It was December, one week before my seventh birthday, and my father, his girlfriend, Callie, and I were on our way to the movies.
“Kimberly, Sweetie, what is it you’d like for your birthday this year?” Callie asked.
“I know what you shouldn’t get her,” Pop interjected, his eyes fixated on the highway ahead. “Another Barbie doll. All she ever does with them is take off their clothes.”
Having a doll
“Dad!” I shrieked from the backseat of our Chrysler minivan. “I just like to alternate their outfits, okay? Geez!”
There was a reason I was so defensive that day. Looking back then, I realize now that my Barbies were, in fact, my very first sex toy.
An outsider might argue that I was much too young to recognize the entire context of my playtimes. But even though a child, I knew exactly what I was up to. Because every time one of my parents, siblings, or nannies would open my door, I would at once turn bright red and try to shove beneath my armoire the giant mound of naked dolls on top of one another in the middle of my bedroom floor.
When my mother bought me my first dolls from Mattel, she thought she was doing me a favor by giving me Barbie, her two younger sisters, and all of their same-sex friends. But it was Ken I enjoyed playing with the most. Whether it be a business suit, floral swim trunks, or scrubs and a stethoscope, every article of clothing and each accessory Ken ever owned would promptly come off, and he’d run around beside me in the buff, leaping from my bed to my bookshelves with extraordinary agility or, on the weekends, riding my hamster bareback while carrying a sword.
I only had the one male doll, and his steady use had led him to see better days. Over time, every strand of poor Kenneth’s hair had been cut clean, and I bite off his nose once, having seen Danny DeVito’s Penguin character do the same to a co-worker in Batman Returns. The shortage of males in my doll population was initially concerning, but I remember waking up one morning and wondering what was so wrong about Barbie and Barbie’s closest female friends
“doing it?” From that day forward, my dolls were full-blown bisexuals.
***
For going a complete week without “pulling a Kimmie”, my mother came home from her office one afternoon carrying a present: a Barbie doll limousine, complete with working hot tub. (And by working, I mean it could blow bubbles out of a hole in its side). The small gesture of the gift represented something substantial to my upbringing; and after receiving it, my childhood was never the same. When not in school, every minute was spent upstairs in my bedroom, positioning carefully each of my dolls in their glorious cherry-colored limo. And with regards to my constant attention towards it over the years, that little Jacuzzi probably saw more action than any other featured on a VH1 reality show. Especially when Baywatch Barbie came to town.
My older sister owned the dolls as well, but hers were collector’s items, and not to be touched. So as expected, I did everything I could to get my hands all over them. Because Jordan was in the third grade and a year above me, she would remain in class almost an hour later. Thus, the minute my nanny came to pick me up from elementary school, I would rush home to enter the forbidden pink walls of my big sister’s bedroom, and take out from their cases Sun ‘N Surf Skipper, Peacock Teresa, and Judy Garland Barbie (who, at the end, was just a big mess). The nanny, who only spoke Polish and never quite understood what was happening around her most times, had dubbed me her “kochanie,” and always preferred me to my sister. She never told Jordan about the hour I would spend each day in her room, turning her Barbies to whores.
Jordan’s coltish limbs could not assemble the strength to hurt someone by hitting them, but she could, (and still can), verbally abuse like no other I’ve known. When she walked into her bedroom one day and saw me “bumping” together Mommie Dearest Barbie and Football Captain Ken, all hell broke loose and still to this day, my self-esteem has yet to make a full recovery. Terrified, I ran into the protective arms of my nanny, vowing through heavy sobs to never again touch my sister’s dolls. (Or let them touch eachother).
***
I was fourteen and several months shy of entering my first year of high school when my mother told me that, due to my age, I was no longer allowed to play with dolls. The decision was heartbreaking, and for months I cursed aloud those god-awful children of the Salvation Army for stealing my precious toys. (Though I will admit, the subsequent gift of a neon-green iPod somewhat cushioned the blow).
While I missed my dolls for the sexual experience and knowledge that their presence had allowed for, I also felt a void over the loss of my friends. It wasn’t just a decade-long orgy that I had encountered with my Barbies. It was companionship. And though Mom promised I would get over them eventually, I found myself missing them most at a high school party almost a year after their abrupt dismissal.
Christopher Dunn was the crush of Danielle, and I went along with her to his Valentine’s Day party so that she might spend more time with him. His entire house was vibrating from the bass blasting through towering speakers, and everywhere I looked, a teenager in braces was shot-gunning a beer. Where the hell were this kid’s nannies? I immediately turned back towards my bicycle but was rebuked by Danielle, who was insistent on seeing her Christopher.
Perhaps because it was February 14th that every person there was especially horny that evening. Christopher had gathered us all up in his living room and demanded we play Seven Minutes in Heaven, a game in which two individuals must go into a dark closet together for seven minutes. Everybody appeared delighted at the idea, but I opted instead to go into the den and see what was on the Weather Channel. Apparently my volunteering to leave meant to everyone else that I must not only play the game, but that I should go first. With cold, reluctant hands, I spun a bottle placed in the middle of the room that landed on…Christopher. He leapt up and opened the door of a nearby coat closet. “Ladies first,” he smiled. I look to Danielle for help, whose only assistance was whispering in my ear that if Christopher and I have sex, I “better be effing grateful.”
If Christopher and I had sex? He and I had only exchanged words once- that being my “bless you” after a particularly violent sneeze he had made in our European history class. Dreading what came next, I walked slowly to the closet and sat down inside of it, my knees to my chest as Christopher closed the door behind us. I couldn’t see him or anything else in the darkness, but the space was small and I knew he was only inches away.
“Kimberly?”
“Uh huh?”
“Do you want to kiss?”
“No thank you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t get pregnant right now.” Duh.
A long silence. I began to hope he had fallen asleep.
“You can only get pregnant if you have sex.”
I was confused. “But isn’t kissing a part of sex?”
A strange noise broke through the darkness and I realized he was laughing. “Not for me.”
I didn’t understand and I began feeling for the light button on my Timex wristwatch.
Christopher’s hands found mine and he steadied them in his lap. “You won’t get pregnant. Lie down.”
His voice was hypnotic and, confused and scared, I listened to him. My eyes were closed, even though already I couldn’t see. I thought back to Barbie and her friends—for them, sex was only pleasurable. There were no repercussions, no regrets. They were consistently intimate and their smiles were unwavering throughout it all. Surely it would be the same for me.
“Okay.” I blurted out. “We can have sex, but only if we keep our clothes on.”
Christopher was on top of me in an instant, and I was sure he could feel my heart pound through my shivering skin. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so they stayed to my side, palms face down on the hardwood floor. I was fifteen years old, and already no longer a virgin.
Minutes later, the door flung open and the artificial lights from the living room flooded our closet. Christopher and I got up; his lips were smeared in gloss while my hair stuck out all over my head. Danielle’s eyes paced from his to mine like an animal in captivity.
“Well?” She asked us both. “Did you do it?”
I smiled, proud of myself for such an accomplishment. “Yes!” I shouted. “I did it! I just had sex!”
Christopher stood beside me, astounded. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“About what?” I looked up at him in innocence.
“Kimberly, that was not sex. That was lying down.”
The room erupted in laughter. I couldn’t pretend that I had been kidding; the absence of color in my face had given me away. Mortified, I spent the remainder of the party with my eyes glued to tomorrow’s forecast.
School proved no better. Word got around that I was both a prude and an idiot, and for weeks since that infamous Valentine’s Day, blatant stares and snickering followed me everywhere. My sister got wind of what had happened and put an end to the bullying after threatening to (vocally) beat the absolute crap out of anyone who called me names, no matter their accuracy. Still, I knew what they were thinking. And for years afterward, the only sexual activity I would ever come close to consisted of my reading various Henry Miller novels and biographies on JFK.
For that, and for it all, I blame the dolls.
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