I had a number of early experiences that impacted my general perception of women, their objectification and sex or fantasies of sex with them. Certainly, through my college years and beyond, I was every bit as disgusting as the two college boys in the Trojan ad from the 1950s. Who cares about the women, you need to protect your pals in case they get “lucky.”I’m not sure that I was that insensitive but I’m not sure that I wasn’t.
My first negative impression of women that I recall came when I was three and living in Kansas City. There was a neighbor girl whose father was a Friday night wrestler, “The Mauler from KC Holler.” Karen, who was five, definitely did not adhere to the Barbie Rule, that she was meant to serve men. She was big and strong and carried around a brick to make her point. She once thumped a baby in her carriage that cost her the brick. That didn’t stop her from beating the shit out of me regularly with her fists. Once I was on the ground, she usually sat on me. My father had always told me that, “Men never, ever hit a woman.” No exceptions. Finally, after too many crying episodes where Karen had pummeled me senseless, my father discretely told me, when Mom wasn’t listening that he would teach me to box. After a few lessons, we went on a Sunday picnic with Karen’s family, Karen got me isolated and began her bruising routine. To her shock, I hit back and chased her through the fried chicken-potato salad feast on the blanket. As Karen and I streaked through the dishes, I stopped and turned to my father and said, “Dad, I hit her just like you told me.” I think my father wanted to evaporate in the presence of “The Friday Night Mauler,” fearing for his life. He told me later in life that The Mauler laughed and laughed and said that Karen learned an valuable lesson. I’m not sure what that lesson was but she quit wailing on me and babies in strollers. I heard she settled down and did not follow, as she could have so easily done, in her father’s footsteps as Lady Mauler.
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In the 7th grade, I had two experiences that both involved condoms but they both did not, fortunately, involve women. I grew up during the Playboy era when we males totally objectified women, as are the “lucky” lads in the ad above, who, in their glee, were planning to “score” big and of course, share that with their pals. We had two heads vying for our attention, and Hugh Hefner’s voice was stronger than Phyllis Schlafly’s. Women were something to win, like a teddy bear at the fair. I’m not sure we have changed down deep, but at the very least, unlike the two college boys in the Trojan ad, we are aware of our transgressions now. In their and my defense, we didn’t know any better.
These two stories illustrate how most of us males, including my father and my aunt, thought of sex and women in the 50s. My father was primarily worried about avoiding pregnancy and my aunt was probably mostly concerned about my cousin’s reputation. The victim, the woman, and her feelings were not the primary concern. Trojans prevented pregnancy but they didn’t reduce the objectification of women.
My father, a physician, decided it was time to give my oldest sister, a 6th grader, and me what came to be known in our family, as the “Rubber Talk.” Against my mother’s anguished protests, he decided that both of us, at 10 and 12, would, as he put it, be starting to get “certain feelings” that he couldn’t describe other than to say that they would be unlike any others we had previously but maybe not unpleasant. He definitely erred on the conservative side in his strained description. It was after dinner when he pulled us into my bedroom. At the time, our two younger sisters, like 2 and 4, way underage for those “certain feelings,” were present and giggling. They didn’t understand the essence of the talk, but they caught the delicacy of the message and that it involved “private parts.”
“To illustrate my point,” my father said, “I am going to tell a story about a friend of mine from medical school who, one week before their wedding, he and his fiancée decided that their apartment needed painting. During the painting, they both simultaneously got the “certain feelings” and my friend did not have the proper protection in his wallet and neither did his fiancée in her purse. But, my friend did have a substitute.”
“What do you mean by proper protection?” I asked.
“A prophylactic, Son. Like a one-finger rubber glove that you put over your penis that keeps your girlfriend from getting pregnant,” he explained as though I were his patient. All three sisters tittered at the mention of penis.
“What was the substitute?” I asked.
“A balloon,” my father said. “A penny balloon. Anyway, that’s not the point. He was not properly prepared, and the balloon broke, and his fiancée got pregnant.”
I just remember that both my oldest sister and I were confused, trying to figure out the message until he set us straight and laid the groundwork for our motto through our steamy high school years. “The point is,” he said. “Be prepared.” I remember thinking at the time whether that had anything to do with the Boy Scout motto, “Be Prepared,” which usually meant always having a pen knife, whistle, matches and maybe some toilet paper but certainly not condoms. I was a devoted Boy Scout at the time so I would have had them in my wallet at all times had the manual said so.
The younger sisters fled the room to report immediately to our mother what Dad had said. After he dismissed us, I overheard her hissing at my father thinking that we couldn’t hear. “Dammit, Dave, ya damned fool, you know what you just did?”
“Yes, I believe I do. I gave them the first and only lesson on human reproduction,” he said somewhat defensively.
“That’s not what you did,” she hissed, louder. “You just gave them carte blanche your okay to just go out and hump to their hearts content with any road bum or traveling salesman or whore as long as they have a rubber with them. That’s what you did! Human reproduction, my ass.” I’d never heard my mother speak like before or since. I offered to buy some Trojans for my sister when I planned to visit the our local pharmacist, but I never got up the nerve.
That was the last of the sex talks. My father had done his duty and neither parent felt obligated to expand on his story. I do know that my mother got an opportunity to check on my sex knowledge by using my cousin as a neutral party, as my next condom experience will testify. Both my sister and I were on our own after ‘The Rubber Talk’ to navigate some unchartered (for us) but thrilling waters.
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I know the second experience occurred in late summer of that year because it involved my cousin, Bobby, who was one year older than me, always visited from Texas just before school started. and definitely pretended to be more worldly than me when it came to subjects of the groin. I remember one autumn evening 5 or 6 of us neighborhood boys were playing basketball in our backyard when Bobby beckoned us over. Girls were forbidden to play, the assumption being that were the weaker sex and relegated to Barbie and teacups. Bobby pulled a package of Trojans out of his jeans pocket and passed them around, still in their foil wrapper. We all knew what they were but not sure how they were used. Bobby told us we could take them out of their package and try them on but no one did. We did practice on our fingers until he grabbed them out of disgust and stuffed them back into his jeans pocket.
A week or so later, my mother beckoned me to her room.
“David,” she said, “Let me ask you an embarrassing question. Do you know if Bobby is sexually active or not?”
“What?” I said. “What do you mean, sexually active?” I thought she meant was he slapping the salami or choking the chicken, as we called it, but I didn’t know if my mom was familiar with that terminology so I just shrugged my shoulders. “Why?” I asked.
“Well,” she said, “Marion found some safes floating around in the wash and she thought that maybe your cousin was sexually active.”
“What do you mean, sexually active?” I asked.
“Having his way with some of the girls in his class,” and she turned red.
“Having his way?” I was having fun.
“Having intercourse with them.” This was not the way she had intended the conversation to go. Then I remembered the evening on the basketball court.
“I seriously doubt it, Mom,” I said, “I’m not sure that Cuz Bobby knows that you can use it for something besides peeing.” I never heard any more about it.
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In conclusion, I do know that I perpetuated the practice of objectifying women well into my 20s, certainly well past my college years. Most likely, I haven’t completely left the Playboy mentality behind, and maybe never will. Hugh painted a pretty exciting life with dozens of Barbies parading through the mansion, more objectified the less they had on. They were considered no better than the actual Barbie doll herself. I would like to think that if my father and my aunt were alive today, they would tell a different story. One that may involve Trojans but also include a story that didn’t imply that sex and pregnancy were the most important consideration, and that the woman was not just a sperm receptacle and we males were there to fill it up. In my opinion, that’s a challenge that may be as difficult for men to overcome as racism is for all of us. But, in both cases, it ain’t gonna happen if we don’t try!
