life, the universe, and donna

Ever write a post in your head? The stereo in my car doesn’t work, so any time I drive anywhere, I have time to think. Especially on the highway. When I’m not flipping the bird to the woman behind me riding my ass so hard I expected her to pull out the lube.

Anyway, I got to thinking about my first boyfriend. All three of them. And thus, this post was born.

I have a confession that doesn’t affect anyone who actually reads this site, unless some old friends from elementary school start reading it.

I think it was about grade 7 that the hormones started racing. The boys started noticing the girls, and vice versa. I remember two classmates being caught in the bushes in the back field of our elementary school fooling around. Oh my.

I was definitely not one of them.

I was flipping through my flickr stream to see if I had any pictures of me online from this era. Unsurprisingly, I don’t. I go from goofy looking 11 yr old (when it was still okay to be goofy looking) straight to 17, when I’d managed to get rid of a great deal of the goofy. Also, when crop tops were in style and I was skinny as hell. Right then.

The point being, the intervening years were … not terribly attractive years.

I was actually a pretty cute kid. I have school pictures of me where I’m actually quite adorable. The catch? I’m not wearing my glasses. Giant, huge plastic frames that would have been terribly stylish in the 80s — I got them in ’92. And wore them til I got contacts in ’96. And to finish off the “jesus christ, what is that thing?” I got braces in ’94. (They also came off in ’96. Things started looking up for me in ’96.)

Anyway, so at the age of 12… I was dorky looking, not terribly popular, and oddly enough, a bit odd. (Sometimes I’m not sure if anything has changed, but I like myself considerably more, so the rest doesn’t really matter.) But still, I noticed the boys, even if they weren’t noticing me. (Although I found out a few years ago that some of the boys WERE noticing me, but were too shy to say anything. Typical.) Anyway, my best friend landed a boyfriend at some point.

Ok, so we were 12, and “boyfriend” for us meant that they walked around together at lunch and held hands and maybe went to see a movie or two. I have no idea what they did together, but … hey, we were 12, it wasn’t much.

Still, I was terribly jealous. Not of him, because eh, he wasn’t my type, but I wanted a boyfriend, damnit!

So I invented one.

And thus the fictional “Jeremy” was born. (To the Jeremy’s I know now: Stop laughing!) He was, according to me, a friend of a distant cousins that I’d met and we hit it off. I honestly don’t remember what I told people about him, except that we took off together whenever I went to visit said cousins (which, in reality, was maybe once or twice a year.)

I forget what happened to the mythical fake boyfriend — I think I had him move overseas or something ridiculous like that. I remember taking a necklace that my grandmother had bought for me and saying that he sent it to me. Eventually, we “broke up” — probably because the rigors of a long distance relationship with a fictional boy was just too hard. You know where I’m coming from.

So. First boyfriend? I don’t think it counts when he didn’t really exist.

Let’s try the next one.

In the summer before grade 9, I was hanging out with a friend and her sister and a few other people at said friends aunt’s place. I think we were having a sleepover. It may have been a party — co-ed, at that. I don’t really recall a lot of the details, but I do remember playing Truth or Dare with two or three other girls, and two or three boys. Of course, since we were all 13-16ish, the “dares” were all related to sex. I remember Chrissy (my friend) daring Angie (her older sister) to jump up and down ten times. Angie was a very busty gal, even at 16. She refused. Being 13 myself and having breasts that could masquerade as a cottonball, I didn’t see what the big deal was. In retrospect: Sorry for laughing, Angie. I’m still not terribly busty, but even I get it now.

So one of my dares was to kiss this guy who was there. Well, that’s not surprising, HALF the dares were “You kiss that person. Ok, now you kiss that person over there.”

I think that was my first kiss. Go truth or dare. Oy.

So, hours pass, and other stuff happens. At some point, the boy I’d had to kiss (the one who didn’t taste like cigarettes — ugh, that’d be my second kiss I think.) starts hitting on me. Being socially awkward and self conscious about it as any good 13 yr old, I was skeptical. Yeah, right. You’re not hitting on me. I don’t believe you. I was convinced it was all a prank designed to make me look like an idiot. Still, he spent a greater portion of the evening trying to convince me, including buying me a rose from the local convenience store. Cute.

Eventually, I gave in — he asked me to be his girlfriend. I agreed. There was some more kissing. Woo!

Never heard from him again. Heh.

There was one day later that week when I was supposed to go over to aforementioned friends place to see him, but Mom said I couldn’t go out. Dang. Eventually, I pretty much forgot he existed.

So. First boyfriend? I don’t think it really counts when you only met him once.

When I was 15, I met a boy. I think I met him through the same friend as above — they were in cadets together, if I recall. Note: Cadets is, as far as I can tell having never been a cadet, an excellent place for teenage girls to hook up with teenage boys. Better than high school, even. Just so you know.

His name was Jimmy, and he was 16 — dig me, going for the older men. I actually rather liked him. He was terribly cute when he took his glasses off. And … well, not that I’m one to judge regarding glasses, but holy CRAP he wore thick glasses. My prescription is considered pretty strong at -5. Jimmy’s were -16. “Coke bottles” don’t even begin to describe.

Still, he was nice, very cute without his glasses, and I was 15 and sans any decent dating experience with absolute shite self esteem, so I was all in.

I should really thank Jimmy sometime — from him, I gained a definite appreciation for the fine art of blowjobs. Hell, most of my partners should thank him…

I forget why we broke up. Maybe because of the inconvenience factor — he lived in Langley, I lived in Cloverdale, so our parents had to give us rides if we wanted to see each other. More likely, I probably just got bored. I was, after all, a 15 yr old girl with the attention span of … hey, look, shiny.

Anyway. It was basically 6 months or so of near-constant fooling around, despite my mother’s warning that if I had sex with him, she’d break my legs so that I couldn’t. Good news, Mom: I didn’t have sex with him. Well, unless you count oral. Which I usually do. Oh well.

So. First boyfriend? Yeah, I think we’ll count that one.