As most 14 years-old, I used to have a fight against the world. I did what any socially inept teenager at that time would have done; I wore black oversized t-shirts and had a problem comprehending the correct use of eyeliner. Yes, I was part of the whole Avril Lavigne pseudo-punk wave. Saying that I’m ashamed of it would be unfair, the phase helped me overcome the fact that I didn’t have a lot of friends at the time; pretending to be a Punk gave me the option to say “people suck, I choose to be alone”.
Girl meets boy. Boy shows interest in the girl. Girl drops on her knees, being him the first guy to ever notice her.
Let’s call him First-Kiss guy… Aw, did I just spoil it? FK was 18 at the time, he wasn’t particularly good looking but neither was I, back then; he was funny as hell, thought (but there’s a real possibility that I was so head over heels that I just laughed at whatever he said). The important thing for me was: He liked me. ME!
I went out with a group of friends, including him… You know what? I’ll let the 15-year-old in me take it from here: So, we got, like, away from the rest. We got into his car, he had a car! I know, right? He, then, started, like, going on and on about Rap music and I was all like “I love rap, too!” I know, so embarrassing but what was I supposed to tell him? That I hated that effing music? I mean, right? Whatever. He, like, pulled off his car and I was like “Is he going to kiss me?” and he did! It was so retarded. I didn’t, like, know what to do, and he was, like, totally feeling me up, like, my boobs and all. I know, right?
After that day, he rarely spoke to me again.
I can’t even began to explain how mad/sad I was . Doesn’t even matter now; after a couple of months and hearing over and over Taking Back Sunday I was pretty much over him. Thanks to him I learned that not all guys that I invite to feel me under my bra are going to be interested in hearing my heartbeats along the way.
I saw FK several times after that and we held short but nice conversations. He left town about two years ago. I wasn’t angry at him; the way I saw it, it was my own fault I got hurt. I created expectations for a guy who never promised me a thing.
Now, for this kind of talk you were better off watching re-runs of 90210, I know. This is relevant to my life now; seriously, I’m getting there.
Around May (of this year) he sent me an instant message. We started talking and suddenly the conversation got heavy *drum rolls* He confessed me he really liked me, and after all these years he still thought about me. He told me the age difference freaked him out at the time, but mostly he was so damaged he just got spooked of how much he liked me. He now regrets it.
… I know, right?
It was a big ‘is-this-real-life?’ moment for me. All of a sudden my beliefs were based on a lie (I could be more dramatic, but I’m tired). Paraphrasing one of my friends: I thought I was dealing with a male whore but he turned out to be a pussy.
Months passed and he was ready to come visit me, he wanted to see me before I left the country. Alex happened (big hurricane that flood a bunch of cities), he’s ok, but he’s trapped there. Let me tell you something: I’m so fucking relieved.
The second part of this story is like a crappy sequel of a horror movie, where the screenwriters decide to add a twist to the story that will just not work. Suddenly it’s not about my expectations, it’s about his. He still remembers me as the self-conscious 14 year-old girl who would have said anything just to make him like me.
We are now this new shitty version of The Great Gatsby; he’s a guy who’s trying way too hard to recapture a moment with a girl who isn’t what he remembers anymore (and probably, never was).
Oh, again, the 15 year-old me wants to add a few words:
Who’s crying now, fucker?