Why does first love taste so damn sweet, yet hurts like hell?
All of us can remember our first "true" love.
For me, I was about 21 and walking in an office corridor when
I first saw her. She was with a colleague who introduced
us. The first thing I noticed wasn't her body (oh-so-yummy),
or her face (ditto) - it was her eyes. I felt as if I'd
just fell into two pools of inky-black warmth. My heart
skipped a few beats and I felt a giddy euphoria as I fought
the urge to hold her in my arms and literally smother her
in sloppy kisses. I was instantly head over heels about
her. Knowing how she felt about me then was more important
than getting inside her underwear. I was truly smitten.
My mates thought I had lost my marbles: we all worked in the
City of London. This was the early 80s, pre-Black Monday.
For us, the sky was the limit and London nightlife was our
oyster. Friday nights was always the same for us: we would
visit our favourite West End discos or trendy City wine
bars. If the resident DJ knew we were coming, he'd keep
the best tracks reserved for us (Roy Ayers, Lonnie Liston
Smith, Phil Hurtt, McFadden & Whitehead), order a
Rum & Coke, then hit the dance floor when the best tunes
was played. All of us were near religious about our dance-moves
and to the girls who were being bored by the usual Lager-lout
with the usual tired chat-up line, we were damn near irresistible.
And when the smooch tracks got played (Always & Forever,
Mind Blowing Decisions, and You Know You Want To Be Loved)
it was having sex on the dance-floor!!
But I knew the moment I met HER, that lifestyle was out.
For months I went out with her, but she always kept it platonic
she didnt want to become another footnote. So I cleaned
up my act. I still enjoyed my Friday nights out, but kept
my powder dry (if you know what I mean). I kept my cool when
I saw her reacting to chat-up lines from other men (while
inwardly suffering the death of a thousand cuts each time
she smiled at them).
I desperately wanted her to know that I was as serious as
a cardiac arrest about her. But nothing appeared to be working.
Then one evening, our platonic relationship went red-hot.
We were on our way home (we both lived in the same part of London)
and had stopped in a shop to buy ice-cream.
It was a sweltering hot day, and she wore a light, flimsy
blouse which had a few buttons undone. As she bent down in
the cooler to pick out a choc-ice, her blouse was open enough
for me to see her left breast, minus bra. It was petit, capped
by a large brown areola like a massive snow-cap smothering
a small mountain. Her nipple was stiff and erect, chilled
by the frigid air from the cooler.
I was transfixed and just stared, my dick straining to explode
through my trousers. Then she noticed my gaze.
I froze, unsure what to say, unsure how she would react.
Nothing happened. Then she just smiled.
I smiled as well (actually I was grinning like a Cheshire
Cat).
We caught a bus, which was empty. The two of us sat just together
eating our ice-cream. I felt the warmth of her body, which
got me horny again. Then she started singing. It was by Lisa
Lisa & Cult Jam with Full Force, which had just been
released:
I wonder if I take you home, will you fill me with love, baby?
Because I need you tonight.
Time stopped dead my minds now racing like a greyhound:
MAKE A FUCKING MOVE, YOU DUMBASS!!
I French-kissed her it was sudden, without warning, but
it justfeltright. And oh geez, it was fantastic, bloody
fantastic! My hand roamed to her oh-so petit breast like
a man dying of thirst who found an oasis in the middle of the
Sahara. God, I felt like Superman, Batman the whole goddamn
Justice League of America, all rolled into one!!!!
Time passes. Our relationship develops. Im as happy as
happy can be.
Then one day, she gets another office job elsewhere in the
City of London and we were all out commiserating her departure
in a pub on her last day. While I was still seeing her, I was
going to miss her presence around our office. Anyway, she
kisses me, tells me to hold onto her drink while she picks
up a ciggie from a nearby newsagent and disappears. For
5 minutes.
For 20 minutes.
I start to worry, and decide to look for her. I step outside
the Pub and walk around a deserted corner. Except, it is
not deserted.
My girl is snogging another bloke (who works in the office
with us). No it was worse than thatMY FIRST LOVE is snogging
another bloke! My beloved is sticking her hands inside
his trousers and hes getting ready to shag her to kingdom
come!
The spell is broken.
I am broken. I am numb. I am desolate. My face is like all four
horsemen of the Apocalypse.
They see me. She is speechless. He is shitting himself.
I am filled with disgust and loathing and murderous thoughts.
I turn around and walk back into the pub. I pass one of my mates
who thought Id lost my marbles, and I want the Earth to swallow
me whole.
I hardly spoke to her for the rest of the evening. Even though
we shared the same bus ride home, I felt like cringing when
we made contact.
Obviously we broke up very soon after that. And I learned
an important lesson about first love: when its good, its
like heaven. When its bad, it hurts like a motherfucker.
Still loved those areolas, though (think of Charmaine
Sinclair, and youll get the idea).
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