Anonymous – I Was A Good Girl ‘Til The Twist Drove Me Sin-Crazy (1962)

Review by Justin Tate

It’s hard to imagine a more amusing time capsule than the September 1962 issue of Romantic Confessions. This was the magazine’s debut issue. What they printed was hardly new, however. Modern girls faced moral crises on every page, just like they did in comparable magazines: Romance Confessions, Confidential Confessions, True Confessions, True Romantic Confessions, Secret Confessions, Secret True Confessions, Thrilling Confessions, Modern Confessions, My Confession and, simply, Confessions—among dozens more.

“Confession stories” always seemed to be set in Anytown, USA, with girls characterized in generic, relatable ways. Readers easily imagined themselves in the heroine’s shoes, facing the same titillating dilemmas. This was an era when appetites for taboo were ravenous, yet society remained hush-hush about personal experiences which could tarnish one’s reputation. These magazines dared to spotlight all that was forbidden to discuss in public.

Lest they be considered too scandalous, the stories traditionally ended with a final paragraph where the wayward girl prays for forgiveness, regrets her adventure, or otherwise reverts to conformity. The Sexual Revolution was in the air by 1962, and there were other magazines less apologetic about liberation. In this time of great social change, the confession magazine endured largely because it gave conservative readers an opportunity to have their cake and eat it too. They could enjoy a pearl-clutching tale, but feel safe in the knowledge that life would go on as God intended.

Everyone else could just ignore the preachy final sentence and look ahead to the future.

Romantic Confessions offered nothing to shake up this winning formula, but it did debut with this attention-grabbing cover story: I Was a Good Girl ‘Til the Twist Drove Me Sin-Crazy.

The Twist, of course, was the latest dance craze. Chubby Checker’s 1959 hit song “The Twist” is largely responsible for causing this particular gyration to sweep the nation. The Beatles would add fuel to the fire in 1963 with their chart-topping cover of The Isley Brothers’ “Twist and Shout.” In between was an entire genre of music that contained the rhythm and orchestration required to swivel from side to side, as if rubbing oneself with a towel.

Since the September 1962 issue of Romantic Confessions is long gone and unlikely to be found today, let me summarize the story for you:

Our nameless heroine is an only child. Her parents wanted more children, but complications during childbirth shot down this plan. Now they pour extra energy into their darling little girl—who’s not so little anymore.

Dad works hard at the mill and Mom budgets carefully so they can afford a nice house. Mom painted the house pink after being inspired by the Doris Day movie Pillow Talk. They all go to church together on Sunday. Mom wears white gloves and pretty hats. Dad dons a blue suit. They look like “the kind of family America should be proud of.”

Not anymore! Mom and Dad no longer have a darling daughter, even if they don’t know it yet. Our narrator dwells on how she “let them down.” She fears her lapse in judgment might actually mean she’s mentally ill. And it all started because of that dance…

One fateful evening in May, under the hypnotic glow of a full moon, our girl is picked up by her friend Chuckie to go to the high school “big barn dance.” She can’t imagine anything going wrong, since she had no idea there was a “terrible uncontrollable thing” lying dormant inside her.

The band opens with some “let-yourself-go” square dance music, which is fine, but soon enough the teens are howling for Twist music. The band obliges and instantly the barn erupts into a “wild Twist party.” Everybody is shakin’ and glidin’ and really getting loose, especially when that naughty Ray Charles song “What’d I Say” sends their loins into a frenzy.

Once she might have struggled with the steps. Ski crouch position synchronized with swaying hips, swinging knees, heels thrust forward on each turn, weight on the balls of feet—but not too much—proximity to partner close, but not scandalously close. Well, maybe sometimes. If no chaperone was in eyeshot. Then variety—what separated beginners from experts. A sudden stomp, perfectly timed, a low-low Twist, nearly to the floor. Feet alternating between front to back and side to side.

Tonight, none of them are amateurs. No one is learning for the first time. It’s as if they operate on instinct, the music elevating all to professionals. Somebody ought to be recording this for American Bandstand.

Powerless against the “hot music,” she sweeps from partner to partner—many she doesn’t even recognize. Spontaneous shouts of “Go, man, go!” flare up from the dancefloor. They are a single organism now, and the Twist has become their brain, heart and lifeblood. Sweat beads her brow. She considers slipping away to the powder room to freshen up, but escape is futile:

The mob was crazy. That pulsing rhythm was in everyone, and our bodies swirled and twirled and twisted, and there was something heavy-feeling in the air. I knew in my bones something could happen unexpectedly because we were all so frenzied, giving our all to the Twist.

Just then a red-haired boy dressed in tight chinos and blue blazer swings into position. Her latest dance partner is a real cat who “Twisted like a maniac…even his eyes looked Twist-crazy.”

At last there’s a break in the music. She looks for Chuckie but he’s lost in the crowd. Red, as she calls this new boy, offers to help her find him. But while describing Chuckie’s lackluster appearance, she realizes she much prefers this older, more sophisticated boy. Red suggests they get some air outside and search for Chuckie later. She thinks that’s a swell idea.

Alone together, silvered by moonlight, a gentle breeze cooling their racing hearts, Red whispers the magic words: “You’re a great Twister.”

“Thanks,” breathes our doomed heroine. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Suddenly they are kissing, hungry lips pressed together, “fingers of desire” clawing at each other’s throats.

When her senses return, she realizes they have arrived at Red’s car. “Let’s listen to the radio,” he suggests.

They sit together in the car. She introduces herself, he further compliments her Twisting. As fate would have it, Twist records also play on the radio. They gyrate even while seated, compelled as if by supernatural force. Then they’re kissing again. A thought briefly passes her mind—“were the wild Twist rhythms in the gym and on the radio driving me sin-crazy?”—before this prophetic thought becomes true.

“I don’t know how it all happened,” she confesses. “But in a moment the two of us were making hot love.”

Entwined, overcome by the “manliness of Red,” the blaring Twist music, she reflects, “I loved it! Even if it was a sin…”

Only afterwards, and after Red speaks of devoting his life to her, does she wonder if maybe he’s this smooth with all the girls. Maybe she’s just another conquest. Yet he seems interested in her. And he says he wants to see her again tomorrow…

Our heroine returns to the dancefloor alone. Twist music pulsates as wild as ever. She fears everyone knows what took place in Red’s car: “What happens after a deep personal experience like that? Can people guess you’ve done wrong? Could they see it written all over my face?”

Finally she locates Chuckie. “Come on, let’s Twist!” he says.

At least he doesn’t have a clue what just happened. Then again, Chuckie never has been the most observant fella.

She Twists with her date, but her heart’s no longer in it. Chuckie is no Red. She wants to be with Red. Did he leave already? What if she never sees him again? She realizes with terror that she forgot to give him her phone number.

Excusing herself from the Twist mob, she searches feverishly for Red. Alas, he’s gone. She asks to be taken home, ashamed of herself, and even more worried she’ll never gyrate with Red again. Maybe he’ll get her number from Information. If only she’d remembered to ask his full name! But at least he knew hers. 

There’s no call. Worse still, word gets to Chuckie that his date was seen wandering off with an out-of-town boy. Now he wants nothing to do with her. Her parents also seem to treat her differently—standoffish, perhaps? Are those looks of disappointment in their eyes? Can they sense she’s a woman now? How can they not?

She had a wonderful time with Red. But was it worth it? A life-changing experience for her may have only been temporary bliss for him:

Didn’t it matter to Red that we were so personally together? How could he forget? Or were all men like that? Didn’t they care after such a wonderful, wonderful experience? Didn’t it matter to them that you gave your all for them in that intimate moment, that you loved them with every core of your being?

Our tragic tale ends months after the Twist affair and with still no word from Red. Each night there’s a “small flame of hope” he will return to rekindle their fiery passion. But this looks increasingly unlikely. Despondent and heartbroken, she concludes with this grim assumption: “God is punishing me…I was wrong to let go…and He will punish me forever.”

The End.