My first boyfriend, if you don't count the first guy I kissed in 7th grade was "The Red Haired boy" and he was about 3 years older than I was. I know he was old enought to get into the bars, and I was far from.
But I was not very emotionally mature, I was socially awkward and pretty. My parents were in the middle of a divorce figuring their lives out and I was left to figure myself out.
I was excited when he talked to me, I had just turned 16 and a raging feminist with a hole inside, I was lost in a world of so many words. He was a part of the organization I was in, he was one of the cool ones, he knew everyone and everyone knew him. He had been in fights and at riots, he knew the others that I didn't. I already from my previous encounters had a thought that maybe I wasn't very sexy, that maybe I wasn't very exciting. Next to Fifi anyone would be nothign but a danelion, she was a perfect rose. But I was a rebel, and I could talk quick and I could be hardshelled, I knew how to be hardshelled, if I knew. And he talked to me, and his hair was red, and he kissed me and said I was beutiful and that he wanted to be with me. I red al the right books and I tried to be all the things he wanted me to be, but I could never be like his first love Jenny. He would tell me about when they met, how they were locked up in a room and tried all the sex, and how amazing it was to explore, and I felt empty, I felt like I could never be like Jenny, because I wasn't. He would lay ontop of me, and I didnt feel anything, I did it because he wanted me to. If he wanted me to do it, I did it, and I watched TV while he was comming and calling out Jennys name.
He moved in with me, because his father kicked him out, he said I was the most amazing creature ever and then I wouldn't hear from him for days. He would come "home" with his friends, and we would listen to music, and I would go to my meetings, and I would fight and I would run, and I would write politacal speaches, and I would go to school and I always worried. He would leave drawing for me to come home to, it always made me smile, made me feel special.
Long after I found out that he was doing drugs, that he was working his way past partydrugs to heavy druguse, he wrote me once when I was about 25 to tell me he was sorry. That he was coming off heroin, that he often thought about me.
I always forgave him for everything, time after time, he stole money from me, cheated on me and would tell me that I just wasn't good enough if he was cheating on me.
But I was not very emotionally mature, I was socially awkward and pretty. My parents were in the middle of a divorce figuring their lives out and I was left to figure myself out.
I was excited when he talked to me, I had just turned 16 and a raging feminist with a hole inside, I was lost in a world of so many words. He was a part of the organization I was in, he was one of the cool ones, he knew everyone and everyone knew him. He had been in fights and at riots, he knew the others that I didn't. I already from my previous encounters had a thought that maybe I wasn't very sexy, that maybe I wasn't very exciting. Next to Fifi anyone would be nothign but a danelion, she was a perfect rose. But I was a rebel, and I could talk quick and I could be hardshelled, I knew how to be hardshelled, if I knew. And he talked to me, and his hair was red, and he kissed me and said I was beutiful and that he wanted to be with me. I red al the right books and I tried to be all the things he wanted me to be, but I could never be like his first love Jenny. He would tell me about when they met, how they were locked up in a room and tried all the sex, and how amazing it was to explore, and I felt empty, I felt like I could never be like Jenny, because I wasn't. He would lay ontop of me, and I didnt feel anything, I did it because he wanted me to. If he wanted me to do it, I did it, and I watched TV while he was comming and calling out Jennys name.
He moved in with me, because his father kicked him out, he said I was the most amazing creature ever and then I wouldn't hear from him for days. He would come "home" with his friends, and we would listen to music, and I would go to my meetings, and I would fight and I would run, and I would write politacal speaches, and I would go to school and I always worried. He would leave drawing for me to come home to, it always made me smile, made me feel special.
Long after I found out that he was doing drugs, that he was working his way past partydrugs to heavy druguse, he wrote me once when I was about 25 to tell me he was sorry. That he was coming off heroin, that he often thought about me.
I always forgave him for everything, time after time, he stole money from me, cheated on me and would tell me that I just wasn't good enough if he was cheating on me.
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