By: Beatrice M. Hogg

In the summer of 1977, I was interested in only two things – Led Zeppelin and my classes at the University of Pittsburgh, in that order. Unfortunately, I was the sole African American rocker in a funk and disco world. I did like soul, funk, and even disco; but my heart belonged to Jimmy Page. To make matters worse - in the eyes of my friends anyway - I was twenty and still a virgin. Even after my father’s death in December 1975, when I inherited my house and gained my freedom , I continued to be a good girl. Maybe I was destined to be a heavy metal nun. After all, thanks to my late mother, I was also the only black Catholic in my tiny coal-mining hometown. But, many of the girls I had gone to high school with already had children and some were even married. All of my friends teased me about my virginal state, which was just one more thing setting me apart from the other black girls I knew. I was a left- handed, orphaned, Catholic, virgin, rocker chick on a planet dominated by right-handed, Baptist, funkateers all of whom had at least one living parent and and all of whom considered “Let’s Get It On” something more than a hit song by Marvin Gaye.

But who needed sex when there was “Kashmir?" In the three years I had been at Pitt, I had not gone on even one date. I commuted the twenty miles a day to Pittsburgh, taking one of the two buses that ran daily from my town to the city. When I wasn’t in class or in Hillman Library, I was at Flo’s, the record store on campus that sold single albums for $3.99. At home, when I wasn’t studying, I was listening to Physical Graffiti or reading Circus and Creem. The exploits of and output from Page, Plant, Jones and Bonham were more exciting than any romance could ever be.

Led Zeppelin was coming to Pittsburgh’s Civic Arena on August 9 and 10, and I was finally going to see my heroes live onstage. In May, I had gotten tickets for both nights. I was counting down to the day when I would be standing in one of the “Houses of the Holy,” only thirty-five rows away from the greatest hard rock band in the world. I thought nothing could penetrate my happy haven of tunes and textbooks. Then Marvin came back into my life.

Even though we lived about fifteen miles apart, I had known Marvin since I was a little girl. His father had been a coal miner like my late adopted father. Our families visited each other several times a year. Over those years, Marvin transformed from the shy, little boy who would reluctantly share his Viewmaster with me, into the tall, handsome young man who gave me my first kiss when I was fourteen. But after a few letters, phone calls, and short visits, we drifted apart. Through friends, I heard he had drifted into the arms of the sister of one of my classmates, after they had transferred to his high school. I was heartbroken, but my father was glad - as he said that all boys were after only one thing.

In July, five weeks before the Zeppelin show, Marvin and I met again at a party thrown by a mutual friend. At twenty-one, he was even better looking than he had been at fifteen. He was over six feet tall, with smooth bronze skin, large dark eyes, and full luscious lips. His jeans and tee shirt barely contained his muscular arms and legs. After spending the evening talking to him, he offered to give me a ride home. Even though the party was only one street away from my house, it took more than an hour to get home. I was delighted to learn that Marvin’s talents had progressed from the wet, sloppy kiss he had given me six years earlier. He told me had fathered a child when he was fifteen. We were on different paths. He was working to pay child support to the mother of his son and I was taking summer classes in preparation for my senior year at Pitt. But that didn’t deter me from kissing him back and agreeing to see him again.

After an hour of necking in his AMC Rambler, my heart was beating faster than John Bonham’s drum solo on “Moby Dick.” When I got home, I was seriously thinking about dick. Even though I hadn’t touched it or even seen it, it had made its dangerous presence known as we fogged up the windows on that humid summer night. My thoughts were discombobulating and my hormones were raging, but I had made it home with my virginity intact.

After that night, he started coming over to visit me and sometimes we would go out. Even though he mocked my love of Zeppelin and constantly stood me up, I didn’t care. If only I would have stopped and accessed the situation using the skills I was developing in my social work classes. Each day passed with growing excitement and anticipation. The Led Zeppelin show was getting closer and closer and my interest in Marvin was getting stronger and stronger. Even though the kisses got hotter and hotter, I kept putting off the inevitable. Maybe I knew that once I gave it up, he would be gone again.

At the end of July, Robert Plant’s son died. Marvin came to visit me the next day. My cousin, who was living with me at the time, was away for the evening. We spent the evening necking on the sofa. It would have been so easy to take Marvin to my bedroom, but I still pushed him away. We stood in the hallway, looking up the stairs, but I couldn’t will my feet to move.

On August 5, the Led Zeppelin shows on August 9 and 10, and the rest of the tour were cancelled. I was devastated. I spent the evening with Marvin. It was a hot, summer night. I wore a denim pants with a matching halter-top. We went to a dance. The tension in the air would not dissipate. We danced to the Commodores song “Zoom.” I usually hated slow dancing and having some guy I didn’t like rubbing against me like a scouring pad. But with Marvin, I didn’t seem to mind. He kept whispering in my ear and pulling me closer. After several hours at the dance, we left and drove around the countryside. About a mile from my house, he pulled onto a back road and stopped the car. The time had come. He was going to North Carolina in two days. It was now or never.

After kissing and caressing for what seemed like hours, we moved to the back seat of the car. I didn’t know what to expect, but I held onto him like I was drowning. When he pulled my pants down and I heard the sound of his zipper, I closed my eyes. WAMO, the Pittsburgh soul station, was playing “Superman Lover” by Johnny “Guitar” Watson.

The pain was excruciating. It felt like something was being ripped apart. It didn’t subside and I started to cry. I could feel nothing but the pain and his hot breath on my ear. In a few minutes it was over and I felt wet. I knew I was bleeding.

“Do you want to do it again?” he whispered.

“Take me home!”

I pulled up my pants and returned to the passenger seat. I held my breath and hoped that blood wouldn’t get on his seat. So that was it. I was no longer a virgin. I felt a miserable, dull ache at the center of my being. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him.

Dazed and confused, I walked into the house that night. Something had changed, but I didn’t feel any elation. I felt cheated, even worse than I felt when I got combined Christmas/birthday presents. After the pain finally dissipated, I was pissed off. Years of adolescent longing and made-for-television movies had prepared me for a romantic, life-affirming event, not a few minutes of thrusting, grunting and pain in the back seat of a Rambler.

As I changed into my pajamas, I looked in disgust at my bloody jeans and panties. I wanted my mother, but she had died when I was thirteen. I wanted to see Led Zeppelin. After I put on a sanitary napkin and got into bed, I started to cry again. Life wasn’t fair. I returned to my music, which had never let me down.

I saw Marvin a few times after that August night, but something had changed. He wasn’t interested in kissing me, or any other physical contact. He accompanied me to my cousin’s wedding in December, but when I asked him to stay with me after the reception, he declined. All evening, he was cold and distant. When I watched him drive away, I knew he wouldn’t be back. I went to bed all alone in an empty house, filled with my cousin’s wedding presents.

Years later, when I was a welfare caseworker in Marvin’s hometown, I saw him in the client waiting room with his wife, my former classmate’s sister. The last time I saw him was in a local drugstore in the late eighties. When I noticed him checking out at the counter, I hurriedly walked in the opposite direction.

I never got to see Led Zeppelin. In December 1980, the remaining members of Led Zeppelin decided not to go on after the September death of drummer John Bonham. The dissolution of the band broke my heart. A few years ago, I bought a CD box set of funk songs from the seventies. One of the songs included was “Superman Lover.” When I heard the song again, after thirty years, I got so upset that I gave the box set away. However, Led Zeppelin is still my favorite band.