Sex was nothing new.
I’d heard talk of it, giggled, kept secrets, and gossiped about it since I was a kid.
Way back before middle school, on the way to day camp at Eastside Community Center, two women with swollen Afros and glossed-up lips had asked me and my sister to roll up our pant legs. We were wearing our day-camp shirts, but still they wanted us to roll up our pants, see if we could show a little leg.
“Okay girls, let’s see what you got there,” one of them said, her speech heavy with drink.
“Come on now, don’t be shy, let’s see if you know how to get it going.” Her face looked bruised and she was perspiring in the August sun.
Scared and obedient, I bent down and attempted to roll up the leg of my jeans, glancing up at them to be sure I understood the request till Steph swatted at me and told me to ignore them. I pushed the rolls of my jeans back down, and turned to leave.
They seemed annoyed at our inattention and kept talking until one of them finally tired and started walking away. She turned back to her friend, who had remained planted, just staring at our fully clad legs.
“C’mon, them’s just kids anyway; they too young.”
Her voice was as syrupy as her friend’s, but she was right. We were kids, just ten or so. But even as Steph and I walked on, I knew their asking us to expose a part of our bodies and the fatigue on their faces had to do with sex; the pain of it, the commodity of it.