After Spin the Bottle

By Janét Saunders

THROUGH COUNTLESS GUYS AND THE
MIND-BENDING 60S, FINDING HIM WAS
STARTING TO LOOK IMPOSSIBLE

Coming of age in the early 1960s Julie Taylor and her best friends were crazy about boys -- thats all they ever thought about. When news of The Beatles came crashing into their little suburban world, it was like a miracle -- an unexpected bonus in their ordinary lives. It was a very exciting time in history. Without missing a beat, in their new white go-go boots, they enthusiastically danced their way into the British invasion and soon became addicted to the exciting, psychedelic 60s and all its accoutrements.

In her search for a soul mate Julie candidly shares all her experiences with you -- first during high school when she realizes she wants to play this sex game on her terms -- then later as she embraces the new rock and roll era of free love, groovy fashions, and recreational drugs. Inspired by a true story, chapter-by-chapter she tells you all her juicy stories on her quest for true love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504984775

Book preview

THE BEGINNING

April 1960

Unbeknownst to me at the time, it was spin the bottle -- the adolescent kissing game of chance -- that ever so quietly brought the first inklings of desire tiptoeing into my world. As a pubescent 13-year-old girl, I had no idea that game was the launch pad for my entire sexual life. For up until that point all I cared about was Disney comic books, ice cream, and my second-hand bicycle that dad had painted yellow.

My object of spinning that Pepsi bottle was a redheaded, freckle-faced kid named Andy James. It was the seventh grade and I was in love, l-u-v. Us girls invited the objects of our crushes to a little birthday party that we held in Susie’s basement. Although an afternoon event, we purposely chose the basement because it could be darkened -- for slow dancing to Ritchie Valens’ popular song Donna and the kissing part of the game. Our only frustration was all the anticipation and waiting to get the damn bottle to finally point at the guy we wanted to kiss. We lived in constant fear one of the boys, who probably didn’t want to participate in the first place, was going to suggest we stop playing the stupid game.

Success at last! My spin had chosen Andy. We went behind the flowered curtain to the industrial side of the basement and after some shy, awkward gestures we managed a little peck -- big deal. All that trouble -- arranging the party, getting the right guys there, having Susie’s mom make a cake -- all that for a little peck. But what did I expect? It was probably his first kiss too.

All I know is it seemed to work. Monday morning at school Andy scribbled out his first daily top ten love list and I was number one. I stayed number one for a year or so, though sometimes slipping to number two or three when he was mad at me. I still find it hard to believe this red-haired, freckle-faced kid, who also wore glasses I just remembered, had the balls to put out a daily love list. Where did he get such an idea?

Obviously the girls in seventh grade didn’t care. They were all scrambling to get on that list because Andy had everything a girl wanted: a good sense of humor and confidence. And behind those ugly glasses he was actually a handsome boy. Yes, he had it all and the girls ate it right up.

I know I ate it up, all the way into the eighth grade when I got in trouble for kissing him on the outdoor basketball court. Please observe it was me, not him, who was called into the principal’s office and reprimanded. And it was me who lived with humiliation when the prudish old teacher asked all the girls to stay after class so she could warn them about Julie Taylor’s terrible behavior and how they shouldn’t be friends with me. Can you believe it?

I couldn’t wait to get out of that stifling intermediate school and into high school where my natural sexual curiosity wouldn’t be under such scrutiny -- and a girl and her kisses could get lost in the crowd.

What I didn’t realize -- and who would at that age -- was how the instinctual search for love is really the bottom line in life. Nothing else really matters. You can have wonderful friends, a great education, the best job, all the money you need -- but without that special someone to love and cherish you, and you them, let’s face it, you can smile, you can fake it, but you are just biding your time, going through the motions of living, while feeling dead and useless deep inside your soul.

My search for that ideal love was just beginning and I couldn’t wait to find him. I needed him. I yearned for that love. Fortunately for me, at that point, I didn’t know my quest was going to have so many detours….

* * *

THE CHEERLEADER AND THE BASKETBALL PLAYER

Freshman Year 1961-62

It had been a wonderful Virginia summer -- full of picnics, Popsicles, and lightning bugs caught in jars -- highlighted by the fact that I spent most of my time at the members-only community swimming pool. It was my world. I can still vividly remember my Ocean City beach towel, my required unflattering white bathing cap, my one-piece bathing suits (the black one with the rainbow stripes across it was my favorite), the musty smell of the girl’s locker room (where I first experienced smoking in a curtained changing stall), and the cold feel of the shaded sidewalk around the concession stand when you were still wet from the pool. If I was lucky I had a dime to get a coconut Good Humor bar; but if I was unlucky I couldn’t spoil my dinner because mom was poolside too, keeping an eye on her three kids while chatting with her friends.

It was right there one such afternoon, in the middle of the pool, in front of mom and everyone, that my life -- my real life -- suddenly took off. Yes, love came swimming over in the form of Mark Pierce. Sure, his nose was a little large, but the rest of his dark, handsome, sweet self seemed just fine to me and I liked his flattop haircut.

Evidently he had been checking me out for weeks before he got the nerve to come swimming over. In huge contrast to today’s full-blown media world, I never thought about it then -- I was too daffy to think of such things -- it was most likely my Clairol blonde hair that my mom, a trained but non-practicing hairdresser, started lightening when I was 13, and those 36-C’s prominently displayed in that one-piece bathing suit, that finally beckoned him over to my side of the pool that day. It surely wasn’t my horn-rimmed glasses that overshadowed my resemblance to Sandra Dee.

I quickly realized Mark was really funny and very sweet and sincere. A good sense of humor was definitely something I needed in a boyfriend since my father had spoiled me with his…and in turn it was a quality I inherited from him.

Mark and I were off to a bumpy start because every time I was over at his house his parents encouraged me to take my shoes off. I never understood why and it bothered me. I hated my feet -- I thought they looked too much like dad’s -- but, skirting that issue, by the time school started in September we were going steady. Ya-hoo!

We both attended the local high school, Jefferson. Mark was a junior on the varsity basketball team and before I knew what was happening I was chosen for the freshman cheerleading squad and elected captain. Had the world gone nuts or was I the luckiest girl in Alexandria, Virginia?!

There were seven of us on our squad and before long we had our basic routines worked up pretty good. I did have a slight problem with one girl refusing to wear a girdle, but she came around after I pointed out her ass jiggle ability. Back in ’61 proper young ladies still wore girdles with stockings. There was no such thing as panty hose yet. Our game uniform included Bobbie socks and Spaldings, and a jiggly ass had to be constrained in a girdle underneath our uniform panties. Most respectable girls wore girdles in the same way it was proper etiquette to wear gloves and hats in the ’50s.

That jiggle situation remedied, we only had one faux-pas and that was at our first football game when we were cheering, "Hey, hey, what do you say -- take that ball the other way" and we were kicking our feet in the direction of the opposition’s goalpost. In a matter of seconds our mistake was shouted down to us from friends in the grandstand. And so it went.

For Mark and I it was an extraordinary year of popularity and desire. We were so in love -- the cheerleader and the basketball player. Life couldn’t have been any better. To be in love and one of the most popular couples in school -- who could ask for more?

Mark, that’s who. He was a junior, older than me, just approaching his sexual peak, and soon I had the pressure on me to go all the way. Kissing, petting, fingering -- fine -- but I just couldn’t go that far, even if I wanted to. I was too young and scared. I mean, after all, just a few years earlier I thought you got pregnant by French kissing. I might have been young and stupid, but one thing I knew is a girl like me could not get pregnant. If you did, your life was over. There was no such thing as birth control pills and legal abortions then, there was only shame and despair. If you were any kind of decent daughter you knew there was no way you could come home with that kind of news -- and that stark reality ruled my sex life for many years.

Mark exerted the sex pressure on me because we often double-dated with his friends Paul and Mary Jo and both being 17 they were doing it. One night at the drive-in they were doing it in the back seat while Mark and I were in the front seat making out. I always remember that night because Mary Jo later told me that they didn’t have any protection, so they used his Jockey underwear as a rubber. I thought that was so funny, although inefficient and a world I didn’t want to visit. Ouch!

All considered though, I have to say those were pretty romantic times for a good girl like me. Think about it: I’m getting all the action and he’s going home frustrated. You know -- fingering is a lost art. I mean you’ve got one or two fingers in there, wiggling around all over the place, the juices get flowing, you get all heated up, and you could have a pretty good orgasm. Although back then I had no idea what an orgasm was. I just knew that kissing Mark while he had his hand down my panties was pretty exciting stuff…and my dad better not ever hear about it.

When Mark’s junior prom came at the end of the year of course I was his date. I have to say I looked damn good in my first semi-formal gown (that I borrowed from sorority sister, Laura). It was pastel green with thin spaghetti straps and a full, knee-length, chiffon skirt. My hair was a blonde bouffant do-of-the-day and the high-heeled, dyed-to-match satin pumps made my shapely legs look fabulous. When Mark came to pick me up in his tux he looked like a dreamboat and my parents went nuts taking pictures.

My father, in all his wisdom, cautioned me as usual when I was going out the door, You have fun now, and be a good girl, he would say with a wink. He did this for years every time I had a date. My date never saw him wink, but I did, and I got the message…like make me proud or something, don’t ever shame our family.

Dad didn’t have to spell it out. I was no dummy. He had a tough life and when his parents died at a very young age, he was left to raise his younger brothers and sister. He always blamed himself when one of his younger brothers ran out into the street and was killed by a truck. Therefore, he grew into a strict disciplinarian who expected me and my brother and sister to be home at 5:30 sharp every day to eat dinner together. There were no exceptions, no excuses. I learned that once when I fell off my bike and cut my chin open. Bleeding or not, he was still furious at me when I got home at 5:45. I was never late after that and knowing his standards, I knew I could never get pregnant outside of marriage. Uh-uh, not in this family.

Poor Mark. All year he complained a lot but I never gave in. As we slow danced to Angel Baby at the prom I knew he had big dreams of us having sex that night.

For prom night many of the couples rented motel rooms on Route #1 and we shared one with Paul and Mary Jo. They had one bed; we had the other. A bed in a motel room -- Mark never had me in a situation like that before and he wanted results. But you know me and my dilemma -- plus the fact that I had to arrive home looking just as fine as I did when I left -- hairdo all intact -- there was no way I was going all the way, prom night or not. Therefore, the special evening ended like many others, with Mark being embarrassed in front of his friends and mad at me.

By the time yearbooks came out as the school year ended, with me still holding my virginal ground, Mark finally gave me his ultimatum. He had enough of fingering me in the back seat of his dad’s car. Unfortunately we had to break up. Underscored by the timely Neil Sedaka song, Breaking Up is Hard to Do, it was heart breaking, teenage drama to the max. The magic was over. I was devastated -- I loved him so. He wrote in my yearbook:

"Julie,

I don’t know what to say, but I’ll manage to say something. First of all I’d like to thank you for going with me for so long. I don’t know how you could stand me. I know you won’t believe this, but I still want to be real good friends with you even though you have put me down so much. I still want to go swimming with you at the pool this summer if that is alright with you. I hope you won’t be mad at me for going out with other girls cause you forced me into it. Remember you put me down. But I want you to forget all about that and be friends with me forever.

Love always,

Mark"

As you might imagine summer of ’62 at the pool was a pretty big letdown. There was no swimming with Mark; in fact, I hardly saw him all summer. I dated a 19-year-old lifeguard a few times but he too wanted it all and was nowhere near the caliber of Mark with his sincerity. Mark was the perfect boyfriend and now that my standards were set so high, I realized finding him was going to be nearly impossible. There was just not much top grade available. I was feeling lower than low.

As if I hadn’t had enough heartache, I was again deeply hurt when my sophomore year began and I found out Mark was dating a sorority sister, Cindy Winchell. Oh sister Cindy, how could you? She was his age and of course they were doing it. I could see it on his contented face. It broke my heart every time I saw them together, holding hands and cooing words of love -- which was all the time unfortunately. They were so happy -- the cheerleader and the basketball player…yeah, she was also a cheerleader.

Naïve me, I used to stare at her and think "Oh so you’re that kind of girl." Little did I know before long I’d soon be that kind of girl. But sadly it was too late for Mark and I.

* * *

THE PI PHI GUY

Fall 1962

After the breakup with Mark Pierce, sophomore year began with a cold thud. Gone were the days of exalted popularity. I was out there on my own, no longer in the womb of love. Luckily I had girlfriends to lean on -- my favorite being Valerie Morgan. I had known her off and on since the first grade, but we cemented our friendship when we got reacquainted on the cheerleading squad in freshman year. Not only did she have a quick wit, she was also one of the most beautiful girls in town -- picture an American Indian princess. All the boys had a crush on Valerie. This could be a plus for an average looking girl like myself because girls love to double-date and if I didn’t happen to have a date of my own, her date would always scramble to find a friend for me. Pretty good arrangement, huh?

As confirmation of her attractiveness, Valerie was always winning local beauty contests. But this was not of her own volition. Her mother, the instigator, was a riot. Behind Valerie’s back she would enter her in the contests and Valerie would yell and scream and say she wouldn’t do it. This was always quite entertaining because Mrs. Morgan would then start in with her various bribes, like giving her the convertible whenever she wanted it, and before long, Valerie was caving in. After all, this was tenth grade and I told her how important that convertible was to us. She was in several contests and with her dark features and sparkling white smile, wearing the flattering white bathing suit and gown, won them all. She finally put her foot down after winning Junior Miss America and by then that convertible was as good as ours.

Sororities and fraternities were a big thing in Alexandria high schools and they all had their weekly meetings on Tuesday nights. I was in Alpha, Valerie was in Omega, and the boys we preferred were in Pi Phi at George Washington High School. They seemed more worldly than the guys at our school -- more mature. After our individual meetings all the kids would converge at the Hot Shoppes in town to eat and flirt. This was a nice restaurant with good food and a car hop area in back for about 20-30 cars. Somewhere between your hamburger and hot fudge ice cream cake inside, and cruising the parking lot outside, you were sure to get a date for Saturday night. Of course having Valerie as a friend didn’t hurt things either. The boys were always swarming around our table. It wasn’t long before Buddy Gibson, the president of Pi Phi, wanted her and his friend, Billy Logan, wanted me. We were happy with that. So there we were, just 16, dating experienced older guys and, in their aggressive manner, they got us fake ID’s and took us into Washington, DC, nightclubs where we smoked cigarettes and drank beer like the college kids. If our parents knew they would’ve died.

Beer turned out to be the key element here. While Val and I were acting all grown up in Georgetown and enjoying the occasional frat parties -- where there was always a band playing the classic, Louie, Louie -- doing the twist and listening to a lot of Motown, the guys of course had a whole different agenda. They were counting on the beer to loosen our morals. At the end of a fabulous evening you knew there was going to be a make-out session in the car. It was a given: he tries to get you to go all the way and you try to get by with some kissing and boob squeezing. If he wanted to squeeze the real flesh by putting his hand awkwardly down into your bra that was still acceptable and couldn’t get you into any trouble. But of course things soon escalated.

My hand was placed on top of his pants so I could feel his hard Johnson (as if I cared) and he somehow got his hand down into my panties for some good ol’ finger fucking -- the virgin’s limit. This was about all I could handle. At that age I was only interested in the romantic kissing part of having a boyfriend. I had never even seen a penis, much less knew what to do with one.

While he was holding me in a long purposeful kiss, he would whisper, Touch it. Oh, jeez. So I’d fumble with his zipper and get my hand in there to hold and gently squeeze his dick for a few minutes in the dark -- not having to actually look at it -- and that seemed to satisfy him for a few minutes. What did I know? Only that guys had this appendage they were dying to stick inside my hole (I’d also never seen) -- and that it led to getting pregnant -- a definite no-no in my family. Luckily I had a curfew so Billy only had an hour or so of being pushy.

Don’t get me wrong. I liked him. He was great date material -- had his own car, a gentleman, always showed me a good time. We even copied Val and Buddy and dressed alike on a few occasions. (That was common then; i.e., we both wore our Weejun loafers, white slacks, navy blue shirts -- his Gant, mine Villager -- and a similar belt.) The problem with Billy was me. I just wasn’t ga-ga. After Mark I was dead tired of arguing about sex. This was all the boys cared about. It must be nice to not live in fear some little sperm is going to invade your body and ruin your life. I’m telling you, it was a little difficult to forget about getting pregnant and its ramifications and still have a good time. And that’s all we girls wanted -- just to get dressed up, be treated like a lady, and have fun. I think that still holds true.

I was content dating Billy, things were okay, but mom almost brought that to an end. One Saturday afternoon I was home bleaching my hair for a date with Billy that evening. I was looking quite awful in my blue terrycloth bleaching robe with my hair piled up in that black goo, wearing no makeup, when I heard a car pull up in our driveway. Oh God, it was Billy!

I’m yelling at my mom, Tell him I’m not home. Whatever you do, don’t let him see me.

He rings the doorbell, I’m pacing in my bedroom, and I hear her say, Oh sure, go on back, she’s in her bedroom. What??!! Is she out of her mind??!! But this was my mother -- chief prankster. Ha-ha-ha, so funny, Mom.

So here he comes. What can I do but stand there humiliated. He had left his sunglasses at my house the day before and wanted them. Okay, fine, I said, here ya go, see ya tonight. Billy and mom thought it was so funny. I could’ve killed her, especially that night when he was a half hour late. I was sure he wasn’t coming. But once again, I underestimated the power of my 36-C’s and a young man in his sexual prime. P.S. Dad did say something reprimanding to mom on my behalf.

That night at a party, slow dancing to Elvis’ Are You Lonesome Tonight, Billy told me, You know, Julie, I’m lonesome. I’m starting to think you don’t like me. He felt like it was time we did it. He had the rubber -- the seats in his Nash Rambler folded down -- he was all prepared. I was such a sucker for his sad story. I told him I’d try it. Why the hell not. Valerie had caved. She was doing it with Buddy.

Billy and I were going to do it in his car, but for such privacy where do you park? Normally couples would park off Mount Vernon Parkway along the river, but that was too public for sex. You never knew when a cop would pull up with his spotlight. So where did we end up? -- My woodsy swimming pool parking lot. How ironic -- memories of Mark.

Billy put the seats down, forming a bed, and got all prepared. I left my clothes on of course and while we were making out he removed my panties, smelling them with delight…dreaming of things to come. Of course he was fingering me and kissing me and getting himself all worked up. Meanwhile, I was just going through the motions, waiting to die. My heart wasn’t into it. I was just going to do the guy a favor and keep a boyfriend. Finally the time comes, he put on a rubber -- I didn’t watch -- and he’s all ready to stick it in. My teeth are clenched, my eyes are shut, he’s kissing my neck and struggling with his hand down there trying to insert his very hard penis -- and he tried, and he tried, and he tried, but it wasn’t working. Isn’t that great?!

The funny thing was, I realized later, my subconscious brain controlling my muscles down there was just not permitting his penile member admittance. Pretty cool, huh? I was tighter than a drumhead. Billy worked himself into quite a sweat trying for penetration, but he finally gave up and sat there pouting. I have to admit I didn’t really care. His desperation to have sex with me was a turnoff. But, in one of my first sexual actress performances, I hid my feelings saying how sorry I was, although secretly I felt victorious. Peer pressure -- whatever -- this sex thing was a game I was determined to play my way.

After Billy’s huge disappointment and a little small talk, he unceremoniously took me home. I think the Nash Rambler drove away to Let Me In (wee-ooo, wee-ooo) by the Sensations and I went in the house knowing I probably wouldn’t be seeing much more of Billy. Now that I had let him try once, I knew he wouldn’t stop until he succeeded. And the truth was I didn’t want to have sex with Billy. It seemed a little scary -- especially the part where he changed from nice-fun-kid to man-full-of-desire. I thought maybe I should take it slow -- look around. There were lots of other guys to date. Somewhere, somehow, I was bound to find the right one to lose my virginity to.

* * *

MY BLUE RIDGE MOUNTAIN WEEKEND

March 1963

After letting Billy Logan get so close to taking my virginity, I was now playing the game a little more carefully. There was no rush to get into that position again. And when I did, I wanted it to be fun, or a matter of love, or something more than an obligation. In the meantime there were plenty of guys to have fun with who weren’t so pushy about sex. Anyway, I loved just hanging out with my girl friends, especially Valerie Morgan. We always had a great time together.

Not only did I enjoy being with Valerie, I loved her family too. They were all so nice -- her handsome half-Indian father, her roly-poly, amusing mother, her good looking brother Shawn (who could pass as her twin), and the younger brother and sister, ages 9 and 11.

Times we spent at her house were always a little zany, mostly due to her mother being the wacky character she was. I remember once when we skipped out of school in Valerie’s convertible and went over to her house, the assistant principal was already on the phone with Mrs. Morgan looking for us. As we walked in the door she was wailing and crying how her daughter and Julie Taylor would never leave the school grounds without permission and that she was pregnant and he was causing her to have a miscarriage -- all this drama as she’s winking to us. The assistant principal told her that we were seen leaving school in the convertible and Mrs. Morgan covered the receiver with her hand and said to us, Hurry up and get back to school. He saw you leave. As she assured him we were good girls, we quickly scooted ourselves out the door. Yes, her mother was a rare gem. My mom would’ve turned us in.

Aside from saving my ass on occasions like that, I will always be grateful to Valerie and her parents for giving me one of the most unique experiences of my life. Her father’s parents lived way up in the Blue Ridge Mountains in a house without electricity and running water. Although Mr. Morgan, a building contractor himself, had offered many times to modernize their homestead, they always declined.

One weekend Valerie’s family was going to visit the grandparents and invited me to come along. With my parent’s permission I helped the Morgans pack up the family station wagon and we left one chilly Friday night. When we all piled into the station wagon, I didn’t realize how important seating arrangements were and somehow Shawn and I ended up together in the rear section. Valerie and the other two kids sat on the backseat. Her father was driving, her mom gave all of us blankets, and the long drive began. We all talked for a while, then some of us closed our eyes to nap. Not Shawn though. Feeling his oats at age 15, Shawn had plans for me.

He had always flirted with me and being a year older I always laughed him off -- the kid brother. However, he now had me where he wanted me: stuck under a blanket with no escape. Ignoring my resistance and knowing I wasn’t about to say anything in front of the whole family, he persisted in getting his hand down my pants and started fingering me. Is it just me, or did fingering seem to dominate my whole sexual childhood? Despite my trying to get his hand out of there, he wouldn’t stop and after a while I just gave in, more angry than turned on. Well, okay, I was turned on -- I was human -- and even at 15 he was gorgeous -- but I couldn’t let him know it, the young punk. I couldn’t even allow myself to enjoy it. It was really tough being a respectable girl.

This went on and on. For two hours he kept fingering me with one hand then started playing with himself with the other. He would sometimes grab my hand and put it on his dick, but of course I would pull my hand away. Finally Mrs. Morgan announced we had arrived at the mountains and everybody woke up. Even then, he kept toying with me, making extra swirls with his fingers to accentuate the conversation. Don’t think it was easy enduring that. Of course it felt good, but I was still pissed off at the nerve of this kid. Can you imagine?

Straining to look out the car windows I couldn’t see much in the moonlight. Finally we crossed a little creek, went up and around a bend, and there it sat in dramatic silhouette on the top of a hill. As our car pulled up closer, the small log-and-stone, mountain home looked like it was a hundred years old.

I was so glad to get out of that car. I would’ve really reamed Shawn but never had that privacy, so all I could do is give him psycho killer looks all weekend. I wanted to slap that smirk off his face every time he smelled his fingers with delight, but all I could do was to show him one of my fingers when no one was looking.

Just as I was told, the grandparent’s little farm was rustic. My focus on Shawn disappeared the moment I saw the outhouse sitting in the middle of a muddy field. I had heard about these outhouses with their Sears catalog for toilet paper and the smell of excrement and lime, and I was not looking forward to the experience. City folk, we all had to use it and that night before going to bed, it was so very cold Valerie and I bundled up in a double layer of clothes, coats, and the men’s boots, for a trip out there to pee and sneak a cigarette -- the only one we managed that weekend. I had