In many novels and films, plotlines concerning mature women having relationships with teenage boys are prevalent. Many of these stories (my favorite being the 1995 Gus Van Sant crime flick, To Die For) tell the tale of steamy, forbidden love filled with passion, but in the real world that same scenario isn’t always as sexy. Thinking back to the summer of 1978, the year that I turned 15, that identical experience with a beautiful woman proved to be more frightening than exciting.
Most summers my brother and I spent in Pittsburgh with my Aunt Ricky, but that year, having recently turned 15 in June, I got my first real job working at a senior citizen apartment building in Harlem. Owned by the Jackie Robinson Development Corporation, it was operated by the great baseball player’s widow Rachel, for whom my biological father Lafayette Dixon worked, and he had gotten me the gig toiling alongside the maintenance men. In addition to sweeping, mopping, and helping the elderly tenants move heavy items in their flats, there was also a large garden in the backyard that required daily watering and weed pulling.
I was the youngest person working with grown men, guys in their 30s and 40s, with the oldest dude serving as our supervisor. Sitting behind a paper cluttered metal desk, he was an overweight gentleman who gave us our daily assignments. Having grown up with Grandma and her friends, I was used to being around older folks, a few of whom just needed another ear to tell their stories to. There was one guy who stood in front of the building every morning and, when I arrived at 8:00 AM, yelled, “Off to the coal mines again.”
Meanwhile, Miss Harrison, a Georgia native who came to New York City as a teenager and never left, told great Harlem tales that included Lindy Hopping at the Savoy. “We would practice all day and dance all night,” she said. I enjoyed talking to the elders, listening to their stories of the days “when Harlem was Harlem,” when one could stroll the streets without fear. “Not like today,” they’d whisper as though it were a secret. “You never know what might step out of the shadows.”
The men I worked with were cool, though the first week they swore I was a spy for my dad and Mrs. Robinson. Hell, I hadn’t even met Mrs. Robinson yet, but had a clear memory of my childhood babysitter taking me to Riverside Church to view my boss’ celebrated husband Jackie lying in state after his death from a heart attack in October, 1972. I was 9 at the time, and soon schooled on Jackie’s greatness on the baseball field.
After retiring in 1957 he began building businesses in Harlem, including the Freedom National Bank of Harlem, a construction company, and several real estate holdings. Mrs. Robinson kept it flowing after his death. Occasionally she visited the property and, warned by her staff the day before, we made a mad dash to make everything sparkle. Mrs. Robinson carried herself in a regal fashion, but she was always nice to the staff and residents.
The supervisor was a southern expat who didn’t talk much; the same couldn’t be said about my other three co-workers, who were fine when by themselves, but together were crude, rude, and raunchy when we were in the basement office/headquarters on break or during lunch. Their interests were mostly sports and sex, neither subject I knew much about. On the wall there was a Jet calendar with each month featuring a nude Black woman; I glanced at it while those guys talked big bad stuff about the women they had sex with, bragging about the size of the woman’s breasts and booties and the wildness of various acts.
Compared to a few of my friends I was slow, because I didn’t have a girlfriend and had never had sex. As a young Black nerd into comic books, movies, music, and writing (I was already a budding cultural critic), I wasn’t pressed. Of course, there were a few young teens from my hood that were sexually active, but I wasn’t one of them. Perhaps it was the influence of Catholic school or my homeboy Kevin getting his girlfriend pregnant when we were 13, but I just knew I was content waiting until college.
Besides, to my young ears, my co-workers’ ideas of sex was obscene and the way they talked about the subject was nauseating. They made sex sound as sensuous as a wrestling match, though in my mind it should’ve been more like ballet with an orchestrated Barry White score. Years later I realized that half the stuff they spouted was most likely lies.
One gloomy afternoon when I just couldn’t take it anymore, I blurted, “Can’t you fools talk about anything besides sex?” That was the biggest mistake of my tenure. “Why?” one screamed back, “Don’t you like sex?” Afterwards I was teased for days about my virgin status and the fact that I wasn’t even trying to get any. Still, I did have my secret crushes and daydreams that consisted of cuties from school, Mom’s fine friends, and various girlies from around the way, but I just kept those thoughts to myself.
Like most young men of my generation, I learned about sex from movies (James Bond, Shaft and Superfly were my guides) and the streets. Attending public school for 1st grade at P.S. 186, I somehow learned the word “pussy” and decided to Bic pen scribble it on my Banana Splits bed sheet. In the trash room a few years later, me and the crew found a bunch of XXX glossies, which were my introduction to semen. “What is that?” I asked, totally grossed out. My friend Marvin looked at me as though I was crazy. “Haven’t you ever seen cum before?” he asked. I wasn’t a prude, but the concept of sex seemed too complex for me to comprehend.
The summer job lasted for six weeks. My last day at work was anti-climactic, with no party or big deal made. “It was nice working with you,” was the most anyone said. Seven days after I turned in my badge and I.D., my father called and invited me on a fishing trip. I almost started laughing. Here was a man who never showed up for any of my boyhood events or parties, but was requesting that we board a boat together. “Of course I’ll go,” I replied.
***
Lafayette lived in Westchester, in the primarily white village of Larchmont, with my stepmom Angus and her son Brian. By car, it was 40 minutes (and a lifetime) away from the bustling blocks of my Harlem neighborhood. Lafayette picked me up in his gray Volvo every month or so, but I usually spent more time with Angus and Brian than with him. However, the Sunday morning of the fishing trip we rose at dawn and drove a great distance to a pier where a large boat was docked. The only other time I’d gone fishing was in my Uncle Donald’s rowboat in Pittsburgh, but this was something different.
When one of Lafayette’s friends met us on the boat, I soon realized this was really about him having a business meeting on the Hudson while I amused myself. To make matters worse, he thought we could rent rods on the boat, but we were actually required to bring our own gear. Thankfully I enjoyed being on the river, leaning over the railing to watch the tiny waves while thinking about joining the Merchant Marines (as I’d seen on a Samuel R. Delany paperback as one of his former jobs) and fantasizing on what was below the water, be it a mermaid or Sub-Mariner.
Overhead seagulls soared, squawked, and dove into the river for fish. We were scheduled to be on the boat for a few hours. I was glad I had also bought a book with me, Strange Wine by Harlan Ellison that I read until lunch. Afterwards I was once again alone, staring at the river, when an attractive Black woman I’d noticed earlier came over to the railing and stood next to me. She looked to be in her early 30s. Always mannerable, I might’ve spoken first.
“What are you reading?” she asked. I showed her the cover. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“He writes science fiction and fantasy stories.”
“Oh,” she said. Dressed in a flowing summer dress and sandals, she looked lovely, but when she spoke the strong scent of rum wafted from her mouth, singeing my nose hairs in the process. “My name is Clara.”
“I’m Michael.”
“It’s so nice to meet you, Michael. Are you alone?”
“My father is around here somewhere.”
Clara was silent for a few minutes and then she said, “I just got a divorce a few months back. I’m so glad that’s over.”
“Really?” I mumbled. While I knew what divorce was, I’d never discussed the subject with a woman that actually had one. “He was the worst. Cheap and mean; whatever you do in life, try not to be that.”
“I’ll try.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No. My mom says I can’t date until I’m 16.”
“How old are you?”
“15.”
Clara smiled and moved closer to me. “That’s a good age.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re very handsome. You should come visit me at my apartment.”
I was dumbfounded. Though I knew exactly what she meant, I had no idea how to reply. “What are we going to do at your apartment?”
She smiled wickedly. “Before or after we make love?”
Without warning she stepped closer, leaned in and kissed me. For a few seconds my lips were sealed, but ultimately her wild tongue pierced them open and slipped into my mouth. “French kiss,” the kids used to call it. The entire episode lasted about two minutes, but it felt like forever. I could taste her rum. That was literally my first kiss and it had been stolen by a drunken stranger.
Years of sneaking peeks at my stepdad’s Playboy magazines, sex education on the front stoop of my building, and those raunchy comments from my former co-workers should’ve prepared me, but truthfully I just wanted to run as far as possible and hide. While writers often celebrate these risqué circumstances between older women and teenage boys, I simply felt disgusted. Still, I had no idea how to respond to her aggressive behavior and did nothing.
Stepping back, Clara opened her clutch, took out a pack of matches and a pen. She printed her name and phone number and passed it to me. “Please call.”
“I’m moving to Baltimore next week,” I said, which was actually the truth.
She laughed. “I’m sure you’ll be back to visit. Call me then.”
Though I was silent I already knew that I wouldn’t be calling that woman. After the boat docked, Lafayette and I walked down the plank and made it to the car. Before getting in I turned around and saw Clara with her friends. Carefree and laughing, when she caught me glancing over she winked. While that would’ve been the beginning of a great romance for some, I just wanted to get far away.
For days, months and years I kept that matchbook hidden. Every now and then I would be tempted to dial her number, curious as to how far I would go. The machismo side of my brain argued that an affair with an older woman would be the best lesson on making love while the sensitive side felt violated and wanted to call the police.
For years I kept the Clara story to myself—-never told my parents, friends, or the wonderful therapist I had in the ‘90s when I was trying to control my various vices, sex being one of them. However, whenever I hear of another woman teacher scandal with a male student, there is always some guy who says, “Damn, that boy was lucky.” Without a doubt, there seems to be very little outrage when it comes to teen boys being sexually abused or assaulted by older women, as though it’s a rite of passage that they should make them proud. When it comes to teen boys it seems as though the age of consent, which was 17 in 1978, is rarely considered. Lost in a fantasy that would be the perfect text for Penthouse Forum, they have no idea how destructive that sort of behavior can have on boys not ready to be men.
