If Led Zepplin was the soundtrack of my awakening to my own body in my late teens, a heady mix of sweat and Drakkar Noir cologne was the scent. I’m not ashamed to say that I enjoyed sex – like really enjoyed sex – as a teenage girl. Part of it was the pure physical pleasure in my recently changed body, and part of it was the attention from boys and the control I could exert with - and over - my own body.
When I was barely 18, in the last half of the last year of high school, already dreaming of running away to my new life in college, I spent a lusty and lovely night with a sweet boy in my class. We were careful, we thought, and we were young and dumb and exploring how our bodies could fit together. And without even taking a test, a few weeks later, I knew we’d made a mistake that night and that I was pregnant. This boy was kind and supportive and knew innately that whatever happened next was my choice, because it was my body.
I called a Planned Parenthood clinic to make an appointment, and we crowdsourced funds from our friends to cover the expenses. I felt nothing but relief after I had a safe abortion at a clinic near Boston. And I have looked back so many times and thanked whatever stars aligned that let me be alive as a pregnant teenager in that time and place – those stars that let me have control of my own life’s path especially so early on in my journey. And I know that I had privilege with those stars.