And so that was the first time I said I love you. The times after that were no different except the date change. The next time landed on our one-year anniversary under the light pole. I could not fathom how we could do everything together and he had no strong feelings towards me. The next times were all too reminiscent of the past before.
We went on with our relationship, living in a little bubble of denial for the next year. He and I had were each other’s firsts in many things. I had never been intimate with a boy before him, but I thought since he meant so much to me, he was worth it. I was considerably wrong with that thought.
He had become a cool sort of thing our senior year of high school. He bought a 1966 Volkswagen bus painted in exact replica of The Mystery Machine from Scooby Doo, he began to grow dreadlocks, partake in psychedelics and pseudo-activism. I felt not cool enough for him, always being with an eclectic group of friends from journalism and AP classes. Senior year, I realized he could never love me. I realized this early on, but I stuck with him for another year nonetheless. He would get stoned every day in his bus with me silently looking on, not wanting to join in. We were never the same after my little love outburst and I always held that in the back of my mind.
I’ll always remember the date, who could forget the date of losing your virginity? I had always thought I would be the girl to save herself not for marriage, but for the one, my love. I’ve always been a romantic and the thought of losing it to anyone less worthy than the one I loved was preposterous. A cold Valentine’s Day at the beach in 2007, we capped the night in eating then-delicious cheeseburgers in his bus at Sunset Beach in Tarpon Springs. The peachy pink dusk was hitting the ocean; we watched the sunset for the beach’s namesake and snuggled into the fleece blankets in his bus. We closed his shag-carpeted doors and went on with business, as usual. Kissing, kissing, kissing, I put my hand on his face and my thoughts were weighing heavy. We had been close to doing it once, but we were both too scared. Valentine’s Day, such an artificial day of significance, but then I believed that day was the day for me. For some reason, my best friend Mischa had randomly given me condoms that past Christmas and as a joke, she had told me to keep them in my purse, for “emergencies.” Mid-kiss, I breathlessly asked him, in the sexiest voice I could muster,
“Do you want to do it?” Although, my voice was so heavy in exhilaration and apprehension, I sounded more like a German schoolmarm- opposing the sexy thing I wanted to portray.
There, not any other time when I professed my love toward him, but he did look as extremely happy as he did then. He nodded and replied back with fervent “yes!”
The Greeks make their products well, but I wasn’t aware of the excruciating pain that I would endure for the next four times we (ironically) made love to one another. He was quite selfish in that respect and never threw caution that I may not have been all the way satisfied as he was... but all thoughts of me were thrown under the table (as usual). When I first decided that I wanted to sleep with him that day, the thoughts in my mind were, there, now if we ever break up, he will never forget me because I was his first, too. He’ll always be a monument in my memory for that and I am assuming I in his, as well.
But looking back in a more mature light, I still ask myself if our actions of sleeping with one another with just another ploy for me attempting to keep him for myself? Was the main reason I slept with him not for our true enjoyment but so he could never forget me? If he ever ended up hating my guts, he’ll never forget the girl who he lost it to. I am ashamed of these thoughts now, I feel regrettable losing it to someone who never cared about me, something that went against all that I had ever wanted.
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