first love

My first…

Her name was Ellie, and she was my first real crush.

She was taller than the other girls her age, a little plump, with shoulder length natural red curls blooming from her head, eyes of pale blue-green, and a speckling of freckles that dashed from cheek to cheek and over her nose like a playful flick of tannish paint against her pale white skin.

She was a tomboy when we first met. She didn’t have a lot of friends because she had always been the rough and tumble type and other girls picked on her for her weight, and I didn’t have a lot of friends because I was new to town and not into typical boy things like football or soccer, and I was, perhaps, a little immature for my age – more concerned with playing games and imagining then sports and girls and wishing I was old enough to drive. At first, our friendship was totally innocent – playing tag, hide and seek, going on adventures through the woods near our houses, playing at being knights (she didn’t want to be princess), and things like that. She liked to hit me a lot, not violently, but often would punch or pinch or tackle me. Looking back now, as an adult, I realize that this was her way of flirting, much as young boys often do to young girls, but with the genders reversed. As the year went on, the teasing and chasing continued, with free periods involving her chasing me all over the school grounds, until I finally ran to and climbed a tree to “escape” her.  She’d climb up, we’d sit together on a branch, and talk.

She had a lot of daddy issues, that one. Her dad was in the military, like mine, and was often away.  When he was home, he was often drunk and belligerent, and so she spent more and more time with me, wandering the fields and woods when she wasn’t chasing me around the yard. Summers came and went, and then came again. One summer finally came, and for the first two months it was awesome – we saw each other every day, played constantly, and spent more and more time wandering the fields and forests. During one such excursion, I had made some joke or another to her, and as usual, took off running with her in pursuit, her fists clenched and ready to fight. I dodged bushes, ducked under branches, jumped over creeks, and she kept on me as doggedly as any person could. As we burst into a small clearing, she bounded forward in a dash and leapt for me, knocking me to the ground.  She quickly climbed on top of me as I rolled to my back, pinning my arms and legs with her own, both of us breathing heavily as she sat firmly on my pelvis.

And that, silly as it sounds, is when I first noticed she was not so much a girl any more, but a blossoming young woman. I don’t know how I had been so oblivious to the fact before – perhaps it was because I had just started blossoming as well. As she sat over me, her breathe heaving, her shirt hanging low, I caught a glimpse of the perfect half orbs that hung beneath that shirt, and for the first conscious time in my memory, my loins stirred to the calling. I know she felt it, because the instant I hardened, I heard her breath in sharply, but there was nothing I could do but blush.  She blushed as well, but did nothing…just sat there as I came to full hardness beneath the heat of her body, the press of her skin.  Our eyes found each other, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze. The birds of the forest ceased their calling, the wind slowed and died, and it was just her, me, and the warmth of an early summer day. For the first time, I saw how incredibly beautiful she was, how soft her pale, perfect skin seemed, how dazzling the gems that she called eyes were. And I could see in them that, for the first time, she saw (and felt!) that I was a young man, and that she was as amazed as I was at the discovery.

Then, slowly, she leaned forward, her mouth parting, her eyes closing. I remember how she smelled faintly of artificial strawberries, one of those “kiddy” perfumes that girls would sometimes get and pretend they were grownups with. I remember how insanely, almost unbearably hot she was, like she had been set afire in fever, especially where her thighs parted and pressed against me.. I remember the delicate brush of her hair against my face as its curls fell about me, and the sweetness of her lips when they finally met my own…ah, strawberry lip gloss as well. We kissed, soft and sweet, timidly at first, then deeper, more passionate. Her tongue and mine touched, and I remember it felt as if my heart might explode. Her hips ground against me, harder and harder, and she pressed herself closer, the soft orbs of her breasts pressing tightly to my chest.  She rocked and moaned as her tongue darted into and out of my mouth, and I could feel my own passions growing to maddening levels…and then she began to shake, her body tensing and releasing, tensing and releasing.

And then it ended.  The world came back to life, her lips parted from my own. She pulled away, and I saw that she was crying. One of her sweet, salty tears fell into my mouth, wetting my tongue. She got up then, suddenly, and took off running, leaving me there, hard and hurting from a buildup with no release, confused and exhilarated and yes, a little bit scared.  I finally found my wits, rose with a bit of a struggle (thanks to still being quite, um, intrigued down below), and went chasing to find her…but she had run somewhere I couldn’t find. I didn’t see her for a good week after that. I worried to death that I had done something wrong or bad, that I had scared my friend away. But even with that guilt, I thought about her constantly, the feel of her grinding against me, and as I closed my eyes I remembered her taste.

Then, the next weekend, she came over again, and it was as if nothing had happened. I tried at first to talk to her about it, but she never wanted to, and instead tried to chase me and punch me as we always had.  So I resumed the game, though I will admit, I made it a bit easier for her to catch me. For the rest of the summer, we repeated that first moment over and over again.  We never actually had sex, but the kissing, the grinding, the eventual groping (when she finally relented to giving me the use of my hands) lasted the rest of the summer.

Alas, she moved away that summer, when her mother finally left her father for good. There was no warning…I went over to see her, and she was gone, and her father was cussing and yelling at me for reminding him of the fact. Eventually, I moved on.