The First Cut is the Deepest

I was driving home from last night’s trick when I suddenly remembered the first person I ever felt romantic love for.

She was amazing.

The summer before I entered 8th grade, this charming, feisty girl spent a summer with her aunt’s family down the road. She was beautiful and smart and from a far away place. She had a different accent and we just had the best time together.

I had the best time that summer. Normally, summers on the farm were terribly lonesome. My mom worked in town, my dad was somewhere on the farm doing farmly things that I never cared much for. But when this dynamite girl who could do back flips arrived, I suddenly had an immediate friend, who was my age and nearby and available every day.

We’d play spies with our tape recorders, we’d wade the creek looking for crawdads, we’d catch June bugs and lightning bugs and play and roam and romp all day long. I’d go to sleep every night looking forward to my next day with her.

But the day came when she had to leave. School was starting soon. And she was suddenly gone, with no big fanfare. I remember the night she left vividly. The way I cried. No. The way I sobbed churning chunks of emotion. The emotional pain was simply physically crippling. My eyes were puffed up and swollen. My lungs hurt from the heaving sobs. I ached because she was gone and I was lost. Lost in fear and doubt and solitude.

I remember how I vowed to never, ever love or care for anyone ever again. I remember the anger and pain and misery. But, mostly, I remember the love I felt for her, which in a way, is the best thing about the memory – it wasn’t all wrapped up in sex. Sex was also on my mind that summer, but that had more to do with a very special Calvin Klein Underwear model.

Maybe some schism formed that summer that has permanently fucked up my understanding of love and sex? It’s something I’ve been pondering for a while now.

Developing…