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A. Delaney Walker/Zola Lawrence
Category:
Relationships
Publisher: Argo & Cole Publishers
ISBN-10: 0979118638
Type: Non-Fiction
Pages: 470
Copyright: 2016
ISBN-13: 9780979118630
Price: $25.00 (eBook)
Nine chapters intimately describe relationships, with Zola the virgin in the first, then she goes on to love eight male virgins. From 1967 to 1981, the sexual revolution, the Pill, Vietnam, drugs, music and more influence how the relationships move from beginning to end.
Travel with Ms. Lawrence as she shares her virginity with a Welsh graduate student during the Tet Offense, endures an IUD before the March on Washington, deflowers her first love in London, and goes on to become the lover of other virgins as she matures from a young girl from a bad family into a young professional seeking to mate and settle down. Read her love letters to her lovers, the narrative written as "I" (Zola) and "you" (virgin lovers). The first chapter is to the man she shared her virginity with; the following chapters are virgin men she loved.
Interwoven among these relationships are deaths: of a best friend, murder of a friend, death of a parent.
Excerpt
Sitting next to me on his bed, Bob removes the Windowpane from his stash explaining its name, how it originated from the clear plastic substance the LSD was dropped onto. He has already sliced it and assures me it is pure. He gives each of us a piece.
“Put it in your mouth,” Bob tells me impatiently. He has agreed to drop acid with me for the first time because I had once made love with him for his first time. He leaves the bed and turns the music louder. The Moody Blues speed through galaxies as we talk about classes, homework, the weather and Nixon and Vietnam. I see an old, white-haired man, golden-robes, with a black staff, leaning against a rush of wind and calling out directions: turn east in the morning – then his voice is muffled by a drugged birth entrance and someone is saying, “This sure is strong LSD.”
Bob shakes his head. His wavy hair floats about his face as if he is in water. My eyes widen, then become wild.
Someone pats my leg, “It’s okay,” he says. “Smoke this,” and hands me a jay. I feel like Alice in Wonderland, drinking the contents of the bottle labeled, “DRINK THIS”.
“What good will smoking marihuana do? Won’t it make me high?” I ask.
Everyone laughs. “Takes the edge off the speed, Zola,” Bob says.
“How long does it take to hit?” I ask.
“Thirty to 45 minutes,” Tom answers. I look at Tom and realize his lips didn’t move.
“Isn’t that now?” I ask and look at my watch. The black markings make no sense. The second hand, or was it some other device, races wildly in circles. Then a sundial stands atop my watch.
“Didn’t you notice it starting?” Tom asks from the corner as he huddles to ward off the snow which clings to all our clothes, as if we are Hannibal’s army crossing the alps in a snowstorm.
I am not fond of snow and cold, so I shift my eyes to the red Indian print bedspread above the stereo. The wavy vines are breathing in tune with my mind and the music. Then, ever so gently, the vines are not just breathing on the spread, but leap from the walls and into 360 degrees about me. Pheasants and peacocks flutter from one branch to another. A nightingale sings and I am transported into a jasmine garden, with Middle Eastern time, intricate blue interwoven lines of mosques, exotic trees and radiant flowers I can not name but can only stare at in wonder and inhale their rich perfumes. Dusk comes to this grand place where the desert is hot, but home.
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