First Love

A Story by Rani

Before I start telling about the first time (and, thus far, the only time,) I ever fell in love, I think that I should take a moment to clarify that there are so many different types of love out there. My first love was a puppy love. He was my high school sweetheart. But neither of those things meant that the love that I had for him was any less genuine than that of a ‘true love’, because my love was true.

We met in 9th or 10th grade. Funny how the little specific details seem to elude you over time. Details that you never thought you’d forget, especially then. We had friends who were friends, so somehow along the way, we must’ve been forced with introductions. I remember that he had a math class with me in 10th grade. We would talk whenever we saw each other; mostly insults. I remember one day he even made me cry because I had gotten a haircut the night before, and the woman didn’t listen to me, and ended up giving me a bob that was so short, that I couldn’t even pull it up to hide it. So, I came into our math class that morning, and he looked at me and laughed and told me that I looked like one of the Hanson brothers.

That was our genesis. Somewhere along the line, we became friends. Friends who obviously liked each other, but were obviously too scared to ever admit it. We would write each other notes. I still have most, if not all, of them. We’d hang out every day after school while we waited for our rides to come pick us up (we couldn’t drive at this point.) I’d jump on his back and make him carry me around, just so I could have an excuse for us to be so physically close to one another. We started talking on the phone for hours every night.

By our junior year, our mutual feelings of affection were undeniable. We began toying with the idea of us dating, even though we knew it would be hard, because we would have to keep it a secret. He was black, and I was white, and both of our fathers were racist. We both tried so hard to stifle and ignore our feelings. It wasn’t right. Our families would disown us. People would talk, and stare, and hate us.

He tried to deny the fact that he liked me by simply not admitting it. When he would admit it, he would always use the word ‘but’. “I like you, but…”
I tried to deny the fact that I liked him by dating another guy. That relationship lasted for literally a week. He was the only boy who ever broke up with me, but, honestly, I’m glad that he did, because then I knew for sure that I had to at least try having a relationship with the boy that I had real feelings for.

And, so, I talked him into being my boyfriend. I told him that I thought it was worth the risk of our parents finding out. He said we wouldn’t last. I told him we’d never know until we tried. We both agreed that we would have to keep it a secret; only our closest friends could know.

From the very beginning, we took things slow. I guess it was because we were nervous and insecure, but whatever the reason, I firmly believe that it was the glue that held us together for nearly two years.

I remember the first time he kissed me. We were at my mom’s house, outside. I had opened the back door of my car for some reason, and before I knew what was happening, he was clumsily kissing me, and I was awkwardly kissing back. It was completely awful. I never wanted to kiss him again. My whole face was covered in saliva, and I was undeniably grossed out.

It’s funny, though. Despite the fact that I didn’t want to kiss him ever again, I still did want to kiss him. Over and over and over. And eventually, it paid off. Soon, he was the only person that I ever wanted to kiss. We both got used to each other, and kissing became necessary.

Whenever we would hang out at his house, I would always force him to walk me to my car when it was time for me to leave. I’d tell him that I had something to show him, and then I’d grab his shirt and pull him into me, and kiss him. We’d fall back into my car, and we’d lie there, stretched across the seats, with him on top of me, making out for as long as we thought we could without getting caught. I loved that.

I remember the first night that we slept together. (I mean, literally sleeping, not having sex.) We both went to a party of the mutual friends that introduced us. I didn’t have a very good time at the party because they had alcohol and pot, and I was still a prude at that point. So, once the party started settling down, he and I ended up on the couch together. He was pressed up against the back of the couch, and I was in front of him. Honestly, I don’t think I got a wink of sleep that night because I was so f*****g excited that I liked this boy, and he liked me, and he had his arms around me, and his skin was so soft, and he was kissing my neck, and whispering in my ear, and I was just so incredibly lucky. We fit together so well. Everything from the spaces between our fingers, to the contours of our entire bodies. I couldn’t believe how perfect we were.

By the summer of our junior year, I was contemplating with telling him that I loved him, but I didn’t want to until I was sure. One night, as our nightly phone call was coming to a close, I almost instinctually told him “I love you” as I was hanging up. I stifled it down, terrified that he might not love me back. Immediately after hanging up, I called him again and told him what I had almost done and that, because it had come so naturally, without me forcing it, that I knew it was true. He told me that he loved me, too, and that he had been thinking it for a while, but, like me, didn’t want to say it if it wasn’t reciprocated. So there we were, both of us in love with the other, and both of us knowing it. After hanging up for a second time, I spent yet another night struggling to find sleep because of how excited I was. But when sleep overtook me, it found me with a smile on my face.

Right around my birthday during our senior year, we had sex for the first time. It was still within the first month of school, so we weren’t yet bogged down with lots of homework or tests or obligations. He used to sneak out of his house at night and come over to my house. He’d climb up through my window, and we’d lie in my bed, making out, and touching each other, and wishing that things could be that way forever before he’d have to go. One night, we both just knew that we were ready to give ourselves to each other. I told him that I was ready, because I could sense his insecurities about initiating the act. We took off our clothes, and he put on a condom (which took forever, might I add), and we both lost our virginity. It was simple, and slightly painful for me, but I loved every minute of it. After we finished, I looked over at him and asked him if he felt any differently. He said no. I chuckled at my naivety, how I thought that somehow, I was going to see the world through different eyes, or suddenly realize the meaning of life, and I was slightly disappointed that my whole life hadn’t changed.

Our relationship was the biggest secret that wasn’t a secret at all. Everyone knew, even though no one ever told. We simply radiated our affections. It was something that we couldn’t mask, even though we tried. Deep down, even my dad knew, I think. During our senior year, at a parent-teacher conference, my English teacher even made a comment to my mother, who then made a comment to me. I told her that she didn’t know what she was talking about, and neither did my English teacher.

We didn’t have an easy relationship. I was so jealous of everyone else who had a boyfriend that they could hold hands with, and kiss, and hug, and be close to in public. I don’t know what we were more scared of: racist comments from strangers, or racist comments from our parents. All I knew is that something kept us from being a ‘normal’ couple out in public.

I guess it was okay, though. We made up for it in other ways. One day, at a pep rally, he sat beside me, and I had a jacket turned around backwards, covering up my chest and legs. He felt me up while the principal was making some stupid speech, ignoring the fact that we were surrounded by our classmates. Whenever we’d go over to his house from school, I’d grab his dick through his pants and slowly squeeze it until he got hard. By the time we got to his house, we could hardly stand to make it up the stairs and into his bedroom. He’d get a boner just from rubbing his hand up my leg.

If we couldn’t have sex at his house after school, we’d have to wait until nighttime on the weekends and find somewhere we could park my car. That was an adventure in itself. A few times, we almost got caught. One of our regular spots was in a field by a church by our high school. Another one was an empty cul de sac in his subdivision, where they were in the process of building new houses.

One time, I was hanging out with him at his house when his mom was home. We should’ve known better, and maybe we did and just didn’t care, but we both snuck into his closet and started making out and taking our clothes off. His mom called him, and so he hastily put his clothes back on and went to meet her. But by the time he was walking out of his closet, she was at the top of the stairs, and saw him exit. When I was leaving, she asked to speak with me. She told me that she understood my emotions, but that I needed to act like a lady. I smiled and agreed, but all I could do was laugh to myself.

Another time, at the end of our senior year, we decided to skip school one day to work on a project for our English class. He came over in the morning after everyone had left. We spent the whole day in my bed, making out and feeling each other up. Eventually, we looked at the clock, thinking that we still had plenty of time to work on our projects, only to find out that my mom would be home in less than an hour. To this day, we still do not know where that time went, because we swear we were only in my bed for an hour or two.

We broke up a few months after that day. He had convinced himself that we wouldn’t work out because we were going to separate colleges. He just stopped trying. And I couldn’t handle that. I broke up with him right before my birthday during my freshman year of college, and I hated him for a little while.

He was my first love, and not just because he was the first person that I had sex with. It was because we took the time to let the relationship cultivate. We lied to ourselves, we denied our feelings. We took things slowly. We fought, and cried. But we struggled, and we tried. We worked at it. We gave ourselves to each other, on so many levels. And we were comfortable with one another. I was too controlling and he never showed any emotion. We were flawed and imperfect but we were still willing to overlook those things because, for a time, our love was stronger than the pain.

And that’s how I’m sure that what we had was real and true. You make concessions for those that you care for deeply. And we did. Most of this post makes our relationship seem easy and magical and perfect, but it wasn’t. We fought a lot. I cried a lot, he cried some. But we worked to keep the relationship together. That’s the most important thing. One-sided relationships will fail because the burden is too much for a single person to carry on their own. Eventually, they will reach their limits, and they will break, or they will walk away. Maybe both. That’s why our relationship failed. But never will I wish that it hadn’t existed. He was the closest that I’ve ever been to love, and I’ve since learned things about myself that will help me be a better significant other to someone in the future. I thought I loved him with all of my heart, but I know that I can love someone else so much better now that I’ve grown and matured.