Oct. 5th, 2020

When I was fourteen, there was this beautiful thirteen year old girl, Stephanie (not her real name; I’m changing it to spare her any possible embarrassment), who sometimes babysat my younger siblings. Why didn’t my parents just leave me in charge? I was at daggers drawn with the blond brats, and my parents were, at least as I saw it, unsympathetic to me. A couple of years earlier, they had left me home, although without authority, while they were out for a couple of hours in the day. My brother had acted out, I had been driven to take my first adult aspirin, and when my parents got home, my father decided not to pay me the dollar I had been promised; I wasn’t allowed to discipline the brat, but I was blamed for his refusal to behave himself.

So anyway, Stephanie. After my younger brother and sister had gone to bed, I emerged from my room, and asked Stephanie for permission to socialize with her, which she granted. I planted myself on a separate piece of furniture, told her jokes, and we exchanged book recommendations, and had a good time. Then I thanked her for the pleasure of her company, and excused myself. Her face lit up; then I said goodnight and returned to my own room.

The next time we encountered each other, she seemed much impressed by my virtue.

I don’t think that it was until much later that I thought about this as an instance of the low expectations for the behavior of teenage boys, or wondered why, if she thought that I was likely to try to get physical, and she did not want me to, she said that I could be in the living room with her. Possibly it was a matter of being socialized not to stand up for herself; likely, she too had hormones urging her to flirt with the opposite sex, even at risk of anything from an unwelcome hug on up.

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ndrosen

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