My first job was at Taco Bell.  My step-sister and I are the same age, with our birthdays only two months apart.  After my birthday, the later of the two, our parents–her mother, my father–sat us down and told us that now that we were sixteen we had to get jobs.

We panicked.  We lived in a crappy suburb of Sacramento, California, which is itself a crappy suburb that just happens to be the capital of California.  (To be fair, I think all suburbs are crappy.)  Driving was required to get anywhere, only we didn’t have cars or drivers’ licenses.  The town had no public transportation whatsoever.  Our parents had been making it clear for years that they did not like giving us rides anywhere.

The only jobs in the town were in the food service industry.  The town is between Sacramento and Tahoe, so it’s a common stop for people on road trips.  There were many fast-food franchises and a few “fancy” places too, like Sizzler.  But none of these places were particularly close to our house–definitely not walking distance.

We both applied for jobs at Taco Bell.  I remember actually being worried that we wouldn’t get hired.  Of course my worry was unfounded.  We were both hired without fanfare and issued maroon polyester pants and “Run for the Border” t-shirts in nice 80s pastels.

Our parents still refused to help us get to or from work but suggested we ride our bikes.  I, however, did not have a bicycle.  To this day I have never owned a bike.  My dad was nice enough to let me borrow his bicycle, a man’s 10-speed with a frame too large for my height.  I had to tip the bike to the side just to get on the seat.  My feet reached the pedals, barely.

The town had one major road that ran perpendicular to the freeway.  The speed limit in practice was around 45mph.  There was no bike lane; there was no sidewalk.  In order to ride to and from work we had to utilize the very small space between the white line marking the outside of the lane and the edge of the asphalt.  Beyond the asphalt was gravel, and potential maiming.  We rode our bikes on this road even at night, without lights, and without helmets.

Obviously I wasn’t killed on the side of that stupid road, but I’m still bitter that my parents were such assholes.

Everyone had his/her specialty at Taco Bell.  I was assigned to the drive-thru on most of my shifts.  On the register was a golden plaque that read, “UPSELL” to remind us to always ask the customers if they wanted anything else.  I utilized the somewhat silly, “Would you like Cinnamon Crispas with that?”

During my tenure at Taco Bell they stopped selling Cinnamon Crispas, which were fried flour tortilla pieces dredged in cinnamon and sugar, and started selling Cinnamon Twists, weird dry pasta-looking things that were fried and dredged in cinnamon and sugar.  Jeremy (his real name) was the fry guy.

Jeremy stood over vats of oil and fried the Crispas, and later the Twists.  He also fried the bowls for the taco salads, and the chips for the nachos.  Everything that was deep fried at that Taco Bell, Jeremy made.  Jeremy went to my high school but I didn’t know him at school at all.  The most amazing thing about Jeremy was the fact that he had the most beautiful, clear skin.  A teenager and a fry cook, but not a blemish in sight.  It really was incredible.

When school ended in June I continued to work at Taco Bell.  Because of the labor law’s application to minors I was allowed to work longer and later hours when school wasn’t in session.  Occasionally, when I worked late a co-worker would give me a ride home so I didn’t have to ride my bike in the dark.

Along with my parents being assholes about the transportation issue, they were assholes about letting me do anything other than work.  Usually when I asked if I could do something I was told no.  Consequently, I stopped asking and began sneaking.

One night Jeremy and I closed the Taco Bell together.  He told me he was on his way to a party and asked if I wanted to join him.  I knew I wouldn’t have been allowed to go if I asked my parents; they would have wanted to talk to the host’s parents, and make sure there wasn’t any alcohol served before they’d consent.  I assumed the host’s parents weren’t around, thus giving a reason for the party.  So without asking my parents, I went to the party with Jeremy.

I was right, there were no parents at the party.  And there was alcohol.  At the time I did not drink because of a nasty little alcohol overdose I’d had when I was fourteen.  Jeremy and I hung out for a while, and then we went for a drive.  We were bored but not yet ready to go to our respective homes.  Also, I figured I was going to get in trouble anyway so I might as well have enough fun so the punishment would be worth something.

Somehow we ended up in Folsom.  Jeremy parked the car in a random subdivision.  We talked.  I sucked his fingers.  And that’s when things changed.

Up to this point I’d had limited sexual experiences, none of which included a penis entering my vagina.  My first finger bang was part of a Big Red-flavored make-out session on a football field with Terrence (also his real name) when I was in ninth grade.  I’d had serious dry humping sessions here and there.  I might have given a blow job by this point, but I can’t recall.  I was most definitely still a virgin.

The way I felt at the time was that everyone had had sex but me.  I was convinced I was the last virgin out of all my friends.  My step-sister had lost her virginity a full two years prior, when we were fourteen.  I was getting left behind.

I was so awkward and insecure around boys that I’m sure I passed up a lot of opportunities because I was too clueless to notice when someone was actually into me.  But I was not going to let the time alone in a car with Jeremy go to waste.  As soon as I began sucking his fingers it was clear what we were going to do.

We got into the car’s back seat.  It was Jeremy’s mother’s Ford of some sort.  There was some lumbering making out, and then we were having sex.  Oh.  My.  God.  He was on top of me grunting and sweating.  There wasn’t much room to move.

I had always heard that teenage boys didn’t last very long when they were fucking.  I don’t know how much time had elapsed as he clumsily pushed his penis into me, but I was concerned that he would come inside me.  We weren’t using a condom. I said, “You’re going to pull out, right?”

At which point he pulled out.  I have no idea if he came.  I certainly did not.  We were finding our clothes when a loud tap at the window and a bright light got our attention.  Jeremy lowered the window and greeted the police officer very politely.

Jeremy hastily put on his pants and got out of the car.  As I was getting dressed the cop told us that someone in one of the many houses within our view had called the police because of our “suspicious activity.”  He asked us how old we were.  Jeremy answered that he was seventeen.  For some reason I thought it would look bad if he was older than me, so I lied and said I, too, was seventeen.  The police officer told us to leave.

Jeremy got in the driver’s seat and looked back at me.  I was so embarrassed I couldn’t make eye contact.  He was waiting for me to get in the front seat but I decided to stay where I was.  Neither one of us said anything while he drove me home.

He dropped me off in front of my house and drove away without a word.  It wasn’t until I reached into my empty pocket that I realized my house keys were still in the back seat of Jeremy’s mother’s car.  This was well before cell phones were in common use; I had no way to contact him.

I had to get in my house without my parents knowing how late I’d been out, so knocking on the door and waking them up was not an option.  I also was not ready to face my parents after having just had sex for the first time.  I checked the back door–locked, dammit.  The kitchen window was slightly ajar.

However, the bottom of the window was well above my head.  I found something to stand on but still had to jump to get my arms over the sill.  I hung there with my head, shoulders, and arms inside, and the rest of my body outside.  I tried to gain purchase by scraping my feet on the wall.  I was panicked.  My mind was darting everywhere and nowhere to try to figure out how the hell I was going to get myself out of the pickle when the kitchen light turned on.

My step-mother stood in the kitchen doorway.  She looked very sleepy.  And pissed (but she always looked angry).  I dropped to the ground, she let me in the back door, and I went to bed.

The next day I got one my my step-mother’s infamous lectures.  A form of punishment was to have to endure her harangue non-stop for at least an hour.  This particular speech lasted much longer than that.  Everything she said was repeated countless times.  I had learned soon after I moved in with her when I was eleven that it was best to say as little as possible when on the receiving end of one of her diatribes.  I answered direct questions with one-word responses if possible.  I said, “I don’t know” a lot.  If I had said too much, it would have meant her discourse would have continued even longer, because she would have felt the need to address everything I said, point by minute point.

The gist of this particular exhortation was clear:  She did not know where I was the night before but she suspected I was either at a bar (since the alcohol overdose when I was fourteen every time I left the house she thought I was getting wasted) or fucking; and I was lucky she didn’t shoot me right there in the kitchen window (she did not have a gun).  I did not tell her what I was doing or with whom I was doing it.  I did tell her I had not been at a bar, and I still wonder what bar she thought would let in a sixteen-year-old.

I’m sure I was grounded, but I was still allowed to go to work.  Jeremy’s friend, our co-worker, had heard about Jeremy and me and teased me about it.  I learned from this co-worker that Jeremy, too, had been a virgin, and that Jeremy was moving to Minnesota.  I never saw Jeremy again.  I never even talked to Jeremy again.

I vowed then that I would never again fuck in a car.  I haven’t and I won’t.  However, there’s nothing wrong with road head.

I swear.  True story.