A different twist on Joyce Carol Oate's "Where are you going, where have you been?"

What I'd forgotten, What I now remember

You said you'd get me,
that I'd give in,
your Arnold Friend/Treat Williams persona
in tight brown cords
and a station wagon
as your own gold jalopy,

to my 15 year old Connie,
provocative innocence,
Aphrodite on the verge,
running empty and unhinged;
with a twist of consent,
Connie never really gave,
and even less knowledge,
that particular knowledge,
Mother didn't think
I would need
so soon.

Thrust,
and blood,
Spanish tiles,
and blue waters.
Was it that way for Arnold and Connie?
Construe whatever you will;
But her apparition lingers,
the one that reluctantly said yes,
all those years ago
Now in utter dismay.