The first time I ever went to a drive-in theater with a date, I arrived home with a lifelong dislike of vanilla milkshakes.
I don’t remember his name or him asking me out or anything about the event other than his vanilla milkshake and his tongue halfway down my throat. I was repulsed in so many ways and just wanted to go home but was too young and too stupid and too fucking polite to tell him to stop. I was raised in an era and by people who believed women were put on earth to please men. To placate them. To serve them. And to diminish ourselves in the process.

We were double dating, or it easily would have become a date rape scene. Or perhaps, had we been alone, I would have pushed him away. The women’s movement was burgeoning, but in those early days, it was about sexual liberation not me too.
At least it wasn’t chocolate. I would hate to have had that disastrous date affect my lifelong love of chocolate milkshakes (and malts.) Small mercies.
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