face. Oh my God, could he be any more romantic? Then he sticks his tongue in my mouth and I feel just like Rachel Ward from The Thornbirds.

Marcus knows all these cool tricks, like sucking on my tongue. And when he kisses my ear it sounds like the ocean rushing in. We take turns sucking each other’s tongues and if he stops to gaze in my eyes, I gaze back, no matter how weird I feel, because this is grade-A romance.

The cannonball teenager finally takes the hint and leaves. I guess we spoiled his fun. As soon as we’re alone, Marcus starts unbuttoning my shirt. Usually two or three days go by between first and second base, but who knows when we’ll ever see each other again?

“How does this work?” he asks, fingering my lavender satin bra, size 34-A, by Warner’s Young Miss. It’s the second bra I’ve ever owned, and the prettiest. Thank God I wore it.
“It closes in the front,” I giggle, and then his hands are there, unhooking my bra, letting my boobs out in public for the first time ever. Marcus looks at one and then at the other. Please God let them be big enough and mature looking. The farthest I’ve ever been until now was tongue kissing and getting felt up, under the shirt, over the bra.

Marcus puts his mouth on one of my boobs and starts licking and sucking. No one’s even seen my chest, let alone licked it. I feel like I’m supposed to like they do in the movies. I mean it feels good, but not good enough to moan. There must be something wrong with me.

I’m counting all these firsts when he starts unbuttoning my pants. Ever since Winter I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to lose my virginity—that’s when my best friend Kendra lost hers, and she’s four months younger than me—but I can’t let him undress me here. What if that cannonball teenager was spying on me? Or my dad? I’d die. Also, I have my monthly visitor, which might gross him out. The next thing I know, I’m covering my zipper with my hand.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I shrug, not wanting to ruin the mood.
“Are you nervous?”
“Well, yeah, a little, but it’s not just that.”
“Hmmm,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Then I have no idea.”
“Well,” I squinch my face to the side. He’s not making this easy. “It’s just that, uh, it’s that time of the month.” I look away.
“Oh,” he says, and smiles in this really caring way. “I don’t mind at all. In fact, that’s the best time to do it.” I think he means because I can’t get pregnant but he might mean that it’s more gooey. Whatever the real reason is, I sigh with relief and then it hits me: we are going to do it! Oh my God, I’m so nervous, but really, I couldn’t ask for more, could I? The moon, the pool, the sub-tropical location, the blond guy who thinks I’m fifteen and beautiful…Kendra will be so jealous.
“I still think you’re nervous,” he says, and I realize he knows more about me than I do about myself. “What do you think?”
“I think I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back?” I say, and he rolls over so I can get up.

In the ladies room mirror I look kind of insane, like a criminal, or a lottery winner. I mouth the words, “Oh my God,” and then burst into laughter, my eyes turning into Pillsbury crescent moons, my shoulders hunched with nerves and the night chill. I try to warm my fingers by running hot water over them but when I get back, Marcus says my skin feels colder. Then he takes my hand and says, “Do you want to go down to the beach?” and I say, “Okay,” relieved. This way, nobody will see us. Even so, I pray my dad is asleep. It must be late by now.

The moon shines a dotted white line on the ocean beside us as we walk along the pink sand. When we come to a stack of lounge chairs, Marcus takes one from the pile. He says it will be better to lie on than sand, since sand can get into everything if I know what he means, and winks.

While he sucks my left nipple, I take the time to experiment with rubbing the back of his neck and tousling his hair while he sucks on my boobs, which gives the whole situation a tender, loving feeling. But when he starts yanking at my pants, my heart jackhammers into action. Before he can get to my underpants I slip them off and carefully place them on the ground so he doesn’t see the giant, bloody Stayfree.

I had felt his dick rubbing against my stomach by the pool, but now it’s out in the open, staring right at me through the little hole in the tip. Since it’s the first one I’ve ever seen, I take a good look. I thought erections pointed straight out, not up. Oh well. He puts my hand on it. Three drips of white stuff fall on my stomach. Did he come already?

He tightens his stomach muscles while I touch and rub his dick. His eyes are closed and his eyebrows crinkled, I guess, because he’s concentrating. I hope I’m doing it right. Then his hot breath fills my ear. “I don’t think I can stand much more of this.” This is it. I am going to be de-virginized, and obviously I’m great at hand-jobs, too. Wait until I tell Kendra!

But then, because this is a huge moment in our lives and he deserves to know the truth, I say, “I’ve never done it before.”
“Really?” he asks, lifting one eyebrow but not like he thinks I’m virginal scum or anything because then looks deep into my eyes. “Elise,” he says, “It would be an honor to be your first.”

Wow, I think. He is so polite, a true gentleman. “Okay,” I whisper, barely able to meet his eyes. Now I know how all those princesses feel at the end of the fairy tales.

He takes his T-shirt off, but says he’ll leave his socks on because they’re green, like M&Ms and wiggles his eyebrows and I know exactly what he means, not that we need green M&Ms now. See, everyone knows that green M&Ms make you horny. I think I’m horny, because I definitely want to do it, but I’m not sure because I’ve never been in this situation before. I also feel blessed, because not only is Marcus a perfect gentleman, but he’s also witty as hell.

“Will it hurt?” I ask.
“It hurts a little going in, but once it’s in it won’t hurt anymore. It will feel good,” he says, and smiles.
“Okay.” I brace myself. He brushes a strand of hair from my face, and guides his dick into me with his hand. I didn’t know that the dicks needed help getting in the hole. I thought they just went in, like snakes burrowing underground.

It hurts going in like he said it would, and I try really hard not to groan in massive pain. I wonder why so many women act like sex is the best thing since candy necklaces, but I trust him, and after it’s all the way in, it doesn’t hurt anymore, just like he said. It just feels like I’m filled up, and then I’m empty, and then I’m full, and then I’m empty.

He whispers in my ear, “Hold my balls,” which is pretty kinky, if you ask me. I look up at the zillions of stars while he pumps up and down on top of me, and stretch my arm as far as I can, so I can reach his balls and hold them like he told me. They’re fuzzy and soft, like a couple of hard-boiled eggs wrapped in a wool blanket. I’m afraid if I squeeze them too hard they will break, so I hold them as lightly as I can muster from my position underneath him, which isn’t so easy. I wonder how long it takes until I can let go and breathe normally again.

After Marcus has his orgasm he leaves his thing inside me for a minute or two to rest because he likes the way it feels. He is so sweet. I don’t think I came but I can’t be sure, because how would I know? If I did come, I don’t know what the big deal is about sex. If I didn’t come, I guess I still don’t know what the big deal is.

He walks me back to the hotel when we’re dressed, holding my hand the whole way like we’re a real couple. When we get to the lobby, we exchange addresses and promise to keep in touch. He takes the elevator with me up to my floor and kisses me, cupping my face in his hands. I think that’s my most favorite part.

“Thank you for a memorable evening, Elise,” he says and then he leans over and kisses my hand like I’m royalty. I watch him walk down the carpeted hallway, thinking, why isn’t my regular life this great? Why does this have to be the extra part? The unusual part? Why can’t it always be like this?

When I tiptoe into the room the light flicks on and my father flies out of bed, red-faced and fists flying, like a boiled lobster in underpants.

“Where the hell have you been you Elise? It’s two o’clock in the goddamned morning!” He lunges at me but I dodge out of the way and he chases me in circles around the tiny room for a while, over the beds and chairs, swinging his claws at me.
“I just went for a walk! I swear! I lost track of time!” I say, running, up and over and around. The tips of his fingers graze the back of my head.
“Were you at the beach?”
“No!” Holy shit, how did he know? Did he follow me? Did he see me with Marcus? Having sex? Did he watch us?
“Someone there sure looked like you! You weren’t with a group of kids down there?”
“No!” Thank God. He hadn’t seen me.
“I called your name!”
“It wasn’t me!” I cried. “I have to go to the bathroom!” I'm sobbing now. He’s ruining my perfect, beautiful night. I slam the door and lock it behind me.

It’s calm in the bathroom, a tiny, private island where I can let my mind unfold. Can he tell what I’ve done? Does it show on my face? I decide once and for all that he doesn’t know, or he would have stopped me on the beach or by the pool. I grip the edges of the sink and whisper into the mirror, “I hate you, you asshole,” tightening my lips around the sharp corners of the words. I give him the finger from behind the door and swear I’ll never go on vacation with him again.

I fumble with a new pad, while my thoughts turn to Marcus. I open my shirt to see where he sucked my boob. There above my left nipple is a dark red hickey, which is like a symbol that I’ve won a kind of battle, because my dad won’t ever see it. Even if he hits me, I’m a woman now and he can never take that away from me. “You have to come out sometime, Elise!” he calls from outside the door, but I stay in there, splashing warm water on my face and thinking of Marcus.

Finally he says, “I’m going to bed,” and I can hear him padding away. When I finally come out he’s under the covers, hopefully sleeping, facing the wall. I creep across the floor into my bed and he says, “Turn the goddamned light out!” I scurry to flip the switch and jump into bed again, but he’s not done yet. “You think you’re all grown up. Wait until you have to pay for your own goddamned vacation. You’ll be a real adult then. And don’t think you can sleep late tomorrow morning. You need to pack. If you hadn’t been out until all hours doing God knows what, you could have done it tonight.” He goes on and on until I think I’ll never get any sleep, but the last thing I want to do is say anything that’ll make him smack me, so from under the covers I clamp my hands over my ears and hum quietly because if I can drown him out I can bring back the magic of Marcus and the beach and the fact that I am a woman now, whether my dad thinks so or not. I finally fall asleep after my dad loses steam, wondering when the hickey will fade, and hoping they sell the wicker-covered bottles of perfume in the airport.
* * *
When I emerge from the baggage area my mom is waiting for me with a big yellow smile, her arms outstretched, as if I’d been gone for a year instead of a week. I let her bundle me into her arms and smell my hair and tell me how great I look, even though my nose is peeling. Do I look great because she can tell I’m a woman now? Does it show? It must show.

“How was it sweetheart?” she asks, still beaming as we head toward the exit.
“Okay,” I say, shouldering my black Crate & Barrel duffel bag.
“How was your father?” she asks, rummaging through her purse for her lighter.
“An asshole,” I shrug, as if it would ever be different.
“Oh, honey,” she consoles me, rolling her eyes. “Oy, that man can be such a jerk sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” I say, and we share a little laugh.
On our way out of the automatic doors she lights her cigarette and I suddenly have this urge to tell her, but I don’t know how. I know that usually a girl my age wouldn’t tell her mom about her sex life, but she’ll never know if I don’t say something and I really need to tell someone, like right now, even if it’s my mom, which is okay, since she’s pretty easy on me about everything.

“Mom?” I begin. “Can you get pregnant when you have your period?” Now that I’ve said it, I don’t know why I asked. I kind of already know that you can’t get pregnant when it’s that time of the month, but I guess I want to see her reaction. Like, will she look at me now in a new way and know something’s different? Or will she think I’m asking a hypothetical question? But when her whole body droops—face, shoulders, and cigarette; when she puts her hand on my head and lifts her eyebrows in a sad way—I can see that she knows I’m not asking a hypothetical question.

“Oy, Elise,” she sighs, and takes a nice long drag of her Tareyton. “I guess we need to talk.”
As we make our way through the parking lot to her silver Nova, she starts asking me questions, like: who was it? And did he use protection, and stuff like that, which makes me wish I’d kept my mouth shut, because I guess for some weird reason I thought she’d be congratulating me and wanting to invite him over to stay with us.

Back home in our apartment, I soak in the bathtub and she sits on the toilet seat talking to me about love, saying all this stuff about how important it is to wait for that special someone, and how there’s no need to rush, that I’m still young, and I think, what’s your point, telling me all this now? Why didn’t you say this when I was ten? But mostly I think, Mom, you don’t understand a thing about love.

Contributor: Elise Miller