I have had a dozen of girlfriends and boyfriends, but no first love. You might think it false or me heartless. Nevertheless, it’s true, and wait, just a little longer, to see if I do have a heart.
Everyone has their first memory. Some might be subject to change but mine never did. It’s crystal clear. It’s picture perfect. My fat mama in her wedding dress had a face lit up like all her dreams just came true. She stands in a church and holds hands with a wolfman in his tux, my daddy. At the time I was about five, the ring bearer, walking down the aisle towards them. It never occurred to me until a month later that he wasn’t my biological father and even then, I didn’t understand hate. It was the most idealistic love.
For twelve grueling, miserable years of yelling day after day and moving to three different states, all it took was me telling my mother to get a divorce. Horrified that her middle child would say that with a flat face, she relented.
That’s why I can, eventually, see through people’s lies. I’m not afraid of commitment or marriage. I think it’s the most romantic thing on earth when two people decide to stay together and actually appreciate each other. Too many lovers forget that. They forget, and so they hate. That’s what I’m afraid of. I’m terrified of being locked in a twelve-year marriage with a hater.
My first girlfriend wasn’t a problem, to be honest. Heather was a babe with smoky eyes, chain-smoked, sang metal and country songs, and she was the nightmare of parents in our town. The opposite of my pedantic, tyrannical mother who happened to be a teacher and then a principal at our school. I loved Heather in that way. She meant calling in sick and skipping school the whole day. She meant a secret river to skinny-dip in. She meant freedom from an unhappy home.
I decided to let Heather go. I felt like a burden, mainly because I was. We were just sixteen, and she had to drag her own emo boyfriend through the mall. It was humiliating for both of us, I’m sure. She loved me more, and hated me most for giving up. She ignored me for months. She partied harder with my older brother. She made sure I saw it on social media. Nothing was wrong with her. It was me.
Though I felt better when she later became a lesbian.
My first boyfriend was a problem, but not by much. Andrew was in college the next town over, and I was a junior. It was all physical, and no talking. We had nothing but experimentation in common. I remember when he asked if he could put me on hold while he tried dating someone he had just found.554Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0BAlaAH16T
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Without hesitating, I urged him to go for it. He looked so relieved. A week later, Andrew screamed at me for sleeping with his ex. Dial tone.
By the time I entered college, first love was on my mind. I ached for it. My first black boyfriend was the lead dancer, at the front of the stage, with a smile that brightened the room. Chris was the sun, and I was the moon. We talked. Now this one, I stayed longer with. I gave up my freshman year just to be with him. We talked, talked, talked in bed, in the shower, and in the car. I gave up on school completely and dropped out. He asked me to stay. I still moved away.
I tried to return to college or find work. But depression just got the best of me the more I found hate.
I returned home to my mother and her third husband. They faked smiles and whispered power plays. They were too sweet to each other, pointing out every flaw they had as a joke. They openly hated me for being depressed. They hated that I have little to no willpower left.
It took Chris, the sun, and his letters urging me to believe in love.
We went to a wedding in his family. It was all yellow and white, set outdoors. Everyone was in love. Except me, I was called back home for a funeral. My stepfather, the one I helped marry and divorce, died of a heart attack. Since the divorce, it grew apparent he didn’t take care of himself well. Sometimes I think he died of heartbreak.554Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡORgyIvhimP
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Chris and I moved in together with several others in an apartment in DC. I guess I felt saved. That is, until a week later he demanded I move out. I hadn’t found a job by then and the roommates decided it was time for me to go. It was only one week. That wasn’t what shocked me. It was how obedient Chris was, choosing them over me. Sunset.
We broke up that summer after several heated fights. It was Pride weekend. He drank too early in the day and stumbled about really intoxicated. I ended up having to take care of him, guide him away from the crowds and the cars. Chris kissed me down a sidewalk. Then he called me drama and asked me to leave him alone, as he headed to a bar where a date was waiting for him.
Oh, I hated him.
Heather the lesbian found me a job in New Mexico, a car, and a boyfriend. Ben was a meathead Ryan Gosling looking thing, always shirtless at the gay bar with a silver platter of Jell-O shots. He had Spanish books, a rescued greyhound, and the house he and his ex had bought together. Heather and I drooled over him. When I asked him out, he said he was waiting forever for that. Is this it? Is Ben the one?
We went to a wedding in his family. It was also yellow and white, and set outdoors. Everyone was in love. Except that, they talked about how Ben hadn’t yet gotten over his ex. I started to realize that in the house he lived in. In a week, he told me in a coffee shop that he was broken. A public break-up. So he left me and got back together with his ex.
I hated him for that too. But I was only disappointed.
Then I dated two guys at once. As you can see, I was impatient.
One was perfectly a gentleman and as tall as me. Beauchamp was so funny. We made each other laugh all the time, and when we slept, we kept our hands to ourselves. The tension, my gosh. We couldn't tear ourselves away to stop kissing. It was addiction. The other one was mean, hateful, and drove hours just to lay all hands on me. That was tension too, in its own way. DJ was always angry. To him, hate meant effort. Hate meant love.554Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKH0Hb2S6S1
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DJ used every word he could to convince me to give it a shot. I tried to explain my background, my boundaries, but to no avail. Somehow, he won me over.
I don’t know why but I chose DJ over Beauchamp. We moved back to DC to go back to college. We fought all the time. It was familiar, the yelling day after day. Everything was always my fault though I knew it wasn’t. When I met a man I could talk to, I couldn't help but cheat on DJ. I dumped him. I dropped out. He hated me for trying to leave, and hated me for staying.
I should have gone with Beauchamp. I know that. He still texts me today and makes me smile. Aah, he wants to see me.
And I still live with DJ. I still live in an unhappy, unloved home. I think of my mother and her weddings. She isn’t in love but she’s trying. I’ve dated. I’ve looked. I’ve moved … so much. But I haven't found my first love. Until then, I look for a best friend. Not promises. Not apologies. Not hate.
People think romance is when lovers ask you to put in the effort, just wait a little longer. See if I do have a heart.
But that's not it. Romance is actually the pay-offs, the thank yous, the thank god you’re in my life kinds. I miss Beauchamp. I never hated him and he's never hated me. I should have chosen him but I’m glad I didn’t. It took me this long to understand why he’s such a gentleman. The tension feels so good. Is he? Is he my first love?
Heh, I'm excited to find out.
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