In retrospect, looking back upon my own youth, I can’t imagine how any parent could have allowed their curious and fertile teen-aged sons and daughters to go to drive-in theaters. 

“Drive-ins” were common and enormously popular in the 1950’s through 1970’s.  They consisted of a huge, outdoor screen upon which the popular movies of the day were projected.  Patrons parked in front of the screen, hung a small speaker box inside their window and watched the movie from the privacy of their front (or back) seat.  For a few bucks, the occupants of the car were surrounded for hours by anonymity and darkness.  It was perfect for reckless teenagers, perfect for trouble.

My community had a popular drive-in and we frequented it.  I have a wealth of drive-in memories both good and bad, but one in particular stands out. 

I had been dating one girl for a considerable amount of time and we had become relatively serious about each other, or at least as serious as high school sophomores can get.  The sexual side of the relationship had progressed no further than the “heavy smooching” stage but both of us were at least a little curious as to what might lie beyond.

It was Friday night and we decided to go to the drive-in.  “Romeo and Juliet” was playing.  It was popular with the girls because it was a love story with a handsome male lead.  It was popular with the boys because it was rumored that the starlet took off her top and revealed her breasts.  We drove to the theater, paid our money, found a quiet and isolated spot near the rear and settled in.  We had soda and snacks, a blanket to stave off the chill and a pillow to prop against the door.  We snuggled into each other and watched the cartoon that always preceded the main feature.  We kissed a bit and the snuggled, and then kissed and the then resnuggled and then abandoned the snuggling thing completely and began face-sucking and open-mouth tonsil gobbling at full force.

The main feature started but we didn’t notice.  The kissing became more passionate and the breathing became heavier and more confused.  Clothes became obstacles. Young hands were everywhere as they discovered things that were much harder and much softer then they had ever imagined. Skin became moist and the car’s windows fogged up from the inside.  There was moaning and shifting and arching and then someone, either she or I, I don’t recall - we seemed as one - let out a resigned “ohhhhh” … and…

…two bodies shot to opposite sides of the car, quickly rebuttoning and retucking clothing that had been undone. 

And for the rest of the movie we sat in silence, having committed the mortal sin of heavy petting with serious intent.

Over the next few days I realized that I would have to confess my “sins” to the local priest.  My mother dragged us weekly (and weakly) to Sunday mass and Saturday catechism (religious instruction for public school kids), and I was still heavily within the sphere of influence of the Catholic Church. 

But how was I going to confess this?  What would I say?  What would the priest THINK?   It would be tremendously embarrassing at best.  I decided to practice.

“Bless me Father for I have sinned.  I committed the sin of….”

No…

OK.

“Bless me Father for I have sinned.  I mistakenly…. er I mean I… well…

No…

OK

Bless me Father because, or I mean, for I have sinned, because, er well, you know I sorta.. well, I mean we both sorta… well, maybe me a little bit more then her… or, though not actually…

NO…

The more and more I practiced the more I began to wonder what I had done that was so wrong.  Nothing had been consumated. (Although, based on what I learned, I wouldn’t have minded another shot at the whole evening.)  And beyond that, why did I need to tell this guy any way?  Who the hell was he?  Probably just some horney, jerk-off priest who got his jollies listening to the sinful exploits of his high school flock.  He’s nothing more then lower middle management – a middleman of little consequence.  Once the priest was placed in perspective the Church began to appear less necessary and less significant as well.  As I questioned smaller issues, bigger issues fell under review.  And as I examined those, still larger ideas came up for question.  It was a huge snowball that was set into motion by the copping of one small feel.

Within two weeks I had circled all the way around and had philosophically left the Catholic Church behind completely, never to look back.  It had been exposed as a fraud and I would have nothing more to do with. 

The young lady and I continued to date for awhile and then gradually began to move apart.  (If you’re out there somewhere reading this: you know who you are and, well yes, I did embellish this a tad.) Our relationship never progressed beyond the crescendo that it reached in the drive-in that one night.  But sin had nothing to do with it.  I think it was the feel of those unbelievably soft and hard parts that put the fear of God into us both.