A Sid Stein Flashback - Ave Maria

Although I generally want to blog events in the post-divorce life of Sid Stein, I thought it might be interesting for my readers to hear some anecdotal tales from my past which helped shape the mind of Sid Stein. I will present them on occasion as Sid Stein Flashbacks. Here’s one from the early days.

I was all of 19 at the time, so we are talking about the summer of 1977. Summers are a lot of fun in Albany. There is always plenty to do. Concerts, clubs, swimming, partying. And since the drinking age was still 18, there was never a problem getting into a bar. I was legal! This story starts in a neighborhood bar which, although it has changed hands and names many times over the years, still exists and still does a robust business. That said, it’ll never relive its late 1970’s halcyon days when I was a young force with which to be reckoned.

I had returned from Tel Aviv University mid-semester. Wait until you read those stories! It was April. Apparently, the administration there expected their students to attend class if they were to stay in the dormitories. Since my normal bedtime was sunrise, I didn’t make it to many classes that first semester. Most of the courses offered for the overseas students were "Intro to This" and Intro to That," so they didn’t hold much interest for me. I do remember I always tried to make it to my "Romantic Poetry" class, which was part of the regular university. Anyway, at the end of the first semester, I was asked to leave to make way for "serious" students. At least I learned the language. I hung on for another two months in Israel living a gypsy lifestyle, before I finally returned home to the good ol’ U.S. of A. where I planned to return to school in the fall.

I remember it was a nice summer evening. My friend Jeff and I decided to go to the Little Horn, that neighborhood bar I mentioned. The Little Horn did a great business back then. Flattened brass instruments adorned the walls. If memory serves, they had an Asteroids machine. I used to love that game. As we walked in, we noticed an old acquaintance from Hebrew School, Ivy, sitting at a booth. Although we didn’t like Ivy that much, she was sitting with a very pretty girl neither of us had seen before. So, as any red-blooded Americans would do, we overcame our distaste for Ivy and asked to join them. They consented.

Ivy’s friend was named Marie. She was a lovely girl with raven hair, blue eyes and a very nice figure. Her looks certainly made up for the fact that she wasn’t that bright and not very Jewish. She was Catholic of Italian and Polish ancestry. Although my parents always stressed their wish that I date only Jewish girls, hot is hot. I didn’t have to marry her.

As the conversation progressed, Marie started to play footsies with me. I took that as a positive sign. I enjoyed the fact that Marie was secretly flirting with me. I was also happy that I knew Ivy from Hebrew School. You never know when girls you never liked can help you out. I am sure there is a lesson in there somewhere, but that’s not what this story is about. When it was time to go, I offered to walk Marie home. It wasn’t that I was concerned about drinking and driving. It was a neighborhood bar, remember? She agreed and off we went.

I can’t recollect what Marie and I talked about on the way to her house. I was too busy checking her out. Most likely, I did most of the talking. I usually do. I have a deep, well modulated, resonant tone. I like to hear the sound of my own voice.

I would not be surprised if I kissed Marie goodnight. I think I probably did. After all, I do remember asking her out on a date. I might not have without some positive sexual feedback.

I took Marie out and discovered, to my dismay, that she was still a virgin. Even though I was still 19, I had a policy against sleeping with virgins. I realize that is pretty bold for a 19 year old, but I was cute and did not doubt my ability to get laid. Why the policy? Well, who needs the headache of some girl falling in love with you? I realize it might sound harsh, but by the same token, it wouldn’t be fair to the girl if I slept with her. Virgins almost always fall in love with the guy who deflowers them. I am sure you will agree that the first time should be special, and, if you can’t or are unwilling to deliver what you know the girl needs, you shouldn’t sleep with her. Marie had other ideas. She wanted me to be her first. It was quite a battle between my brain and my hormones. On the one hand, she was quite adorable, even sexy. On the other hand, I knew it wouldn’t be fair to her. We went out a few times as I wrestled with this problem. Finally, and in the gentlest terms possible, I explained my policy to her. To her credit, Marie took the news well. She was disappointed, of course, but so was I.

Life went on. The summer passed and I started school again in the Fall. I was commuting from my parents’ home as I didn’t want to stay in the dorms. Either that or my parents were so disgusted with the fact that I didn’t attend classes at Tel Aviv University, that they refused to take another chance on me until I straightened out. Either way, I had a great setup in the basement of the house, complete with a separate entrance and full bath. And a waterbed! Oh yeah, privacy and freedom to do what I wanted.

About six months passed from the time I last saw Marie when the phone rang. She had some news. She was no longer a virgin and wanted to see me. I was delighted and invited her over.

I wish I could tell you that we just had a couple of beers and great sex, but no. The story is almost too bizarre to believe.

Although no longer a virgin, Marie was still virginal. Based on the way she responded to my kisses and caresses, I could tell that she was not very experienced. She was, however, willing.

Things were getting hot and heavy. We were closing in on the moment of truth. Marie then said the strangest thing I had heard in the two and a half years since I had been having sex. She gave me a choice. She said I could take her shirt off or her pants off, but not both. Huh? It sounded a little like a trick question, but Marie wasn’t that quick-witted, and as for me, it was an easy choice. As much as I felt like laughing, I didn’t want to embarrass her. I wanted to get laid! Seriously, though, it was an easy choice for me.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure how to approach this "dilemma" without Marie thinking I was not being thoughtful. I wanted her to think that I actually gave her offer some due consideration. I just didn’t know how. Suddenly, it hit me. I reached into my pocket and took out a quarter. I told her I would flip the coin in the air. Heads, off came her shirt. Tails, her pants. I deftly flicked the quarter high into the air as both our sets of eyes anxiously followed its trajectory. It landed square in my right palm. With a resounding smack, I flipped it over onto the back side of my other hand. I hesitated momentarily before revealing the outcome. I held my breath. Gee, I enjoy creating suspense! I kid you not, dear readers. I uncovered the coin! TAILS! I tried to appear somewhat disappointed as if I really wanted a different result. "Oh well," I remarked. "I guess I’ll have to take your pants off." And off they came.

Before long, I coaxed off the rest of Marie’s clothes and we were both naked. I won’t go into the actual details of our lovemaking - it’s not that kind of blog. I will tell you this, however. In the middle of sex, as I energetically pumped away, Marie started to cry. Tears were streaming down her face. And then, while I was still reeling from this lachrymose display, Marie stunned me like I had never been stunned before. She cried out to the Pope, "Please forgive me!"

The Pope? My mind was racing as I continued inside her. Hey, I was still just 19. Was she upset because she was having sex with a Jew? Was she still a virgin? I hadn’t noticed any blood. Do they always bleed the first time? What the hell did I know? More importantly, what the hell was I going to do? I couldn’t just pretend like nothing was happening. I had to do something. I had to finish, at least!

If I said a bright light and voices of angels filled my bedroom, I would be lying. Nevertheless, I felt the same kind of wonderment and awe when I suddenly knew what to do. Summoning up the most primal forces from deep inside my soul, I gave Marie four final thrusts as I called out in time with each one - "IN NOMINI PATRI, ET FILII, ET SPIRITUS SANCTI - AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMEN! And with that extended climax, I collapsed upon my gentle and sweet, sobbing Marie.

(For those of you unfamiliar with Latin, the translation is thus: In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. I trust you know what Amen is.)

You may be wondering how a nice Jewish boy knew Latin at all. Hey, I live in a very Catholic town. What can I say?

Marie never explained to me why she started to cry. And, if truth be told, I didn’t really want an explanation. It was freaky enough without one. I saw her only once after that. By chance. She was out for a walk and happened by my house while I was standing in the driveway. We spoke for a few minutes, inquired about each other and off she went. Oh Marie, Marie! Ave Maria!