My first love was a horse.

Then a boy who put me in the bottom of a sleeping bag to spin me around the garden, who lay on top of me on the sofa til I couldn't breathe.. the patterns on the carpet and breaking all his mothers clothes pegs, he went to church twice a week and thought I was weird but he liked it.

Then a red faced one who never looked at me.

A blonde (the only one) I hit him with my pencil case and flexed my wit by putting him down the best way I could. Early sexual tension, sweat and parties where he got stoned and was too embarrassed to admit he fancied me back, because I was weird and not cool.

A boy from another school who tasted of cigarettes and cheap beer - he told me I was beautiful, I told him he was drunk. This was the first one I kissed, I can't remember his name.

The ugly one in the year above who I vowed I would never... but ended up on the floor of the club with, swimming about in the black dirt before running outside to stick my head in the bin and pull my friend out of the vodka-puke filled gutter.

Another one in the year above who was shoved in my face, with a cold mouth and stiff little tongue forced between teeth. I threw him off in disgust. Poor guy...bad bad kisser.

The cocky one. We wreaked havoc in the street and marched peoples garden gnomes in lines across the road in the middle of the night. He didn't use his tongue.

The girls, who were softer.
The arty one who always cried.
The fat brunette who did it “with passion” for the boys she wanted to titillate.
The ginger bulemic who used to go home at lunch to have sex with her horrible boyfriend.
The bi-sexual who loved taking advantage of drunk straight girls,
and the friend I'd always fancied and get stoned in the too-small rooms of student houses. And sharing a kiss with her and the bi.. three way kissing is fun with girls.. But I never liked the way they tasted.

A very tall drummer, I could never reach his mouth. The beginnings of this are literally lost in a haze of ether. Writhing about in jeans and cords in clouds of bad hash and music in cold rooms and sleeping in cars in the middle of nowhere.

Then a short boy.. knew all the lyrics to all the songs, stoned at lunch time in the park, didn't listen in English, read none of our assigned books and he wrote awful poetry about me. I broke his heart, it was horrible.

The poet boy who'd wooed me for years then took me out, got me drunk, danced my arse off in the Barfly and kissed me all the way home and in shop doorways in the rain, before going back to his girlfriend.

Then there was the fat arsed, fine artist Romany who lived in 3 conjoined caravans;  he danced jerkily with no rhythm. Aggressive in bed, he fucked me in every room in every way.  An old fashioned wanker who dumped me for the love of his ex - a twin version of himself, with massive tits and an ugly face. He punched holes in my bedroom wall and wouldn't let me go.

Then a boy looking for a mother, who stuck around for far too long, doing far too little good, stripping me completely of me, throwing me away, and then wanting me back only to find that it was too late.

Another girl, secret and furtive in toilets in clubs, with dirty fingers up against the door with piss and beer on our shoes... and dark trees after cider in a pub no one went to, broken sandles and twigs in my hair.

Then someone who did not live on my planet, with a concave chest and funny ideas about bras and cats collars, he kissed well but had to go.

Then the boy who wanted to marry me, have lots of children, make me soup, play a lute and go on walks.  He was just too nice and I would have crushed him. Full ON. Goodbye.

Then the boy who smelt all wrong. He would not leave me alone in my sleep; a complete pest.  He turned from tiger to kitten in the time it took to rearrange the bed, cowering under my arm in the dark he implored me to reassure him, but I pretended to be asleep, because it had been like having sex with Alan Partridge.

03/05/2009

Author's Note: Just memories really.

Posted on 03/05/2009
Copyright © 2024 Rowan Luis