I woke up thinking about my first crushes on girls today.
I started young, aged just 11. That was undoubtedly precipitated by going to a mixed secondary school at exactly the same time as I started to realise that girls were not just annoying versions of boys who just happened to be unable to pee against a wall.
And we had to sit next to them in class too, as the teachers mixed up the ratios to reduce the natural cheekiness and disruption caused by some boys sitting together. Close up like that, they looked different, and smelled different too. They smelled good. Even with the allowed amount of ‘school’ make-up, some of them started to look really good too. Most of them, truth be told. And they wore unifrorm skirts back then. And it was the 1960s, so some of those skirts were very short. And they no longer wore droopy long socks that kept falling down, Oh no, they had nylon-clad legs that made a swishing sound when they crossed them.
And some of the girls I was sat next to crossed them a lot.
But I was still too young to actually tell a girl that I thought she was pretty. And much too young to let on that I might also have found her sexually attractive. I had to suffer in silence for a year, as I watched their breasts begin to appear, and their confidence grow until they became bolder than any of the boys.
Meanwhile, I transferred my attention to the female teachers, and not just the young ones.
Did they really have to sit on the desk like that? Were they unaware that I could see right up their skirt when they did? And why did so much of their teaching activity require them to bend so low from the waist? God forbid I put my hand up to mention I was having difficulty with something. That would involve her crouching next to my seat at the desk, with her skirt riding up to the tops of her thighs, and the view down her top leaving my legs trembling uncontrollably.
I seemed to spend my days with my gaze constantly switching from looking at any ‘opportunities’ provided by the teacher, to the legs of the girl sat next to me every time I heard that tell-tale ‘swish’. It was like being in the audience on Centre Court at Wimbledon during finals weekend. And woe betide that crossed leg should find itself coming to rest against my grey trousers. Concentration was impossible after that.
It was a wonder I actually learned anything.
When I was twelve and a half, I was approached by a girl from my class who I had hardly thought about. I won’t write her real name, just in case, so let’s call her Ann. She told me that she had decided I could be her boyfriend, so I should walk her home after school and her parents would not be home from work until six. I almost passed out, as I had never encountered such forward behaviour. More importantly, I had no idea what she was expecting me to do in her house that afternoon.
For the rest of that day, Ann held my hand between classes, and made sure to tell her group of friends that I was her boyfriend. During lunch, she asked if I had told my own mates that I had a girlfriend. When I told her I hadn’t, she shook her head. “Are you ashamed of me then?” I tried to explain that I had only known that fact myself since she had told me it earlier, but she wasn’t impressed. “I am thinking of calling off our date then. Wait for me after school, and I will tell you what I’ve decided”. I learned a valuable lesson at that moment.
Whatever I might have thought to the contrary, the girls were in charge.
Ann was by the gate at going home time, and took my hand. The spat from earlier wasn’t mentioned, and we made the short walk to her house with her talking constantly about everything we could do together now that we were a couple. Like going shopping on Saturdays, trips to the cinema, and summer days in the local park. She had obviously thought a lot about our future.
As she reached for her keys, she asked me a question, her expression serious.. “How many girlfriends have you had?” I replied honestly. “None, I’m only twelve”. Her wide grin indicated that I had given the correct answer. “Me neither. No boyfriends that is”.
Once in the hallway, she kicked off her shoes and began kissing me passionately. I remember thinking of two words, ‘warm’, and ‘wet’. This was juvenile kissing between two complete novices. Lips rubbing against each other as she made a sound like a chimp eating an orange. To my surprise and consternation, she led me straight up to her bedroom, telling me to take off my shoes and blazer, and lay down on her candlewick bedspread. I had no idea what she intended to do with me.
What she actually did is fixed in stone in my memory. Hitching up her uniform skirt, she straddled my hips, and leaned forward, enagaging in more of that very slippery kissing as she held my head between her palms in a vice-like grip. When she stopped to get her breath, sounding like a free-diver emerging from the ocean floor, she held my right hand against her chest, pushing it flat over her apple-sized breast. In case I might actually know what to do next, she issued a warning. “Only through my clothes, and only for as long as I say”.
The combination of continuing to be kissed from above whilst squeezing a real boob was bad enough. Add to that her nylon clad thighs gripping my hips with the skill of a professional wrestler, and it was inevitable that I would become ‘aroused’. I prayed that she wouldn’t notice, but my prayers fell on deaf ears. She sat back and stared at the tiny pup tent in my trousers. Her expression changed, and she took my hand off of her chest.
“None of that stuff, thank you. I’m too young to have a baby. I think you’d better go home now”.
As she let me out of the front door, she gave me the bad news.
“Oh, by the way. You’re not my boyfriend anymore”.