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The Diary of a Teenage Girl

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A arch 14
Monroe Rutherford is the handsomest man in the world. He is blond and blue-eyed and very tall and strong and he has two big strong muscular thighs and a big hairy chest. He’s here all the time, for dinner, or just to hang out. He says we feel like real family to him.
      As for myself, well, I am not particularly attractive at all. I suppose it was my youth, or maybe it has something to do with my mother. He’s fucked me three times now and I feel as if I’m being taken advantage of because I know he only loves her . . .
      But whatever the nature of his attraction, I know it has nothing to do with who I really am. I’m not exactly in love with him either, you know. I just wish he hadn’t all of a sudden decided to feel guilty about what we were doing without thinking about how unguilty I feel about the whole thing. I was just beginning to really like the feeling and now I’m so fucking randy . . . I don’t know where to direct all my sexual energies.
      On Saturday, I went to Golden Gate Park, to the aquarium, and picked up this really cute little number only sixteen years old and he had the bluest big eyes and the thickest waviest blond hair and baby lips . . . his body was like Monroe’s but younger, with no fat on it. I had been walking around the dark, u-shaped hall that’s lined with fish tanks on either side. I was standing in front of the tank with the alligator gar and the giant sea bass when he came up behind me and said hi.
      He made some small talk about fish and then he started walking with me and he put his arm around my waist, but lightly, as if I was his girlfriend.

“Dear Teachers, the reason I haven’t gone to school on a regular basis lately is because of this half-affair type of thing I’ve been having with this older man who also sleeps with my mother…”

He was very handsome and I needed no persuading and it drives me crazy trying to remember his face because I know I’ll never see him again. He had a hard-on the minute I took his hand. He gave me big, long, sloppy wet kisses in the dark of the fish museum and I kept squeezing his big huge throbbing cock through his rough corduroy pants and he had his hands up my shirt and everywhere else. After a while we noticed some black guy staring at us and following us so we had to go and find a secret bush outside. The boy had his hands down my pants and I sucked his dick and he wanted to fuck but I couldn’t let him do it right there in the park. He rolled on top of me and made all the motions just the same. I could feel how big and hard he was and I really wanted to fuck but I just couldn’t. I would just feel too exposed. So then I just rubbed it until he came all over his brand-new grass green shirt. He was so polite he even brushed off my ass when I stood up. It was awkward. I tried to shake his hand and he tried to kiss me and we said goodbye as if we’d see each other again.
      I think his name was Kirk or Kurt. Maybe it wasn’t the sexiest thing in the world but it got me off, for a while, at least.

Monday, April 5
Spring Break
My mother bothers me every now and then about how I have no boyfriends. She keeps reminding me of what a piece she was when she was my age. I don’t think she wants me to get pregnant like she did then, but I guess she worries at the same time that there’s something wrong with me if I don’t do the same things she did. Naturally her behavior gets me furious and very frustrated because she says these things as if she were challenging me to prove her wrong.


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Obviously I can’t tell her about Monroe, but wow, if I did, can you imagine her reaction? She wouldn’t believe it. It would hurt her feelings too much . . . I hope she never finds out for her own sake. Maybe I’ll tell her when we’re both old and gray and Monroe is cold in his grave. We’ll have a great chuckle then.
      You know, I have no one to talk with about this highly complicated matter. I try to talk to Monroe but I don’t understand his little mind-games. He doesn’t see that I’m used to the more honest means of communication used between children. I am almost still a child, you know. This is the first time I’ve been in a position to interact with an adult on a completely serious level. How am I to interpret his adult codes and bullshit? Of course I’m confused, but I suppose understanding will come in time . . .
      Maybe I should ignore everything. But I like sex. What am I supposed to do, ignore sex? I need sex. I really want to get laid right now — in fact, any time — the desire is insatiable. I don’t know if I’ve made that clear — I really like getting fucked. Who is he anyway? It seems as if all he’s interested in doing is getting his fucking rocks off. But that’s not good enough for me. I could last a whole fucking week if circumstances allowed it. But he’s just like an animal — an ape — he has his stupid half-hour or whatever of fun and then rolls over and goes to sleep and expects me to be satisfied. He’s so darn uneducated. Where’s he coming from anyway? I hope he’s satisfied if no one else is — I don’t see how anyone could be with such a sex-life. What a boring person to go to bed with. I wonder if he’s like that with everyone. I wonder if all men are equally as boring? At least he’s something . . . There are other fish in the sea, yes, but he’s the easiest and the safest. I do like kissing him, but sometimes he seems so horribly clumsy. Maybe I’m being too critical — after all, I’m no happy hooker . . . but maybe someday . . .
      I want to be fucked on the beach.
      Goddamn it I talk like a fucking truck driver. That’s what Monroe says.
      He was a truck driver once. I would like to be a truck driver too.

Thursday, April 8
Dear Teachers,
    The reason I haven’t gone to school on a regular basis lately is because of this watered-down half-affair type of thing I’ve been having with this old, much older man who also sleeps with my mother. I just don’t feel like going to school anymore. And I know I was signed up to go on the spring break field trip to the desert but I couldn’t go because I felt that if I did, his guilt would catch up with him because he had time to think things over alone. Apparently he did have time anyway. Things have changed. Maybe it’s better this way, maybe not, and also maybe and hopefully I’m pregnant. I don’t know why I said that I don’t know why I don’t know why. Maybe I think it’s a way to get his attention, but don’t you think I deserve some kind of attention from him? That stupid unfeeling man — sometimes he acts like nothing ever happened at all. He comes to our house all the time and my mother sends my sister and me to our rooms to “do our homework,” while they’re in the living room laughing and drinking and kissing or watching TV. Maybe he realizes how truly unattractive I am. I wonder if my mother is disappointed in me because of my unattractiveness? She can’t proudly display me and bask in the glory and pride of my beauty. Instead, my ugliness sucks the beauty out of her and fills her with shame. Oh no now I feel unworthy and I want to die. If I can accept the imperfection of others with such joy and interest, why do I despise myself so? Oh, I’ll get over it. I’ll get over this self-doubt in a few minutes. I don’t care awfully much about my looks anyway. It’s funny, I never thought about crying about Monroe before . . . never really had any reason to. But it’s strange to have gone to bed with someone you feel is so old and so inconsiderate . . . Maybe it was my fault for expecting something more, even though I was in no position to expect anything at all.

Tuesday, April 20
The new quarter started last week. In Comparative Anatomy, we’re going to dissect a cat. But most interesting of all, Ricky Ricky Ricky Wasserman, that exquisitely handsome boy, and Arnie Greenwald, his best friend, are both in my short stories class. I loved them both at first site and they love each other and me. They’re both juniors but it doesn’t matter what grade you’re in for a lot of elective classes. Today was the first time I talked to Ricky, although I’ve always noticed him. He saw me drawing at my desk and he leaned over and whispered, “Write me a note.”
      So I write him a note. I said, “A basic pancake recipe includes water, flour, baking powder, sugar, and eggs.”
      He wrote back, “Madame, my heart contains nothing but admiration for you.”
      After class, Arnie said, “Don’t listen to him — he’s a bullshit artist. You should write notes to me!” I just laughed. I like them, but I don’t know what to say to them.

Monday, April 26
I love to get kissed by an attractive boy I love it I love it I love it. It tastes so good and so warm. So sticky and tickly and full. Ricky kissed me today. It was just wonderful. I really want him to fuck me my god I am always so horny I hope he can tell. What a whore I am, my word! What about Arnie, you ask? Well, I really like him too, and he likes me. We talked for a while after school. I hope Ricky doesn’t tell him we kissed — he would be upset — not really at me, but at Ricky. It’s really strange how boys get mad at the wrong people. Boys never seem to get mad at the girls, just at each other.
      Ricky is six feet tall and looks like he weighs about 165 pounds — he’s slim, you know. He’s got curly, sand-colored hair and very close-set, almost cross-eyed, blue eyes, and a light spatter of freckles covering his softly Jewish features. Every girl in school is in love with him. As I said, I really wish he’d fuck me.

Tuesday, April 27
Ricky has a bit of blue dripping into his left pupil. He groans when he hugs me, he says that I’m perfect . . . All I want is sex sex sex . . .

“I have gone to bed with someone every day for the past four. I wonder if I can keep it up.”

Ricky stares at me absolutely constantly in class. I know that a lot of people are jealous jealous jealous . . . Chuck told me that Mr. Bill, that bastard, told everyone that the reason I didn’t go on the school desert trip was because I’m hopelessly, desperately in love with Arnie Greenwald and also that I’m afraid of all the drugs. As you know, these accusations contain not the least drop of truth. I didn’t go because of Monroe, because I really wanted to get fucked again, and all the boys on that trip are such faggots. And besides, they took some hippie transport company bus, Green Tortoise, and I just hate the hippie lifestyle. Anyway, what Mr. Bill said spread like wildfire, and now the whole school thinks I’m the biggest fucking prude . . . Mr. Bill saw me in Ricky’s arms today and just could not wipe the smile off his face. I think he realizes that he doesn’t understand me and is confused. What is there to understand? I am a very passionate person.
      Ricky has such an exquisite lofty high forehead. His eyes are close together but beautiful all the same . . . such a strong chin . . . a nice mouth, but kind of small. All in all he’s absolutely gorgeous. Drool drool. I wonder how big is cock is groaaaaaaan.
      cock cock cock cock cock cock cock cock cock cock cock cock cock
      men men men men men men men men men men men men men
      fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
      Monroe that stupid fucker. Nice dick though.

Wednesday, May 12
Monroe said I exude sexuality.
      Sometimes I look in the mirror and can’t believe what I see. I stop short and am totally disoriented. I forget I have a body. Or at least the one I see now. Things like that make you realize how fortunate you are to have a body.

“I have gone to bed with someone every day for the past four. I wonder if I can keep it up.”

Imagine all the unhoused souls wandering aimless through the universe, waiting for some sort of temporary rest stop such as I have. The realization of my blessing inspires me to put my body to full use. I don’t ever want to remain idle for any period of time unless it would be beneficial to my body. I want to keep on moving, typing, talking, and noticing everything until the day I die. I want to somehow leave a mark that will eternally relate me to the animate world. If I were God, I would have told everyone that black and white and BLUE are the neural colors. What could be more neutral than the sky? It hovers above everything . . . and water is blue, too. What could be more universally common than the need for water? And blue jeans are blue, too. And everyone has a pair of blue jeans. Blue is just as boring a color as black or white.
      Everyone thinks that sealing wax is ceiling wax when they are little.

Monday, June 7
I wish my father cared whether I was dead or alive.
      I never see him, never hear from him. I don’t even know where he lives now. Once he called me out of the blue, and told me that my eyes were just like his, and that we know things other people can’t know. He said we could see more than other people could. Like magic.
      It made my grandfather sad that my Dad was not in my life much. Once my grandfather went to Bora-Bora and got me a little wooden monster carving with mother-of-pearl eyes. He told me that the spirit of my father was in it, and that I should keep it near me, and it would be just like my Dad was next to me, thinking about me, hugging me.
      Magic.

Friday, June 11
First there was Monroe Rutherford. He was the first. Completely.
      Then there was that nameless young boy in the park. Handsome. Virile.
      Thirdly, there was Ricky Wasserman, a tall, strikingly handsome classmate.
      My good old friend Chuck Saunders is sitting in the next room. I can see him through a crack in the door. I told him I would have to finish typing something before I came out to play. I’m going to make him listen to my old Jackson Five 45s. I just found them. Ricky said he didn’t understanding why I hang out with such ugly boring creeps. Chuck is not a creep, Ricky. He is a very sensitive, thoughtful boy.
      And Monroe wants to know why I let “god-fucking sneaky Jews” like Ricky Wasserman take advantage of my body. Because, Monroe, Ricky was so shamelessly attractive.

Wednesday, June 23
I am definitely tired of my emotionless sex life.
      I got fucked by Ricky today. It was weird. He was in San Francisco, so he called and he said he wanted to talk. He came to my house and met my mom briefly, and then we went to Julius Kahn Park and walked around. Of course, we couldn’t really talk we just fucked. Not only do I no longer feel a damn thing in my heart for the dear boy, but it was also the worst fuck I have ever had.
      Later, my mom said she thought he wasn’t as cute as I said he was. She said he looks skinny, but he’s got a flabby ass. And she didn’t think he was very polite.
      I was also fucked by Monroe. Substantially better, but only slight physical titillations. I suppose today was just not my day. I was simply socially uninspired. Monroe nags me about how I’m going to grow up to be sexually jaded. What the hell does “jaded” mean? I’m going to have had too much too soon and I’m not going to be able to have any fulfilling sexual-emotional relationships with anyone because I take sex too lightly, too impersonally. He should tell me now! He always acts like he wants me to fuck everybody, and we were hardly in love when this whole thing started!
For the past week, I have been growing paler and there are circles under my eyes. I think tomorrow I will go sit under the sky. Monroe is on the couch, sleeping.

Thursday, June 24
How does one become a prostitute? Go down to Market Street until you see a tall, thin black man with high-heel boots and a cape and a big hat and a diamond in his lapel.
      Then you give him the eye, you know, and just hope that he takes it from there. Of course if you so display your boldness, he may not want you because he assumes that you’d be really uncool and perhaps blow his cover. And besides, how can he be sure that you’re not a cop? It’s not often that someone actually just steps up out of the blue and offers to be a whore. And also, what if the guy’s not even a pimp?
      What is one to do?
      You could go to Nevada and get a job in some cheap brothel, then take it from there and somehow get back to the streets of San Francisco . . . but I’d have to be really good at whatever I was expected to do. Maybe they have men who teach you. And I’d have to be pretty, but I’m not so I’d probably get a bad job. You don’t get any money from being a plain old slut.

Saturday, June 26
I have gone to bed with someone every day for the past four. Tuesday, it was Monroe. Wednesday, Monroe and Ricky. Thursday, Monroe, and Friday, Ricky. I wonder if I can keep it up. I’ve sure been getting fucked a lot lately.
      I went to a graduation party last night and this morning. Ricky and I borrowed a car for a while. I thought I’d never see him again, but Jill called me up and invited me. He was wearing brown pants, a black vest, and a frilly light blue shirt. I decided to experiment a little. I panted and breathed hard hard hard and kissed him all over while he was fucking me. I made lots of little noises . . . it was fun. He said that it really freaked him out that I was so responsive. He said I had a real talent in the sack, and that it was just about the best fuck he had ever had. What a nice thing for him to say.

Monday, August 2
A body can depress you. You wonder: “Is it fat? Is it ugly? What does it look like from behind?”
      Here I sit, naked. I have a towel around my head and Noxzema on my face. I think I look better with no clothes on. Clothes break up the body, sometimes making it seem awkward. Some people have good bodies for clothes. Other people were probably meant to roam the countryside naked, living the life of a nomad. I personally feel that I am one of those people. I would be much happier if the burden of worrying about what looks best on me . . . the burden of going shopping for clothes . . . the burden of thinking about whether the kind of clothes you wear make you seem like a certain kind of person . . . if all these burdens were to be removed, I can speculate that I would be a much happier girl.  



From The Diary of a Teenage Girl, by Phoebe Gloeckner, published by North Atlantic Books, © 2003 by Phoebe Gloeckner. Reprinted by permission of the publisher.

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