The Dark, Fumbling Sex Ed of Teenage Dancehall Parties

All we wanted was to look like we knew what we were doing

Andrew Ricketts
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Photo: PYMCA/Getty Images

BBefore 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…

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Andrew Ricketts
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Writer for

I’m a Caribbean and American writer from New York. My stories are about coming-of-age, learning how to relate, and family. It’s a living, breathing memoir.