Cohen - Dirty Little Secrets: Breaking the Silence on Teenage Girls and Promiscuity

Copyright 2011 by Kerry Cohen

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Cohen, Kerry.

Dirty little secrets : breaking the silence on teenage girls and promiscuity /by Kerry Cohen.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references.

1. Teenage girlsSexual behavior. 2. Promiscuity. I. Title.

HQ27.5.C64 2011

306.70835dc22

2011007322

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

VP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To the young women who generously shared their stories, and to those whose stories still ache to be told

T hanks to my tireless and supportive agent Ethan Ellenberg, to Sara Appino for seeing the potential for this book, and to my editor Shana Drehs for enthusiastically believing in the book, even when I struggled to. Im still amazed, Shana, that you got me to the end. Thanks also to Deirdre Burgess, Regan Fisher, and Katherine Faydash for their thoughtful contributions and edits. Tremendous gratitude to April Sirianni and Heather Moore for their impressive work getting the book heard.

My writing groupMichael Guerra, Ken Olsen, Gigi Rosenberg, Katherine Schneider, Jeffrey Selin, and Ellen Urbanihelped me formulate the project and clarify the direction. My family has always been supportiveespecially Michael and my two beautiful sons who accommodated my disappearance to work. Thanks to James Bernard Frost, who whisked me away to get writing done, even when we didnt.

For research help, thank you to Tiffany Kalahui and Helen Delutz.

Finally, but most of all, endless thanks to the thousands of womenyoung and oldand men who have sent me their stories over the years, and especially those who shared their stories for this project. Had it not been for them, for their honesty and conviction, this book couldnt exist.

Whatever is unnamed, undepicted in images, whatever is omitted from biography, censored in collections of letters, whatever is misnamed as something else, made difficult-to-come-by, whatever is buried in the memory by the collapse of meaning under an inadequate or lying languagethis will become, not merely unspoken, but unspeakable.

I see you. Its summer, that salty, hazy time when the suns heat on your skin feels like the promise of something. When light breezes feel like soft kisses on your face. Youre tan, sun kissed, highlighted. Youre pretty, but you dont think youre pretty enough, not enough to make you worth loving.

A boy thinks youre pretty, too. You know that. I see you, the way you throw him glances, shy smiles, the way he looks back, eager. I see you, the stirring inside, the way you perk up. Youre thinking, Maybe this one will save me. Your father is unaware. Your mother is one thousand miles away. So you go with the boy, because hes there with you. You go off into the long beach grass, behind storage sheds, into the bedroom of the rented beach house when your dad is gone. Your hands are always on him, and when theyre not, your mind remains on him. Every kiss, every touch, makes you want more, more, more, and soon nothing is enough, nothing feels good enough, nothing fills you. Just like always. And you start to push for more. You start to push even though you know you shouldnt, even though you know youll push too hard. You always do. And sure enough, the moment comes. You say, Stay with me. Want only me. Make me better, worth something. And so youve sent him away.

I see you two nights later, as well, all the color gone from your face. You watch him, want him to look, but he never does. His friend, thoughhis friend looks. He smiles, leans in, and whispers in the first boys ear. For the first time, the boy you still want glances at you and looks away. Your stomach is in knots. Its all you want, for him to come to you. So when his friend does instead, you think, This is close enough.

You look back, twice, three times, at the boy you like as you go, but he still doesnt turn to see. This new boy, the friend, doesnt see you looking away, or he doesnt care. He pulls you by the hand. You cant remember his name, but you know its too late to ask. He ducks into a laundry room. I see you, your blank expression, the way you acquiesce, the way you let him take off your underwear, do what he wants, the way you turn your head, waiting for it to be over. Your father is somewhere. Your mother is nowhere. I can almost hear your thoughts: It doesnt matter. Its just one more boy.

Afterward, you walk back to the beach house. I see you. I do. I see the way you let your hair fall over your face. You walk quickly, eyes on the ground. Im sorry, I want to tell you. Youre loved. Youre worthwhile. You dont have to be anything for anyone else. But you wouldnt hear me, because youre there and Im all the way over here. Youll have to keep walking, keep hurting, and someday youll reach a point where you say, Enough of this. Youll think its possible that you deserve better. Youll turn to head down another road, also difficult, but worth it. A road you will question often, wondering, Is this really any better? Many times, you will change directions again. Many times, you will think, Im not worth this. But then youll realize again that you are. It will be a long, tiresome road, but eventually youll come to know what I know. For now, I see you. For now, I think, If only someone else had seen you, too.

Y ou see them everywhere. They walk along busy highways in low-slung jeans and tank tops, peering into every car that passes. They sit with their friends in diners and coffee shops, searching, their thoughts clearly on who is looking at them. They catch the eyes of the boys they pass. They smile and flip their hair. They post photos of themselves in bikinis on Facebook. They are just girls. They are your sister, your daughter, your friend, your niece. They are not remarkable, really, in any way. They are almost every girl you see. They believe in their hearts that they are worth nothing, that they have little to offer. They believe boys will pull them out of their ordinariness and finally,