The Bell Jar - nubuk.com

and wouldn't go on knowing -- a kind of impersonal, priestlike official, as in the tales of
tribal rites.
By the end of the evening I had no doubts about Irwin whatsoever.
Ever since I'd learned about the corruption of Buddy Willard my virginity
weighed like a millstone around my neck. It had been of such enormous importance to
me for so long that my habit was to defend it at all costs. I had been defending it for five
years and I was sick of it.
It was only as Irwin swung me into his arms, back at the apartment, and carried
me, wine-dazed and limp, into the pitch-black bedroom, that I murmured, "You know,
Irwin, I think I ought to tell you, I'm a virgin."
Irwin laughed and flung me down on the bed.
A few minutes later an exclamation of surprise revealed that Irwin hadn't really
believed me. I thought how lucky it was I had started practicing birth control during the
day, because in my winey state that night I would never have bothered to perform the
delicate and necessary operation. I lay, rapt and naked, on Irwin's rough blanket, waiting
for the miraculous change to make itself felt.
But all I felt was a sharp, startlingly bad pain.
"It hurts," I said. "Is it supposed to hurt?"
Irwin didn't say anything. Then he said, "Sometimes it hurts."
After a little while Irwin got up and went into the bathroom, and I heard the
rushing of shower water. I wasn't sure if Irwin had done what he planned to do, or if my
virginity had obstructed him in some way. I wanted to ask him if I was still a virgin, but I
felt too unsettled. A warm liquid was seeping out between my legs. Tentatively, I reached
down and touched it.
When I held my hand up to the light streaming in from the bathroom, my
fingertips looked black.
"Irwin," I said nervously, "bring me a towel."
Irwin strolled back, a bathtowel knotted around his waist, and tossed me a second,
smaller towel. I pushed the towel between my legs and pulled it away almost
immediately. It was half black with blood.
"I'm bleeding!" I announced, sitting up with a start.
"Oh, that often happens," Irwin reassured me. "You'll be all right."
Then the stories of blood-stained bridal sheets and capsules of red ink bestowed
on already deflowered brides floated back to me. I wondered how much I would bleed,
and lay down, nursing the towel. It occurred to me that the blood was my answer. I
couldn't possibly be a virgin any more. I smiled into the dark. I felt part of a great
tradition.
Surreptitiously, I applied a fresh section of white towel to my wound, thinking
that as soon as the bleeding stopped, I would take the late trolley back to the asylum. I
wanted to brood over my new condition in perfect peace. But the towel came away black
and dripping.
"I. . . think I better go home," I said faintly.
"Surely not so soon."
"Yes, I think I better."
I asked if I could borrow Irwin's towel and packed it between my thighs as a
bandage. Then I pulled on my sweaty clothes. Irwin offered to drive me home, but I