I met First and Lucas one day in the summer, not long before they both transferred to my high school. Lucas and I were in the same grade; First was four years older but only two grades ahead.
First and I started spending time together. I remember being attracted to him in some way, but it was neither physical nor intellectual. It was my first time experiencing such yearning. I think now that I wanted to be accepted and desired, and the specific source of acceptance and desire was largely irrelevant.
September, the weather sunny and warm, blue sky. Outside the side door of his parents’ house, as I was leaving, he gave me my first kiss. I grinned and floated all the way home.
With that, we were going out, and I learned that a direct question like “Would you go out with me?” was not to be expected. We went out. Much too long. Whenever it was that the requests for sex began, I deflected them.
Over a year later, First and I were on a hiatus when I went to a New Year’s Eve party and met Home for the Holidays. HFH, three years older than me, was a student at a university across the country. He was the first guy who flirted with me, the first to make out with me in a car, and the first (and only, thank goodness) to massage my pec through my heavy winter coat, apparently thinking it was my breast.
First and I got together again for some reason. A month or two later, I got cheated on for the first time: he slept with Lucas’s girlfriend, and I broke up with him. Again, we sort of drifted back together, with nowhere else to go.
The relationship slowly shredded like rags. I didn’t particularly like him, I just wanted to be in a relationship and couldn’t yet identify the kind of relationship that you should leave.
It finally ended when he moved away to a big city that had captured his imagination. I shudder to think how long we both might have failed to end it if he had stayed.