my most significant sexual encounter

8/9/2019 My Most Significant Sexual Encounter

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My most significant sexual encounter

By Laura Matthews

It's funny to look back over a lifetime of near misses and close encounters and

somewhat successfuls to realize it was the first time that meant the most and was the most

indicative of who I am and what I want. To have that moment be the moment of

revelation, unrecognized until years later — until now, when I am again searching and

hoping to find.

I was fourteen, a callow, naïve, eager freshman, landing in the confusing and

chaotic halls of my high school in September 1976. A cute brunette bundle, I had in

recent months begun to fill out my sweaters and learned how to smile. My grade school

years were bereft of friends due to my too-skinny, way-smart, non-athletic personality,

but then junior high introduced me to a whole new world — theater. My first play (and my

first stage smooch with my buddy Bill) behind me, I bounced into high school expectant

of great things. And they were there, waiting for me.

The first week of school, all of us who had participated in the junior high drama

program received mimeographed letters, delivered personally to us in class, from the

inimitable Krinkle, faculty head of the high school drama department. I saw that my

name was written on the envelope as I tore it open.

Dear [first name written in handwriting] Laura,



You were recommended to me by the Carl Junior High School drama

director as someone who might be interested in participating in theater at the high

school level. I hope you will accept this invitation to audition for two upcoming

events: "Thurber Carnival," the fall show, and Thespian Show, a traveling song-

and-dance review. [Audition times were given for the following week.]

We look forward to meeting you at auditions.

Warmly,

Les Krinkle, Director

Duke Community High School Drama Department

I couldn't have been happier to receive this letter than if it had been "the envelope,

please" on Oscar night. I was sure I'd been earmarked for greatness. Never mind that all

my other chums from junior high received letters, too — at least we could all audition

together.

Sure enough, the following Tuesday night found Bill and me along with

numerous other squirrelly freshmen sitting frantic in a row in the school auditorium,

rifling through stapled-at-the-corner 8 ½ x 11 script pages, trying to get a handle on a

play we'd never heard of before.

It was during auditions that night that I saw Him for the first time. Stan Leroy. He

was a senior, and he took the stage with such assurance, and such a rumble of approval

flowed through the crowd of theater people in the seats, there seemed to be no doubt of

his getting the starring role. Modest and unassuming in his confidence, he stood to one



side until Krinkle gave the cue, then launched into an already memorized rendition of the

famous "Secret Life of Walter Mitty" sketch with a partner reading lines from her pages.

Stan was tall for high school (over six feet), slim with broad but somewhat

hunched shoulders, short cropped blond hair, and a hook nose that wrinkled up when he

smiled. I never could decide if he was good looking or not. It didn't matter. The

magnetism made up for whatever was lacking in appearance. The older kids cheered

when the scene finished, and we freshman followed suit. He practically parted water

upon returning to his seat, amidst general congratulations. Everyone loved him — it

appeared to be the only rational response.

We youngsters all auditioned, one by one, some of us better than others. I thought

I did okay, but my mind was churning in the new environment and I couldn't think

straight. Callbacks would be in two nights, with our names posted on the drama bulletin

board in the morning if Krinkle wanted to see us again. In the meantime, the next night

was Thespian Show auditions. Since this one involved singing and dancing, not as many

people showed up. Bill and I were there, again together, warming up in the hallway as the

piano plunked away inside the audition room, this time Krinkle's English class.

Lo and behold He was there, too. In fact, Thespian Show was Stan's brainchild.

Eager for directing experience, he had assembled the songs, written the script, and was

now managing the entire process as Krinkle sat to one side needlepointing. The entire

show would be a fundraiser for drama, as it was designed to be taken on the road to

perform at nursing homes and banquets.



I belted out a tune and did the little shuffle-hop-step that he showed us with a

group of seven others. He smiled, complete with nose wrinkle. He said, "Thanks." Bill

and I left, on tenterhooks.

That's how it all started. By the end of the next week, I was the only freshman to

be cast in both productions. Bill was in Thespian Show with me but not in the play. I had

little roles in three of the vignettes in Thurber . Stan, of course, got Walter Mitty.

I started making friends with the other kids and learning how to flirt in the more

sophisticated high school arena, but I was firmly Stan-oriented. Some of the other boys

thought I was cute and some even tried to kiss me at parties and whatnot, but I was

having none of it. If Stan were in the room, my sonar was focused there and he was

pinging. I couldn't help it. He was the Drama God. He could sing, he could dance, and

boy, could he act. This was Crush with a capital C, and it didn't fade or abate through

months of a growing friendship.

For, we did become friends. Rehearsals and backstage and the long bus rides for

Thespian Show afforded many opportunities for him to indulge in my adoration away

from his girlfriend, the perfect Christine Stapleton. Chris was an icy blonde senior and a

straight A Honors student. She sang like an angel in the concert choir and I think even

played the flute. She did not go out for theater, however, making the female cast and

crew (and some of the males — including Bill, I found out later) very happy.

Far from ignoring me or treating me like a peon, Stan talked with me. We talked

about Shakespeare, religion, relationships, literature, school, you name it, all while

exchanging backrubs or sharing soda. Soda was fair game for anyone who had one — you

could just reach over and take a swig. I made sure to have Stan's favorite always in hand.



And, backrubs were the currency of friendship. It was the most natural thing in the world

when approaching a cluster of chatty fellow Thespians to ingratiate yourself into the

conversation with warm hands on broad shoulders. The favor was frequently returned,

often that very night. I tried to get my exchange in with Stan whenever possible,

tolerating the exchanges with the other boys as cover.

The year progressed, with fall moving to winter and winter to spring. We did

Private Lives (Stan got the lead, and I did costumes) and Annie, Get Your Gun (Stan got

the lead, and I was in the chorus). The drama department took field trips into the city

(Chicago) to see Broadway plays that were in town. I'd do my best to sit in Stan's sphere,

sometimes in the row ahead or the row behind because I never could quite get next to him

for an entire show. We saw Chorus Line and The Wiz that year, and they totally blew my

mind.

On quiet bus rides, though, late at night after some Thespian Show performance at

the Knights of Columbus or Rotary, I'd finagle my way to sharing a seat with him. Stan

would tell me about his plan to major in acting in college the next year. He'd talk about

his father and family, and his beliefs about the nature of reality. Those times, I wouldn't

touch him or flirt. I just liked to hear his voice and be able to stare at his face, and didn't

want to ruin it by making him think I "liked" him. Looking back, of course, he must have

known. But it remained unspoken between us, and the caring for him deepened in my

fourteen-year-old heart.

Then came the afternoon that would change my life forever. Theater person Mary

Beth Morgan was turning eighteen, and her on-again, off-again college boyfriend Keith



Bailey threw her a party on a Sunday afternoon. Keith's parties were legendary. Everyone

in the theater department would be there.

I showed up, bright-eyed, at around two. Stan was already there. There was music

playing in the basement where all the kids were congregated, but the afternoon timing

kept us from the full-blown dancing normal for drama parties. Stan wasn't much of a

dancer, not at parties anyway. I did some twirls around the floor, but then, inevitably,

became a moth to Stan's flame.

Because he didn't dance, Stan liked to play games at parties. We'd played many a

hand of gin in the prior months, along with chess and backgammon. Keith even had this

cool old-fashioned pachinko game that I'd played for hours. That afternoon, it was two-

handed gin, gin, and more gin. Stan beat me consistently, but I didn't mind. We ate

pretzels and threw popcorn at each other. He laughed, wrinkled nosed, at my jokes, and I

looked puzzled at his, which made him laugh more.

My heart sank, as it always did, when he said around four o'clock that it was time

for him to go. Like a puppy, I followed him upstairs to say goodbye.

He pulled on his coat, tucked a scarf around his neck in preparation for the still

chilly spring air, and reached out his right hand.

"Great games, Laura," he said, casual.

I said, "Yeah," and took his hand for what I thought would be a shake. But it

wasn't.

He pulled me to his chest — he was so very tall. His other hand went around my

waist, and gaping, I looked up at him as his mouth descended to mine. A startled instinct

made me try to pull away, but then that other hand went firmly to the back of my head



and held it. His right hand let go of mine and his arm wrapped around me, and stunned, I

let his tongue caress mine for what would go down in history as my first French kiss.

Ah, that moment. It still whispers in my memory, over thirty years later. The

feeling of adoration, of being wanted, of total surrender, of wanting in return. It awoke a

hunger in me to love with all my being, to be unable to resist, to have a completely open

heart for someone I could admire forever.

The moment passed, and he was gone. A few months later, he graduated, and I

never saw him again.

I've been searching for that kiss ever since.

my most significant sexual encounter

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