Revolutions both extraordinary and banal

Or, the time I had "protest" sex in a Gap dressing room

Some levity.

Something other than this election anxiety.

We called it a political protest—our plan to have sex in a Gap dressing room.

It was such a 21-year-old thing to think (and do). But she was in Students Against Sweatshops and the Gap was/is an egregious human rights offender and also we were horny.

Such were the makings of revolutions both extraordinary and banal. (Or so we told ourselves.)

It was my first time having sex in public. I thought that fear would thwart my desire, shrink-wrap or sully it, but it didn’t. At all. I came in record time. I was Superman, spinning the earth backward to save Lois Lane, except Lois Lane was my orgasm and also it wasn’t that hard.

I was newly queer and every sex act was like being reborn, even when it failed spectacularly. Even the $12 strap-on/rubber thong combo from the Fascinations in the strip mall on Speedway that pulled out 50 pubic hairs when I tried to take it off.

Even the edible body paint that tasted like chocolate cough syrup and came with the smallest brushes imaginable, as if you were painting not a human but the rims of a Micro Machine.

(Remember Micro Machines?)

Probably not a Micro Machine, but picture a tiny car, like this. Photo by Karine Germain

The girl who was my lover at the time picked out way too many outfits for one person to try on, heaping the oversize sweaters, bootcut jeans, and frilly T-shirts in her arms. This was in the before times, when clothing stores let you try on as many items as you wanted—no limits! You could grab a wheelbarrow and shovel through whole afternoons of pleated khakis and scallop-collared blouses and no one would stop you.

We hung our mountain of items up on the dressing room bars, breath labored, hearts a war drum. I sat on the tiny wedge of triangle that wanted to be a seat, and almost was. I did not take my shoes off—even though I could have! I was living dangerously. I was discovering the best parts of life by putting them in my mouth.

In nearby dressing rooms, I could hear the titter of girls protesting, their mothers’ pleading respectability. I could hear friends encouraging friends that that would totally get Steve’s attention.

I could smell the slight plastickyness of new clothes, that starched, chemical brightness, and the intoxicating, bready aroma of the Pretzelmaker on the second floor of the mall.

The girl who was my lover at the time kneeled before my open thighs on the industrial Gap carpet and touch by touch by touch we dismantled capitalism with our tongues, our trimmed nails, our acne scars, and our still exuberantly budding idealism.

After, we placed all of the clothes back on the racks ourselves—because we were good girls, despite everything—and smiled all the way to the parking lot.

We didn’t even get a pretzel. That’s how satisfied we were.