The Dark, Fumbling Sex Ed of Teenage Dancehall Parties
All we wanted was to look like we knew what we were doing
Before I walked in, I did that surreptitious armpit check, fake-yawning and ducking my head so I could vaguely sniff any attitude problems happening in my glands. As a teen, my B.O. was so intense I wore Secret deodorant. I saw no issue with wearing teen girl scents, as long I didn’t stink. My friends threw on Davidoff Cool Water and CK One on party nights; we’d roll up to spots smelling like basic-ass tricks because that’s what we knew.
In high school, I couldn’t afford two separate party outfits, so I’d mix and match spring polo knits and winter oversized cargo pants. I wasn’t above sartorial swapping with my friends. My boy Ahmed got my Brooklyn Dodgers fitted cap — I thought it was dingy from the sweat mark in the front lining, he just liked having something he hadn’t already owned — and I took his Yankees fitted, so stiff it looked like I’d bought it a few days ago. I used to borrow his chains, too; he was well-off, so I knew I wouldn’t get a rash, though I did tuck it in around the girls we both knew.
One Friday night, a rich friend drove us to a house party, we packed into his parents’ SUV like it was pre-prom even though it was just another night in Brooklyn. My friend Kelela was also along for the…
