A tale from my misspent youth
I Nearly Lost My Virginity during a Protest at the Pentagon (NSFW)
Forty years later, it’s still a day I’ll never forget …
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It may be coincidence, but two of the more memorable experiences of my life both happened in our nation’s capital.
One was getting a private tour of the West Wing of the White House.
And years earlier, at age 19, I very nearly lost my virginity during a protest at the Pentagon.
I was a late bloomer, in part because I felt very insecure around women. The more beautiful the woman, the more insecure I felt. It also didn’t help that I was a very academic type, and pretty geeky (long before it was fashionable).
So I’d never had much luck with women.
Still, none of that was on my mind when a friend and I took off on a road trip from New England to Washington, D.C., in the spring of 1980.
Why? After the Soviets invaded Afghanistan, there was talk of U.S. military action, and even of reinstating the draft here at home. And suddenly I’m forced to grapple with the possibility of having to go off to war in a faraway land, for a cause I don’t believe in, and want no part of.
Soon thereafter, someone announces a protest rally, the “March for a Non-Nuclear World”, with the following agenda:
- Stop Nuclear Power
- Zero Nuclear Weapons
- Full Employment
- Safe Energy
- Honor Native American Treaties
Alright, close enough. Hey, I’m young and idealistic.
Friday
Neither my friend nor I have much travel money, but he’s able to borrow the family sedan to make the trip.
Ten hours later, we’ve set up a small tent at Greenbelt State Park in Maryland — our home base for the next few days.
Saturday
In the morning, we take the Metro transit line into the city, and make our way to the National Mall.
Approaching the Washington monument, we see the crowd gathering for the event. There’s music, and positive energy in the air. It promises to be interesting.
The weather’s also rainy, and humid, and frankly, a bit miserable. The crowd is determined, though, and in good spirits.
And the rally is interesting … for a while. But after spending most of the day in the rain, and enduring an array of special-interest speakers, the event begins to feel too long, and our interest is winding down.
Still, it’s my first bona-fide political event, hopefully with some kind of statement made, and that does seem worthwhile.
One thing I know now for sure? After spending all day in the rain, I desperately need a shower — though still won’t get one for a couple of days.
Sunday
The organizers offer training for anyone who’ll be doing Civil Disobedience (i.e., trespassing on government property, handcuffing oneself to something, etc.). When one’s protest activity is illegal, it’s important to do these things peacefully, and learn not to resist if arrested.
But I haven’t much interest in getting arrested … and so my friend & I spend Sunday sightseeing instead.
Hey, D.C. is a great city, with tons to see, and it’s my first visit here since I was a little kid.
Monday
Part Two of the event is a march to the Pentagon.
About a thousand people meet up at the Department of Energy (which is complicit, it seems, with the production of nuclear weapons), and so seems like a reasonable place to start from.
The crowd is impassioned, carrying signs, chanting anti-nuclear slogans, with some even doing performance art.
We march down Independence Avenue … then past the Lincoln Memorial … cross the bridge into Virginia … and over to the Pentagon. An entourage of police accompanies us along the way.
We arrive to find, amazingly, there’s no fence around the Pentagon at all — and we can walk right up to the door! (This is something that’ll be rectified later on, even well before the events of 9/11.)
The protest’s stated goal is to “shut down the Pentagon” for the day.
And it’s a colorful crowd:
- There’s a group of Buddhist monks, beating on drums and chanting.
- A remorseful veteran breaks down in tears as he burns his old uniform.
- A military officer approaching from the parking lot stops to answer some protesters’ questions … staying long enough to miss his meeting inside.
- Another protester is interviewed for national radio news. She’s reciting facts about the world’s nuclear arsenals, when suddenly, the reporter decides he’s gotten his sound bite, and abruptly moves on.
As I approach the Pentagon itself, I see someone has painted the words “No War” on the concrete exterior, twice … in pig’s blood, no less.
It’s a strange sight overall, though I’m happy to be part of it — minus the actual civil disobedience. I stick to the sidelines with some others, and offer moral support to those putting themselves at risk, enthusiastically cheering them on …
Though after a while, all this exercising of First Amendment rights is making me hungry.
So I find my friend, who reaches into his knapsack, and pulls out some bread, and jars of peanut butter and jelly. We hastily improvise a couple of sandwiches.
And that’s just when I look up and notice two people, a man and a woman, who have actually handcuffed themselves to the outside of one of the Pentagon’s doors. (And another man has done the same thing on the inside of that very same door.)
And the woman is the same one I’d seen interviewed for the radio.
And so, realizing that being tied up may limit their lunch options, I walk up the steps and offer them my sandwich. The woman politely declines. The man accepts it gratefully.
The woman seems to be touched by the gesture, though, and instead, I offer her a nice hug of support. I feel sorry for the way the reporter had abruptly cut her off earlier.
And the next thing I know, she’s kissing me. Passionately.
She’s a half-dozen years older, and I find her intriguing. She seems very enthusiastic, besides … and so, I go with the moment.
It may help to understand that we’re all filled with an intense sense of purpose. A realization that inside this building we’re metaphorically (and now literally) up against, are powerful forces that could yet bring the world to nuclear destruction. So we are, quite literally, trying to save the world. And everyone here seems to understand this.
And so, implicit in this understanding, the woman and I continue what’s becoming a fervent embrace. And not only does it show no sign of slowing down, it continues to intensify.
After a few more lingering kisses, and just in case we need more justification: she pauses, and turns over the protest sign she’s been wearing around her neck. And on the back is hand-printed the words:
“Make Love, Not War”
She gives a faint shrug, and we fall back into each other’s arms.
This goes on for some time.
It’s pretty heady stuff for a 19-year-old like myself, who’s not only rarely been this far from home, but certainly never kissed a woman like she’s kissing me now. Fueled by our shared sense of purpose, I quickly feel like we’ve known each other a long time.
As we continue to lose ourselves in our private reverie, the crowd around us disappears into a faint murmur, and gradually, we seem to occupy a small but intense universe of our own. We’re soon unaware of anything else besides the immediacy of one another. Time has dissolved away, and there is only the two of us, now thoroughly intertwined.
And before long, it’s not just kissing, but we’re actually starting to round the bases.
She seems quite accommodating.
A while later, the reverie is momentarily jolted: there’s a surge by the riot police, who’ve begun arresting those doing civil disobedience on the stairway, and I jump back in surprise.
And then just as quickly, we resume, as if with a renewed sense of purpose. And we only seem to be warming up.
At one point, she’s loosening her rain gear to make it easier for me to reach underneath.
I eagerly assist.
And after a while longer still, seemingly unconcerned with what’s transpiring around us — she wants even more. She pauses, and whispers in my ear:
“Take off all your clothes and make love to me.”
Now, I agree this is a great idea. Though let’s consider the scene:
- We’re surrounded by about a hundred protesters, yelling and chanting slogans.
- There’s a line of police — in full riot gear, mind you — beginning to cart off those very same protesters one-by-one, in a big bus brought in just for the purpose.
- With us engaging in our own rather unconventional type of protest, all in plain sight, it’s easy to think she & I may soon be on that bus too, joining the others.
- And, oh yeah, she still has one arm handcuffed to the door of the Pentagon.
So I stir from our own private reality just long enough to suggest she unlock the handcuffs — temporarily, mind you — so we can slip off into the scenery nearby, and then rejoin the protest again in short order.
Given how she’s completely immersed with me too, this seems like an eminently practical idea.
But instead, she seems a bit taken aback.
She’s too devoted to the cause to take … a pause. Apparently, anything we do together needs to be on this very spot, at the Mall Entrance to the Department of Defense.
So we return to our private world yet again, still very intent on getting as close as we can. And yet more time goes by, intense, uninterrupted, exploring.
This goes on for a while.
It’s sometime later still, and we’ve been rather intimate with each other — as much as we can, what with the rain gear and all. And only once we’ve exhausted the possibilities standing up, things very slowly, reluctantly, start winding down.
And, now a bit unkempt, we finally release each other from that sweet unending embrace, tacitly acknowledging what’s transpired between us, offering some fond parting wishes.
And with that, I wander off to find my friend, who’s drifted away to one of the other entrances.
A little while later, with some of the protesters forcibly removed and carted off, those remaining have regrouped. She’s removed the handcuffs, at last, and is now sitting in a line with others, arms linked together, further down on the steps.
I find a small scrap of paper and write her a note, apologizing for not wanting to get arrested myself, and also telling her that I love her.
I walk over & give her the note …
And she thanks me — though her interest already seems to have moved on.
In the end, I only ever found out a few simple things about this mysterious woman that came into my life, so briefly yet intensely:
- Her first name;
- Which state she was from (which turns out, is a long ways away from mine);
- That she’d journeyed to D.C. with a group of friends
… and that her husband wasn’t with them.
Postscript: Tuesday
The next day, there’s front-page coverage of the protest in the national news, which deems it a reprise of Vietnam-era activism.
And digging into the story, only then do I realize the identity of the nondescript man who’d been handcuffed to the inside of that very same Pentagon door:
It’s Daniel Ellsberg — former classified military analyst; legendary informant to the New York Times and Washington Post; and co-author of the Pentagon Papers, which was instrumental in eroding support for U.S. participation in the Vietnam War. (Decades later, the story will be told in The Post, an Oscar-nominated Spielberg/Streep/Hanks film.)
But yesterday, with most of the action happening on the outside of that very same door … Ellsberg presumably bore witness to another, not quite as newsworthy, event.
