First Love

At age 15, I was just starting to bud. I had recently overcome a very severe virus, that had me so sick, for two weeks, that my mother had slept in the same bed with me, to tend to my fevers and vomiting attacks. I lost a whole lotta weight. I was never fat, before, but I didn't have a 'figure', either. Once I had overcome the fits of nausea and vomiting, I took on a whole new look. Suddenly I was slim and shapely, had hollows in my cheeks, and was receiving comments about what great legs I had. This was quite a new turn, from what I had experienced in all the years before. It was about that time, my first love noticed me. We were two, of a close group of girls and guys, who did everything together. We all went to church together, participated in church outings together (to include hay rides) and went to church socials together (where we learned to kiss, believe it or not). We played basketball together and went trick or treating together. We, essentially, grew up together.

I wasn't allowed to date, however. My father was strict and stern, assuring me that I would not be allowed to leave the house, with a guy, until I was at least 18 years old. Needless to say, we were in church every time the doors were open. Of course, we had both been involved in church, beforehand, so this was nothing new. It's just that if we might've missed going, in the past, we never missed, now, unless it was totally out of our control. He was allowed to come over to my house, on Friday nights and Saturday nights. He could stay until 10pm and then it was out the door. We begged, many times, to please let us go to the movies with our friends, from church, but it was not to be.

So, for nearly two years, we sat on that couch, every Friday and Saturday. We played records and danced. And talked. And smooched. Learned how to french kiss, really well. Learned how to touch. Learned how to want. You can imagine, we were left alone in that room, time after time, with nothing to do but to be totally into one another. Of course our harmones raged. I would shut the two doors, adjoining the room. My dad would walk through and open them. I would get up, silently close them, again. And so this went, on and on, for a couple of years. I lost my virginity, sitting right on that love seat, right under my parent's nose. It was the most beautiful thing, in remembering. We discovered all the pleasures, together. We were both virgins and lost that virginity, together.

We didn't get there in a day. It took some time. First, there was the terrible embarrassment that my boyfriend went through, each time that he got a woody. :o There was the great effort to divert my attention, while he made adjustments, so that I might not notice. It was a very long time before I figured out what was going on. I hadn't a clue. Even then, I didn't figure it out, it was he who finally told me. We were both so very inexperienced, in those ways, that he would fall into extreme apologetic expression, if his hand accidentally brushed past my boob. He would not have me think, for one moment, that he was trying to make an advance on me. It was after such a long time of hearing him go through such intense apologies, if his hand did accidently brush against me, that I finally took his hands and placed them on my boobs, myself. I looked into his eyes and told him that it was ok... that he didn't have to go through all of those apologies, every time he accidentally brushed against me. I wanted him to know that I loved him with all my heart, and that not only was it ok if he accidentally touched me, I actually wanted him to touch me.

Now, we had been raised that this was forbidden! His first response, to that, was to immediately freak out and withdraw his hands from where I had placed them. He turned every shade of red that you can imagine. He began stuttering and carrying on like a crazy person. No! There was no way that he could do that! He just could not! And when I placed them back there, again, his hands were trembling, he had fear in his eyes, and he just went muttering something about how my dad was gonna kill him and we were gonna be in so much trouble, rofl! I loved him so much that I just wanted him to relax and not freak out, every time that his hands came near me. I loved him so much that I wanted him to know that what was of me was also of him, that we were one, and there was nothing wrong with loving in that way. No matter what I had been taught, I could not, for the life of me, perceive that there was anything wrong or dirty and sinful in what we were feeling. To myself, everything felt natural and right and there was nothing to be ashamed of, and I didn't care what anyone else thought. Not for one moment did I feel that I was going against God. Instead, I felt that the rest of the world was misunderstanding God. I felt that there was no way God could condemn something so perfectly and utterly pure and innocent and beautiful. We were in Love. Love could never be a bad thing, nor the expression of it. It felt, instead, that it was something which not only God blessed, but that was a blessing from God, in receiving, to love in that way. There was only one mishap, when my mom walked in and found me sitting on his lap, shirt over my head. She could never tell my dad, he would surely hurt that boy. However, she did hold it over my head, for a very long time, as a blackmail thing, to bend me to her will. It worked, for a while. Eventually I realized that she would never tell my dad. It was an embarrassing moment, to be sure. Caught red handed, and no amount of explaination could erase the embarrassment that I felt. Nor the fear that he felt, if my dad should find out!


Innocence lost, never regained? That's what they say, anyways.














We stayed together for a couple of years. After a time, he grew tired of the fact that good old daddy wouldn't let me date. He even tried to stand up to my dad, once, when my dad refused to let him take a vacation trip to Florida, with us. My dad literally threw him out of the house. Things became rocky. He grew restless. By then he was driving a car and so were all our friends. Not me. I wasn't allowed to get my drivers liscense until I was 18. At any rate, everyone else, around me, was going out with friends. I wasn't allowed to get in the car with any of my friends, who didn't have an adult chapperone. Not even to ride to school. With a driver's liscense, the guys in the neighborhood began riding around and discovering more girls, outside of our little church group. Eventually, they began smoking cigarettes and drinking. Eventually he ran into fast women (girls?) who offered a lot more fun, with freedom, than I was allowed to experience. I might make up for it, later, but that was then.

Now, some of you might think that I was fast, because I offered him my body. Mind you, it was not offered to just anyone. It was offered, in love, and that was not for just anyone. Nevertheless, I was dumped. There were plenty of other fish in the sea, he would find... who, not only, could offer him sex, but who were also able to go out on a date, smoke cigarettes, and get drunk. I had quickly become a dud, in his book, and he was off to bigger and better things.














For a time, he became quite popular with the girls. And I had to endure the pain of seeing him walk through the school hallways, holding hands with another girl. He and his friends were dating the wild girls. Those who could go out... and smoke and drink... and get high.

Wouldn't you know, as soon as we broke up, my dad decided, at age 17, that he was going to let me date. The down side to that was, my best friend, from church, was two years older than me. She was already experienced in many ways. With her, I learned to smoke and drink and stay out until all hours of the night and early morning. I'll never forget the time she snuck a bunch of beers into my house, when she had come over for a sleep over. Back in those days, we had these little bags we carried our hair curlers in. She had put the beers in there, to sneak them in. I thought I was gonna bust a gut, as she made her way across the room, beer cans clinking, every step. We were nervous as hell, that my mom would hear and catch on! That night, I was hanging out the bedroom window puking my guts out, but not from the beer. I had asked her to bring me a pack of cigarettes along. When she asked what kind, I said it didn't matter. What did I know about cigarettes? So, she brought me a pack of Pall Malls, without the filters. Yuk! I certainly never tried those again!

Everyone had thought that me and that first love would marry. Noone ever expected us to break up. I even had a hope chest started, so certain was my family that we would wed. Everyone was shocked that he would drop me, like that. No one was more shocked than I. But, I went onto date the friend of a friend. And we stayed together for a while, too, and he saw me through my junior and senior proms. But I never loved him that way. I tried, but it just couldn't be. It was hard seeing the first love with another, through so special times, the prom. Eventually, I broke it off with him, when I knew that I needed something more. And, to this day, I wonder if what occured with him would be considered date rape. There were many times when I tried to ward him off, and he would persist and persist, forcing my hands away from their weak efforts to keep him at bay. Finally, I would give in to his persistance and actual physical force, feeling that I had led him astray, just by making out with him. It was never the same with him. The physical act had not been born out of love and desire. I never really wanted to make love to him, but gave into the pressures, out of guilt. I felt that if I did not give him what he wanted, that he would think that I was just a tease. And I wanted acceptance, not rejection. That was the beginnings of my not being able to be strong in who I was, with the opposite sex.

The day would come when the first love would call me up again. His voice was filled with love and emotion. I knew that he missed me. I had always felt, somewhere deep inside, that he never stopped loving me. How could he? We had experienced so much, together. Our love had been real. He wanted to see me. We planned it. At this and that hour, he would have someone drop him off, at my house. He would come to the window, I would let him in. Everything went as planned. We spent our last time together, in one another's arms, in the safety and warmth of my own bed. We made love in a way that we had never been able to before. There had been only one time, before, where we had actually been able to make love, aside from sneaking around in the living room. That one time had been in the back of a station wagon, in one quick and stolen moment. Now, here we were... seasoned lovers, so it seemed, past the embarrassment and fears. Indeed, he had missed me. I knew him well enough that I could sense the realness of his words and feel the emotion that he was sharing. He had left me to go and explore other things. What he had found to replace me was just not the same. That fling, of his, that he had left me for, had ended, as well. I loved him still. I knew that he still loved me. Two weeks later he would be married. But not to me. I was totally perplexed. It was the hardest thing to do, to sit in that congregation and watch him exchange vows with another girl. The strange part? It was the girl who had once taught me to play the guitar, one summer, over the phone. Right before the birth of their second child, she divorced him. Somewhere, along the way, she would give me the impression that he talked about me a lot. I also got the impression that this annoyed her. I am certain this is not the reason for their divorce, however. It was just a union that never should have been, other than for karmic reason, brought on by an unexpected pregnancy.

We would cross paths again... and again. Once, when I was still very religious, I had agreed to give my testimony. Now, understand me, today I would not do such a thing. My religious/spiritual beliefs have changed drastically, and I would never put myself in front of a group of people, and talk about all the ways that I had gone against God, the bible, etc., because what I thought was wrong, then, I do not see as being wrong, now. Nevertheless, that is where I was in those days. He had heard about this, that I was to give my testimony. Even though he had married another, he still carried a warm spot, for me, and went out of his way to make sure that he was there to hear my little speech. Once the testimonial was over and we were all traveling back to our homes, I realized that his car was following close behind me. When I was nearly home, I decided to pull over. It felt as if there was still something that needed to be expressed, for whatever reason. As soon as I pulled over, he jumped out of his car and came running over. He knelt by my car door and peered inside. "Oh, I was so hoping you were gonna pull over! I was so hoping your were gonna pull over!" Now, even though I felt that there had been things that needed to be said, I was somewhat taken back by the urgency in his voice, and felt very uncomfortable and, somehow, felt that perhaps I had made the wrong choice, to pull over. But, since I had, I proceeded. I'm not quite sure what it was that he expected, but I had just wanted him to know that I had forgiven him for having hurt me so deeply, at such a tender young age. I wanted him to know that all I had felt for him, back then, had been real and true... and even though I had not totally understood the way things went, I did want him to know that I had forgiven and was over it... and that I wished him only the best. I can't even remember the words that he said, after that. I does seem that he expressed that he was sorry for having hurt me, and that I would always have a warm spot in his heart. In any case, I knew that he was living with some deep regret. Isn't it funny that I can't even remember what he said, for sure, after all that? Yes, funny how life is. I guess I was over him, but he was not really over me. I was glad that I had not ended up with him, in retrospect. And it was kinda scarey to think that I might have. He's not a bad guy, he has a wonderful heart. Just not for me.

One more time, our paths would cross. This was after I was with my late husband. We ran into him, in some little bar, and were invited down to his place. My husband was a musician, so they hit it off when the ex-boyfriend brought out a harmonica and the two of them played. I shall never forget the sincerity in my first loves voice, when he looked at me and said, "I've never seen you look happier!" I was shocked that someone could recognize the intense happiness that this husband had brought into my life. But I shouldn't have been so surprised, because I'd heard it from many others. I hadn't realized, I suppose, that my unhappiness had been quite so obvious, previously. This was my 4th husband, afterall. I stopped to think about that for a moment, and to his comment, I simply replied, "I guess I must not have looked too happy in the past, huh?" ... and his comment was, "No, you never really did." "And I guess I never was," was my sincere reply to that. Then he looked at my husband, and with the sweetest sincerity, ever, told him, "You've got a real good woman, here. I want you to know that. I've known her all my life, and she's as fine as they come." Of course, I was happy to hear my husband agree, lol. And where I had been worried of how the two of them would hit it off, being from two entirely different walks of life, as it turns out, my husband thought the world of him... even in all of my first love's "fuckupedness". My husband was able to see and feel his heart, which is a rarity for most men, much less to be able to express it. He expressed my first loves way of being, and expressing himeself, as 'beautiful'. He had been deeply touched by this simple man that life had been unkind to. The really weird part is that my husband had the impression that the first love was dying... perhaps in spirit, more than anything. The second part to that weirdness is that it would be my husband who later died, by taking his own life. Upon his death, I took several of his harmonicas out the the first love's house and let him have his pick. He picked exactly the one that I knew he would.

Somehow, to have my first love acknowledge that I looked happy, and offer up good words and thoughts about me, to my husband, seemed to close a chapter of my life, and it was 34 years later. I felt a gentleness, regarding him, that I had not felt in a very long time. I knew that we were connected, and always would be... but it was perfectly ok for us to go entirely our different ways. He understood things about me that most people never would. I realized that for the very first time, that day. And why shouldn't he? He was there in my beginnings, as each petal unfurled, to become the beautifully innocent and giving flower, that would offer her nectar, and take him into her heart and soul. He was much deeper than I had ever thought he could be. And the funny part, to that, was that it took my husband to point this out to me. He was apparently able to see much deeper than I, in this situation. Perhaps I could see more than I could acknowledge. My husband's insight forced me to acknowledge. That, from my husband, was, in and of itself, a beautiful gift to me. I had been afraid that he would look at this first love and judge him for his weaknesses... and, in turn, judge me, for ever having been with him... instead, he gave me a gift, and proved the very part of himself that I had fallen in love with, in the first place... that of being a very gentle, kind and caring individual, who wasn't afraid to reach out, compassionately, in life. Living was hard for him, the reason that he is no longer here. It was very hard for him to relate in a world that is, basically, run by testosterone and force.