Cockblocked by Jesus
A harrowing tail of unrequited adolescent lust
My first girlfriend saved me. A depressed high school sophomore, I almost didn’t make it through that ice cold Chicago winter. When spring finally sprung, warmth returning and flowers blossoming, so did my mood, which was further boosted by Debbie. She introduced me to a whole new world of agony and ecstasy, giving me a chance to start all over again.
A classmate had a crush on me, but sensed I wasn’t that into her. With plenty of other boys to spare, supply outpacing demand, she didn’t take it personally, and instead hooked me up with her best friend. Debbie was precocious for a fifteen-year-old, already dating and far ahead of the curve emotionally and biologically, turning me on. I was totally clueless.
She was too busy talking to notice my initial confusion and distress. Somehow I got in a word or two, enough for her to keep me around, although she probably just thought I was cute. We spent school day afternoons at her house in the suburbs, where I met her dorky younger brother and jappy older sister. They were too distracted to dislike me.
Meet the parents was new to me, a skill set that I mastered with surprising ease. Debbie’s mom was a teacher, fastidious but friendly. Within weeks I met her dad, a doctor, the shortest one in their vertically challenged family. Variations of a theme, they reminded me of elves: rippling with manic energy, always chattering and busy, their true purpose forever mysterious.
Debbie’s bedroom was cozy and dark. She had a small bed we sat on together, next to a cheap stereo with trebly speakers. Our routine was simple and consistent, yet for me chaotic and terrifying: a record went on the turntable, usually Billy Joel or Rush, and we’d make out. Kissing I could handle after a while, but the touching got immediately out of control.
Her body was soft and round, her smell exotic and enticing. The instant our bodies connected I rose to attention, and had things pretty much under control until she touched me. A long-nailed fingertip brushing against my thigh was all it took. Boom! Next thing I knew, I felt the explosion in my head, the seething convulsions in my body, the warm wetness in my jeans.
Within seconds I went from the pinnacle of arousal to the depths of shame. The whiplash was often so disorienting, disconcerting, and disappointing that I almost fell off her bed. After I came without warning or recourse, I’d look into her eyes, panic-stricken that she knew. Only once, after months of rinse & repeat, did she gaze at me quizzically after touching my damp spot.
As it turned out, her naivete and fear of sex were at least on par with mine. The good news was my fumbling ineptitude gave me cover — the bad news was that it prevented me from learning anything. She expected me to make the first moves, but I was finished before I could even get started. At some point I remember taking off her bra, but I must have lost consciousness.
Despite my defeat in the sack, I made myself at home. Coming in my pants was still considered getting off far as my body was concerned, so while she waited for me to recharge I would shamble to her kitchen for a snack. Fresh from failure-to-launch, my weird mood encouraged me to try and enjoy yogurt and olives, even though I hated them — a milestone moment.
Being caught within this endless loop of infantile groping, premature ejaculation, and experimental noshing seemed sustainable and kind of fun until a few months later, when she dumped me for Phil, a good friend of mine. Decades later Phil told me he never had sex with Debbie, either, a huge relief. Eventually I figured it all out, but by then it was too late.
When my younger son Nicky began suffering from pre-teen migraine headaches as I did, I assumed he’d also get over them when he entered adolescence, and sure enough, he did. After all, while his older brother was always finicky about food like his mother, Nick was born with my belly, too, and similarly chowed-down on cheeseburgers from age 3.
Our congenital commonality and relatability also extended into high school depression, Nick enduring a savage attack around the same time it hit me, in his case exacerbated by the pandemic lockdowns. Predictably, he also got over his blues in lock step with my development cycle, his mood analogously boosted with the woe and mischief of a first girlfriend.
Darla even looked like Debbie: short, dark haired, adorable, and energetic. That’s where the similarities stopped, especially regarding Nicky’s inchoate love life, which was and is of course none of my business. Suffice to say that this teen relationship taught my shy, self-conscious adolescent how to talk and listen to girls, enhancing his confidence in leaps and bounds.
Nicky and Darla’s world was different from mine and Debbie’s. Smartphones have transformed the dynamics of growing up, exponentially increasing bullying, accidents, insomnia, and eating disorders, leading to unprecedented levels of alienation, stress, anxiety, drug abuse, and suicides. Another casualty is dating, especially in high school.
So when Nick mentioned he’d met a girl at camp that summer, I was thrilled. His entire experience as a junior counselor was terrific, young people running around outside, playing various team sports, spending time together and talking to each other, no phones allowed during the day. TikTok and Instagram do damage, and the camp wisely shut them down.
After camp ended, senior year of high school beginning, they started dating. Within a few weeks, they were officially girlfriend and boyfriend, Nick invited to dinner with Darla’s family at least a couple nights a week at their apartment. Not intending to pry, I asked the basics. Darla’s dad seemed pretty chill, while her mom was more high-strung — and religious.
“You’re never going to go all the way, My Dude,” was my response, frank conversations part of our dynamic. Talking about sex didn’t make him uncomfortable, but my opinion triggered him. “How do you know that?” he snapped. “Trust me,” I elaborated. “If her mom is as you describe, then Darla has been conditioned since birth to save herself until marriage.”
“It’s 2023!” he said, the obvious not so obvious. In addition to non-stop texting, meme-sharing, cyberbullying, fake prestige-boosting, video game and reel streaming, limitless access to porn has distorted perceptions around sex, especially for teenage boys. “There’s no way anybody thinks like that anymore,” Nicky continued. “Especially not in New York City.”
Far as I could tell, and confirmed by Darla and her parents, Nick was a scholar and a gentleman, always respectful. Whenever she visited he’d go out and meet her at the bus stop, and whenever they had him over he was gracious and well-behaved. That all said, he was a teenager oozing with testosterone, and after about six months, things reached a tipping point.
“Darla and I broke up,” Nicky finally told me. “What happened?” I asked, feigning surprise. Our parallel lives made me think about the lessons of youth, learned in endless ways, again and again. “I got cockblocked by Jesus! How‘d you know?” What’s worse, I thought: God denying you the goods — or having them offered on a silver platter, and blowing it? “Amen,” I smiled.
