Hymen Bike
by Ella deCastro Baron
Vex Kaztro, Still Wet, bubble wrap, tissue paper, acrylic paint, black glue, silver glitter, washer, bottle top, traffic cone pieces, hot glue, 13 × 12 inches, 2024. Courtesy of the artist.
Hymen Bike
Ella deCastro Baron | FEB 2025 | Issue 42
I’m a bony brown girl, tipping absolutely NO scales with my forty-four pound body at ten years old. Fifth grade is when my hips spurted out a teense and I grew a whisper-and-a-half taller. Ah, but that height promotion graduated me from a kiddie banana seat bike to a woman’s adult bike. I wobble and tippie toe to balance the bigger wheels and frame. The most important thing? I now pedal alongside my Ateh Elise’s (elder sister) biker ‘gang’ of other 7th grade Filipino teens. I am not-at-all ready for womanhood in my mom-run-fundie Christian home, but here in America, this ten speed, one-track mind bike popped my cherry.
My Filipino Papa and the tropa—Filipino for troop—of other Pinoy dads, recruited by America, fought in the Vietnam War and retired together after twenty years in the Navy. A dozen families stuck together. Our dads found post-military jobs. Our moms worked allatime. I swear I saw Sasquatch in our neighborhood swamps more than the myth of a stay-at-home mom. Our parents spackled together two to three jobs to make it in this country.
Each weekend, our moms and dads literally bet on the American Dream. They gambled their healthcare, mail carrier, hospitality, multi-level marketing paychecks. Whichever the host house, we bountied food across the kitchen for everyone to feed ourselves whenever, often till two, three, sometimes four in the morning. In their Jordache jeans, pink and burgundy velour Sergio Valente sweaters, moms swinging their flea-market knockoff Louis Vuitton purses, our nanays and tatays played Blackjack, mahjong, and pares pares. This tropa of families of Filipino immigrants lived, laughed, loved together until I moved to college.
The dozens of second gen, hyphenated-American kids, ages infants to teens, embodied 70s & 80s latchkey kids. We ducked from windows and ignored doorbells. In our parents’ bedroom, we watched TV at the lowest volume, munching pizza rolls. Commercial breaks meant 180 seconds to hurry through the house! Rinse three cups of rice and press the rice cooker On! Throw laundry in! Water indoor plants! Scribble a page of homework! Toast a Pop Tart! We did, nevertheless, answer phones in Proper English, no bilingual accent. Hyphenated meant understanding fluent Filipino spoken to us, yet speaking only American aka English at all times.
Us kids did whatever we wanted after school and whenever parents pulled out the Doyle chips. The twist in our model minoritized lives is that, even though my mom and her side raised us in over-protective, sheltered suburbs, my dad’s side identified as Holiday Inn Catholics who had more faith in gambling. Our parents became gambling addicts who provided for yet did not raise us. Our sheltered homes doubled on weekends as dens of iniquity.
Everyone was Catholic except my mom. As a devout Seventh-Day Adventist, our home was guilt and shame, shrink-wrapped in more guilt and shame. I learned about how to be a budding (barely) woman from TV. The Love Boat, Charlies’ Angels, and Fantasy Island promised that if I feathered my hair, dressed in halter tops and high-waisted pants, and showed off my lady smarts, I’d be sailing into romantic sunsets, possibly after solving exotic crimes.
And the older girls, namely Arlene, lifted adult books from the public library’s third floor and let me read chapters. Forever and Wifey by Judy Blume were the most Rated R my brain could conceive. The dude’s penis in Forever’s name was Ralph; words like ‘cock’ and ‘cunt’ blurred my vision. Christian guilt + Asian shame = winning combo, guaranteed ignorance—and fear!—about my body.
On sunny days, we left our stiff library books to gallivant—or as our parents enunciated, Do not gah-LEE-bahnt too late, ay naMAN! In the wild, we roller skated, swerving sidewalks in figure eights. Or we raced, freestyle and breaststroke, the long way across the Olympic-sized Naval Center pool.
Often, we biked, loopty looping around our suburban, California Meadows, feeling so ma-toor. Our thin wheels clickity hum clickity, a Fil-Am biker gang. Arlene and Maryjane are my ‘elders,’ twelve years old–eyeliner, lip gloss, hips and boobs—who spilled the tea about their secret boyfriends. These guys’ tongues wriggling their throats. The neck bruises covered by Maybelline. Maryjane’s BF (ooh boypren!) is almost a whole MAN—a 9th grade dropout—feathered hair, roach clip earring on his left lobe, black Members Only jacket, grey Dickies pants. He does what Maryjane describes as ‘finger bangs’ her.
Ew.
I mean, coolcoolcoolcool.
This school on wheels is an education I can neither get at Dan Mini Elementary School nor by watching after school specials. I am enthralled and a little grossed out. Mostly enthralled though! Yes, that.
On a Sunday bike ride, the girl biker gang gasps to a halt in front of me. Some of them streak the road with skid marks. A chunk of the road sunk like a giant bowl of asphalt granola. Must have been the last time it rained hard.
I clue in as my blue ten speed tires scrape against pavement. I notice a half second later than I shoulda and aggressively squeeze my hand brake. My metallic blue bike and my soul screech to avoid a collision.
Even though my bike stops, my wisp of a body doesn’t. My legs fly off the pedals just as my crotch slams into the shiny blue bar. My eyes-nose-mouth explode, then crumple into a Cubist painting. I suck in, almost tip over, but my feet remember they work and reconnect to the asphalt. My rubber band legs straddle the bike. That’s when it hits me. My peng peng. My save-myself-till-marriage husband portal. The hell no never evar fly zone in my Guess Jeans.
I freeze as the bike bar and my pubic bone absorb blinding throbbing vajayjay pain. (Even thinking the words, peng peng and pekpek, Filipino slang for vag, is shameful).
My ears throb, deep bass, to the whimpering bleats of my poor painful pek pek. Her busted lips are making the Filipino sound for “poor poor you”: KaWAwa. KaWAwaaah.
I don’t hear about the reason why we stopped. All the girls laugh and chat, jump back onto their seats, and continue biking.
My body forgets how to Body. I mumble, “I gotta go…” and limp my bike to our house, drop it off. I wince-crawl up the stairs to the bathroom and yank around my hand-me-down, powder blue terry cloth shorts. I check my thighs for bruising. Clear.
I sit on the toilet and pull down my cotton undies. These are a famous high waisted Soen brand, sent with love from cousins in the Philippines. I am peach-fuzzy but no bushy-bush yet, so it’s easy to see my brown/pink skin is not purplish.
Whew.
I try to pee and YEOW! I see blood speckling my Soens.
I flashback to last month’s bike ride through the Meadows. Maryjane and Arlene were comparing notes of their BFs. They informed me that when we have sex for the first time, we bleed.
“That’s why it’s called, ‘pop your cherry.’”
Arlene is the lifelong learner who stoked my love of reading and writing poetry. She knew her way around an Encyclopedia Britannica.
“The technical term is hymen. It’s a thin layer of tissue that covers your V so when the penis, aka Ralph, pushes through, that’s what tears and bleeds.”
HOLY MOLY mother of white, icy blue-eyed Jesus in a robe.
I bled! Did I lose my virginity to my ten speed?
I “dear journal” everything they tell me. I do not betray my secret. I tell them nothing.
I beg Jesus for forgiveness and a miracle. Can my hymen grow back?
I can’t prove it, but that broken seal ushered me to live in a horny-nest. I could not stop touching myself. By sixth grade, anywhere and everywhere I would not get caught, I tickled, pressed, spread, shivered. On my bed and floor, the tub and bathroom rug. If I was lucky, in the family room after movies with any microsecond of kissing, petting, or sweaty exchanges. When the family left, I could rewind/play/rewind/play-with-self scenes.
Once, I pretended to nap and rolled around with a throw pillow (secret luvah, that’s what we are…) in the back of our station wagon on our monthly road trip to Reno to feed our parent’s gambling addiction. I rubbed it out, imagining Duran Duran, high school locals, and Jake from Sixteen Candles were my partners. I wanted that “hickey from Kenickie” in Grease. I longed to be Rizzo in her short permed brunette curls, fire engine red lips, pencil skirt, satin Pink Ladies jacket parted like lips around push-up bra bosoms. Unfortch for me (answered prayers for mom) I lived like quaint, small-town Sandra Dee, “lousy with virginity…”
Twelve years after bike bang bang, I ask my on again/off again boyfriend to first-time-sex me. Shawn and I met at the Christian college group. He turned atheist one day but I kept leading Bible studies in the sorority. We necked on dance floors and after last calls at bars and fraternities. My blessed poison.
I do not have to convince him of my Do Not Cross panty-line. He used to worship the same Thou Shalt Not God. Despite my thirst-teen years, I ‘saved myself’ for marriage. Or, er, I tried. I was 22! The last of the Virgin Club in my sorority, thank you Jesus guilt and the dozens of guys who made out and fondled me around my invisible chastity belt! College mimicked home life: loaded with shoulds and have to’s pressures but no adults told us what to do. Latchkey life 2.0.
Finally, I can test my sneaky suspicion that my ten-speed deflowered me. We both drink an extra Zima or three to relax.
He asks me a few times. “You’re sure?” I think he respects me? I nod, suck his face, and pull his waist on top of me to detect a bulge.
I consent.
He tries to be gentle. Fingers fumble a lil. I spread my knees, his weight succumbs to gravity, and I exhale into it. Poke, exhale, push, inhale, push a lil more. A lot more. Inhale exhale inhale inhale bite my lip.
OH HELL TO THE NAW. He’s splitting me in half.
Minutes later, the deed is dirtily d.u.n.
He did it. We did it?
He walks back to his shared apartment. I wave after him and waddle to the bathroom. I pull down my burgundy lace Victoria’s Secret chonies. (I spent some of my financial aid at the mall to upgrade. These lie next to a dozen-pack of my comfy girls’ Soen drawers in my drawer.) I first responder myself, gingerly press around my pobrecita peng peng. I check for bruising. None. What about all that tearing and dismemberment? Surely there are stretch marks or missing limbs? Did I mention that it hurt?! I HATE YOU, RALPH!
On my undies, what do I find? Nada. Zilch. An empty tomb.
Not one drop of blood.
Not even stigmata.
All those years later, my bike did de-virginize me. I did not have to pretend to be God’s frozen chosen, to press pause on being a saucy second gen, Americanized Filipino. Our parents bet on the American Dream of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness when they immigrated. Win some, lose some. My perceived purity was long-gone, pilfered by a Schwiiing ten speed. Hey, now, I could dream out loud: life, liberty, and lust at my leisure. This is my body.
And all God’s people said, “Amen, hymen bike.”
Ella deCastro Baron (she/siya/we) is a 2nd gen Filipina American raised on Coastal Miwok lands (Vallejo, California). She teaches Composition, Literature, and Creative Writing. Her books are, Subo and Baon: A Memoir in Bites, and Itchy Brown Girl Seeks Employment. A woman of color who lives with chronic dis-ease, Ella honors sensations, dreams, story, dance, and decolonial truth-telling so we can ‘re-member our long body.’ She conspires with art-ivists to produce kapwa (deep interconnection) gatherings that stir love and justice via writing, art, joy, grief-tending, movement, food (yes!) and community. Her favorite pronoun, now more than ever, is We.
Vex Kaztro, aka Aglibut Bagaoisan, is an artist/writer of mixed pilipinx ancestry. Their work plays with the threads of trauma that erupt from queer neurodivergent identities living in the cozy liminal spaces of a cracked and unreliable memory. They studied filmmaking at City College of San Francisco and San Francisco State University.