Chapter 1

I don’t actually think anyone is to blame for what happened. Not even me. Maybe if I had been raised differently ... well, who knows? My parents were extremely devout Catholics. We seemed to go to church all the damned time. They wouldn’t have put it quite that way.

In our home the answer to every question was to be found in the bible. I went to all girl Catholic schools from pre-school through my senior year of high school.

As a result of that cloistered education I knew nothing of boys and even less about sex. I was taught only that it was a terrible sin. That made it exciting, but forbidden. Still, most of my friends seemed to take the propaganda with which the church and our parents filled our heads with a large grain of salt. My friends all had boyfriends from the nearby Catholic boy’s schools or they dated boys in the neighborhood, preferably good Catholic boys in order to please their parents.

Later I learned that they were just as apt to get pregnant before graduation as any girl attending public school. So much for abstinence only education!

There was no dating for me. I was scared to death of boys. It isn’t that I wasn’t asked out. I must admit in all modesty that I was always very attractive. I tried to hide it. It always infuriated my mother when I was young and complete strangers would stop us on the street to tell her how beautiful I was. From her unpleasant reaction to the friendly compliments from strangers I ended up with more mixed signals.

With my mother as a more than willing accomplice I always tried to make myself look, if not unattractive at least plain. I dressed in dowdy clothes. I wore my hair in the same unflattering style my mother adopted for me from birth. I was the only girl in my graduating class who didn’t wear makeup.

I grew up shy to the point that it was crippling. I was even too shy to answer the phone!

That was the sad state of my being when I graduated from high school. I had just turned eighteen and I’d never had a close friend of either sex. It isn’t just that I had never dated a boy, I had hardly ever spoken to one. When I was forced into a situation where it was necessary for me to speak to someone of the opposite sex I blushed and stuttered and made a terrible fool of myself. I’m sure I gave every boy I spoke to the impression I had a learning disability.

My father, who I’m certain would have been much more comfortable living in the nineteenth century, did not see the need for women to be educated beyond the twelfth grade. But that was alright with me. I was far too lacking in self confidence to go off to college.

The perfect solution for me would have been to marry some young man as soon as I graduated from high school and be a housewife and mother. As it turns out, you can’t get married unless you actually know someone of the opposite sex. Or at least you can’t in this country.

Within a week of graduation I started looking in the want ads for a job. Job interviews can be extremely uncomfortable under the best of circumstances. It’s a thousand times worse when you aren’t qualified to do anything and are totally lacking in people skills. I couldn’t look anyone in the eyes. I don’t believe I had ever just sat around and engaged in casual conversation, not even with my parents! They didn’t talk to me. They told me what to do and expected to be obeyed.

I possessed no special skills. I had no training and no experience. On the plus side, I was on the honor role all the way through school and I could type very, very fast. The problem was finding the perfect job for an emotional cripple and convincing a potential employer that although I have my limits I’m intelligent, hardworking and reliable.

First I looked for a job which involved no interaction with the public and would not require me to answer a telephone. I was smart enough to know that as painfully shy as I was, finding suitable employment was not going to be easy.

I ruled out such jobs as waitress or sales clerk in one of the stores in town. What I really needed to find was a job as a typist in a typing pool or perhaps doing data entry somewhere tucked safely away from the public.

I would even have been happy working on an assembly line in a factory. Any job that didn’t require me to talk to people would be just fine.

Unfortunately, that really narrowed down the field at a time when every school in town was flooding the market with young men and women who could actually hold a conversation.

I filled out dozens of applications and even received a few job offers. But they were always for jobs which required me to step out of my tiny comfort zone. I just couldn’t do that.

I finally found the ideal job as a typist for a medium size law firm downtown. It took me almost six months. I think by the time I finally got the job my parents were starting to get desperate. It amused me even then, though, that I was the product of the cloistered manner in which they raised me and they didn’t even realize it.

I would like to be able to tell you that I quickly fit right in and started coming out of my shell. That isn’t what happened. I spent the entire workday at my desk without talking to anyone except when the woman who supervised our little section of typists would tell me what a good job I was doing as she dropped another large stack of jobs in my inbox.

I always smiled nervously at her and stuttered my thanks. I knew I amused her. But she scared me. She reminded me very much of the nuns who taught me all the way through school. I had been terrified of them. I still cower at the sight of a nun.

I probably would have lived my life that way, working for minimum wage and speaking to no one, if the firm I worked for hadn’t merged with another large firm only nine months after I was hired. As a result of the merger, with the exception of a couple of women who were given jobs as secretaries, our entire pool of typists was let go.

It happened with no warning at all and I was totally devastated. I had been on the verge of finally renting an apartment of my own. Since I started working I’ve been paying my parents half of my income for room and board or I would already have been able to afford a place of my own.

Fifteen years have passed since that day and I still remember the shock I experienced when I got the news from my supervisor. She came into my small cubicle and sat on the edge of my desk. I didn’t have room for a visitor’s chair. There was no need for one. I wasn’t allowed to have visitors.

She told me about the merger and that we only had two weeks before it took place. She gave me a moment to catch my breath. I needed it. I think my heart stopped when she told me I was about to lose my job.

I looked up at her in shock and for the first time I didn’t stutter. I sounded just like a little girl when I asked, “What am I going to do?!”

She looked at me for a moment. I could see she was trying to make her mind up about something. Finally she said, “Rebecca, I know where you can get another job.”

It was the first time she ever called me by my first name. She almost seemed like a normal human being! Even her features were soft for the first time since I started working there. I could see that she actually cared. I guess that was why I opened up to someone for the first time.

I spoke quietly. I didn’t want any of my co-workers to hear. I said, “Mrs. Canaday, you know me. You know how shy I am. What else can I do?!”

She reached out and took my hand. She held it in both of hers and said, “Sweetheart, you’re going to have to step out of your comfort zone. It’ll be hard for you at first. But it’ll be good for you. I know the people there. They’re all nice folks. I honestly think this could be the best thing that ever happened to you if you let it. You’re a good worker, a hard worker. You’re fast and accurate. You have the ability to get ahead if you work on your self-confidence.”

She was right. That merger turned my life around. Thanks to her I went to work in a small office processing property insurance claims. The work wasn’t what made the change so important. I found myself working with eight other people of both sexes in a single room. Those eight people slowly began to change everything about me.

The owner of the company was Mrs. Canaday’s brother. She warned everyone about my background and how painfully shy I was. They were friendly and considerate and in a surprisingly short time they began to include me in their conversations as we worked.

It was a huge learning experience for me. I learned views of the world to which I had never been exposed in my insulated Catholic upbringing. I learned about tolerance. I learned homosexuals are actually just people! I learned that every unmarried girl who was not still a virgin wasn’t a whore. And perhaps most importantly, and most surprising of all, I learned I had a sense of humor!

I began to attend parties. The first couple of parties I went to were just birthday parties. They were small, casual get-togethers consisting of my friends at work and their spouses or significant others. But they were the first parties I ever attended. That was a big step for me.

It took a while, but eventually I started taking part in conversations at these parties. On several occasions I even consumed small amounts of alcohol!

I was changing and everyone knew it. Even me! And everyone seemed to like the changes, everyone except my parents. Things at home were getting very uncomfortable. They didn’t get much better when I finally got a small apartment of my own. My parents seemed all but positive that I was starting down the slippery slope to drugs and prostitution. I was confused by their reaction. They seemed so anxious to get me out of the house almost from the time I graduated from high school.

But as soon as I could afford it I found a small, inexpensive apartment and moved out of my parents’ house. In spite of my parents’ dire predictions all hell didn’t break loose. I lived a more or less normal life. I remained celibate. It was easy. I still didn’t date. But no one I knew, none of my small but slowly growing number of friends was anything but supportive, no one except for my parents, of course.

And then one day there was a miracle. It was Saturday. I was on my way out of the library when someone stopped me. He was a young man I’d seen in the library on several occasions. I’d noticed he seemed interested in me and I even thought that he looked like he might want to speak to me. I could tell he was nearly as shy as I was, at least when he was talking to women. But he caught my eye and I wondered about him.

That fateful Saturday he was waiting for me on the steps of the library when I came out. He caught up to me as I was descending the wide stone staircase and said, “Excuse me. Do you have a moment?”

I could see how nervous he was. I could hear it in his voice. I think that was why I had the nerve to stop and speak to him. I recognized a kindred soul.

I stopped and waited to find out what he wanted. I tried to act calm. But my heart rate had doubled and my mind was racing. What if he wants to ask me out?!

I could actually see him gathering his courage. Then he said, “I’m sorry to bother you. But I’ve seen you in the library several times and ... I’m sorry. I’m terrible at this!”

Then, in a rush of words that came out so fast I almost didn’t understand him he asked, “I was wondering if you would like to go out with me sometime?”

I was probably almost as nervous as he was. I was nineteen and had yet to go on a date. But he was terrified. I felt so sorry for him. I think that was what gave me the nerve to respond, “I think I might. Why don’t we go get a cup of coffee and talk about it?”

I saw the relief and the excitement fighting for prominence on his face. I had to force myself not to laugh. He smiled nervously and said, “I’d like that. Thank you. I’m sorry I sounded like such a dork. I’ve wanted to ask you out for months. But you’re so beautiful! I couldn’t get up the nerve.”

He thinks I’m beautiful!

I won’t bore you with any more details. We went on a date. And then we went on a lot of dates. Seven months later we were married. Everyone, even my parents loved Jeff. He’s handsome and smart and he has a great sense of humor. My parents were relieved to learn he was a Catholic. I was relieved to learn he wasn’t as rabid about it as they are.

I had stopped going to church when I got my own apartment. I started going again with Jeff. But I had loosened up a bit since I graduated. I no longer accepted everything the church said as gospel. I kept that from Jeff and my parents, though.

I had just turned twenty when we married. Jeff was twenty-four. We were both virgins on our wedding night. Not only was I still a virgin, I had never even masturbated. I knew of the existence of orgasms. But I had never experienced one.

I can’t say about Jeff. Whether he enjoyed masturbation or not wasn’t something we were apt to discuss.

Unfortunately, I didn’t experience an orgasm on my wedding night. Nor did I achieve orgasm on any of the nights of lovemaking that followed. I found myself unable to relax and give myself over to the joys of sex. I couldn’t open myself up to another person and be that vulnerable. Not even to Jeff whom I adored. Somewhere in the back of my mind I seemed to be hanging onto the notion that sex is a sin and decent women aren’t meant to enjoy it.

I never refused my husband sex. But I never allowed myself to enjoy it either. We talked about it. I felt bad about my inability to be a more active participant. I think he felt even worse because nothing he did, or perhaps I should say nothing I would allow him to do could please me. He really tried to get me to come out of my shell. It wasn’t possible. I had spent a lifetime building high, steel reinforced walls around my shell. I thought I had built that invisible fortress in self-defense. I didn’t realize what I had actually built was a prison.