The limitation of her third sexual experience altered Marilyn's entire opinion of sex. Actually, it never altered, it never improved. Her lovers -- if it were possible to call them that -- were inexperienced, nervous, tentative, groping, rough. They twisted her nipples.

"They're not radio knobs," she said.

They insisted she perform oral sex but would not do the same for her. Most of them needed to wash more, change their clothing more frequently. Who can tell about the hygienic habits of a young man in jeans and a T-shirt. Looking mussed is the style. Living in dirt becomes a way of life.

Her third sexual experience involved the brother of a girlfriend and a Bat Mitzvah. Marilyn spent the night, and sometime during the night, when the two girls had not yet gone to sleep, the brother slipped into the room. With feigned disgust, the sister left the room, to leave them alone.

Afterward she asked Marilyn what if felt like.

"It felt like nothing. Well not nothing. I don't know if we even did anything."

"You'd know," her friend assured her. "Did he show it to you? I've seen it once. His. By accident."

"We just talked," Marilyn said.

The friend pushed her. "You can tell me."

"We just talked."

The friend did not believe her, rolled over and didn't say any more until the morning, was cold and avoided Marilyn at the breakfast for the family and friends of the Bat Mitzvah girl. The brother avoided her as well.