modernsex

Early in high school there were a few situations that kick-started my interest in polyamory.  You see, I had this friend Kate.  We were fantastically close, to the point people often thought we were sisters.  We did look alike.  We were even born eleven days apart!  She’s the slightly older Leo, I’m the slightly younger Virgo.  I was always spending the night at her groovy hippy house.  Often Natasha would be there as well.  We tended to end up naked in the hot tub before busting out the vanilla ice cream and using Natasha as a human cone.  Not “down there,” but it was sensual none the less.  Kate had feelings for Natasha like I did.  It was something we bonded (and sometimes fought) over.  She wasn’t the only one we nearly shared.

At one point Josh’s girl Rose stayed over with us.  Things got a bit crazy and I found myself in my first threesome.  It wasn’t a true threesome, perhaps, depending on your definition, as Kate and I never really interacted with each other.  Rose was in the middle and having a great time whichever way she turned.  She had some of the most unique nipples I’d ever encountered.  They were very long, and very thin.  Somewhere in the tangle I suddenly didn’t feel right anymore.  I thought of the situation with Josh.  I didn’t really want to be with the girl that had stood between me and my friend.  She could be nice, but she could also be manipulative and selfish.  I ended up rolling over and mumbling some excuse about being too tired.

Another time Kate had a friend named Jeff that she introduced me to.  Jeff was a playboy.  He had the ego and confidence that made him both repulsive and compulsive at the same time.  As we got to know each other he started liking the idea of “sisters.”  He started encouraging us to indulge his fantasies.  Kate and I discussed it and weren’t entirely opposed.  The three of us went to see a movie, Jeff in the middle.  When it was dark he got out his penis and led our hands to it.  I was surprised, to say the least.  I loved the situation.  I loved the danger.  But something about the way he acted after the movie got to me.  I could tell he didn’t really care about either of us.  Not that I cared for him, but I had a feeling Kate did.  I didn’t like the idea of her being hurt by such an arrogant jerk.  After that I lost interest in knowing him.  He faded into the background and out of my life

From these brief encounters I learned that the idea of threesomes wasn’t a problem for me.  It was surprising because I couldn’t even manage to get too physical with one person.  Of course, at this point I hadn’t been romantically interested in any of the people involved.  I wasn’t sure how I would react in such a case.  I was willing to keep an open mind.  I was gaining confidence.  I was ready for something serious.  Perhaps I wanted it more than I was really ready.  Either way, it was coming.

Ever had a friend you didn’t mind sharing a bed with?

I dated a sweet boy named Randy for a little while.  He played guitar.  As a symbol of affection, I wore one of his guitar picks on a chain around my neck.  He was sensitive and kind.  After an all-night phone call he skateboarded to the store before school to pick me up the peaches I had mentioned craving in passing.  On Valentines day he got me a giant white teddy in spite of me asking him not to make a big deal of it.  I’d worn one of my black outfits that day.  Bad move, I was covered in the hair for ages.  I couldn’t help smiling.  I felt safe with him.  Happy.  My dirty side was quelled and quieted.  As a matter of fact, it pretty much went away entirely when I was with him.  I was happy to talk about backyard wrestling and 311.  For some reason I not only didn’t feel the desire to kiss him, I almost didn’t want to.  I still don’t know why that is.  It felt wrong.  He made me happy, but he didn’t move me.  I still feel guilt for the whole situation.  He deserved better.  He deserved honesty.

I ended up meeting a weasley little shit who claimed to be related to Pauly Shore.  He was funny.  He was a pervert.  He was inferior.  But for some reason I adored making out with him.  I dared to sit on his lap and allow him to fondle me over my clothes.  I’d meet him between classes for extra kissing.  I couldn’t find a good reason to break up with Randy, and wasn’t too interested in actually dating the other guy.  You know, I can’t even really remember his name.  Natasha will remember.  Anyway, as I was figuring out what to do about the crappy situation I’d put myself in the choice was taken from me.  Someone who worked with Randy had seen my infidelity and let him know.  I got a long break-up letter that made me feel like the scum I was.  The lyrics to ‘Good Riddance’ by Green Day were written on the back.  To this day that song reminds me of what I did.

I did end up seeing Weasle briefly.  He made up some excuse about a dead ex and prophetic dreams to break up with me.  He thought he had a chance at actually sleeping with someone.  As lame as it was, at least he had the decency to break up with me first.  No hard feelings.  I was feeling too guilty over Randy to properly enjoy it, anyway.  I saw Randy years later at a gas station.  He was cold and distant.  I wanted to apologize again, to tell him I had changed.  Let him know I wished him well.  I really hope he’s got someone good.  Instead I made awkward small talk and left as quickly as I could.  The time had passed.

I never wanted to do that to anyone again.  Cheating was a bad, bad thing that I didn’t want to deal with again.  I felt like a horrible person.  I was a horrible person.  But it was another good learning experience.  I found out being happy and nonsexual felt as incomplete and unsatisfying as being sexual and unromantic.  I wanted both.  I didn’t know if that was even possible.  Sex was still a dirty thing.

Didn’t help that a random senior decided that my holding hands with him to our key club meeting indicated I wanted to get dirty with him.  He made moves up against the lockers that went way too fast.  From zero to sixty in the middle of the school!  Jerk.  I pushed him away and cut him from my list of aquantainces.

I didn’t know what to do.  I wanted intimacy.  But I couldn’t have it with friends, I couldn’t have it with near strangers, and I couldn’t even manage with actual boyfriends.  I was unhappy with myself.  Of course that was part of the problem, but I didn’t know it yet.

Have you ever hurt someone?  Was it a one time thing or are you a heart-breaker?

Stock counts and birthday parties make for additional lateness.  Alas, I am much in demand these days.  I wanted to mention that I wasn’t serious when I said Natasha hung out with hippy scum.   I was being ironic.  Sarcastic.  Funny?  I dunno, she’s the clever one.  Basically I was picking on her.  Everything she’s said about Seattle has been wonderful and I’m looking foward to visiting one day.

Through Natasha I was introduced to the people who would be one of my core groups of friends throughout high-school.  The first of which was Joshua Sherman.  Josh is one of the most interesting and mentally unhinged people I’ve ever met.  Very tall.  Lanky.  Glasses.  Tight curly hair.  The first memory of him I have is him dangling a pair of handcuffs in front of me.  Initiation.

I was cuffed and lead around to be introduced to everyone.  My face was burning, my heart pounding, my panties wet.  Everyone was instantly accepting.  Friendly.  They had just met me and were already interested in knowing more about me.  Josh took me under his wing.  At this point he was second in command of what was known as ‘the cage’.  A section of our school was actually a cage, and became the hang-out of choice for freaks, geeks, goths, and weirdoes.  I witnessed a community of people who accepted the differences and fended off the jeers of our more bland peers.  Here were people like me!  I had people to share my interest in the paranormal.  Who knew wearing black didn’t mean I wanted to kill myself.  It was nice being accepted for being myself.  It was something I couldn’t do before.  On my last day in middleschool my English teacher took me aside and told me to quit pretending.  That I’d be a lot happier if I was myself.  I didn’t even realize I’d had a problem before then.  But it was all true.  I’d spent so much of my life moving from place to place that I learned it was quicker and easier to conform to the people around me than to spend time waiting for people to get to know me.  If I wanted friends I had to act fast.  I felt I had to live up to them.  I’ve since been back and thanked her for her advice.

It felt good being me.  Learning who I was.  And it was fun getting to know Josh.  He loved tormenting me by playing on my weaknesses.  Talking low into my ears.  Breathing in my hair.  Eventually he progressed to nibbling on my neck.  The noises I made, the bumps on my arms, the shivers and gasps, all must have been encouragement.  It became biting.  A hybrid of intimate kissing and savage gnawing.  I would be left with huge bruises, sometimes actual cuts.  I would also be left with knees like jelly and a stomach of butterflies.  I wanted so badly for the group rumours to become true.  I wanted us to date.  Unfortunately there was a thorn in my side.  Rose.  She was an adorable tiny girl that happened to be his girlfriend.  They were both alright with the flirting and mild snuggles that went on with other people.  Josh pushed away the suspicions many held about her and other guys as nothing more than the same misunderstandings about us.  I felt he was being used.  The first time we kissed was at his birthday party.  It was mostly accidental, only one other person even saw it happen.  For a very long time it was one of the most passionate kisses I had ever experienced.  It started slow.  A peck.  A sweet, harmless birthday kiss.  I think the spark took us by surprise.  We kissed again, a little bit more meaningful.  Then another, longer, real kiss, with the tiniest parting of lips. We worked backwards from there back to the original.  We looked into each others eyes for a moment. Then Josh got up and went to join another part of the party while I caught my breath.

Rose and Josh eventually split, but by then I already had a serious boyfriend of my own.  We got a few more kisses through the years.  There was a day or two back when I was still trying to stay a good girl (read: virgin) that we were both single and he made some very straightforward advances.  It was tempting, but I was able to hold on.  Then years after I had lost my grip there was one more chance for us.  I still don’t know why I didn’t go for it.  By the time we graduated high-school everyone pretty much assumed we’d been covertly dating the whole time.  I was his second in command.  I told him secrets I was too embarrassed to tell anyone else.  He confided in me about his deteriorating mental stability.   Through our lives he’s continually dropped off the radar for years at a time, only resurfacing in a spooky way after I’ve had a dream about him.  Or in this case, written a post.  See, I wrote the first half of this yesterday.  I’ve not heard from Josh in two or three years.  I had a brief email exchange back then basically just letting me know he still lived.  Today I get online and find he suddenly has a facebook and has added me.  Just like that.  It’s too wild to make up.

While we never got undressed, he went a long way to making me interested in actually experiencing the things I’d been so interested in all my life.  I really desired him, and he made me feel desired.  I worry about him.  His life has been a crazy blend of crap, and I like to know he’s still hanging in there.  He helped me begin to find myself.  I don’t like thinking of him being lost.

Who helped you?  When did you start figuring out who you were going to become?

One thing I managed to leave out in my last update was how my parents reacted to my relationship with Natasha.  For a long time they didn’t know.  Once they noticed a large love-bite on her neck the morning after she had spent the night.  Luckily we had visited a friend in the area and could claim there had been a boy she fancied.  I don’t know why I hid it from them.  As I’ve mentioned they never gave any impression of having any problems with homosexuality, but I had heard so many horror stories that I was afraid.  Eventually, years later, I admitted to them that we had gone out for a while.  My dad actually laughed and congratulated me.  He thought it was great that he could talk about pretty girls now with his daughter as well as his sons.  My mother took it a bit harder.  She actually asked me if she had taken me to church enough.  We weren’t a church-going family.  Occasionally, for special events, but we were more home-schooled on the religion subject.  I remember my heart freezing when she asked.  I wondered if she’d drag me into some church for confession, force me to stop talking to Natasha, or worse, disown me.  My fears turned out to be unwarranted.  She loved me just the same.  As a matter of fact, my coming out to my mother helped her feel at better ease to eventually come out to us!  Turns out she fancies a bit of both, herself.  Dad doesn’t seem to mind that, either.

My parents were high school sweeties.  She originally was dating his best friend, Jeff.  Things change.   My parents ended up married and had me 8 months later.  I was a late baby.  You do the math.  To his credit, my father didn’t know Mom was pregnant when he proposed.  They’re still very much happily married.  They also will have loud, kinky sex on occasion that I’ve had the misfortune of hearing a few times.  My computer was stationed outside their room for a while.  I’m glad they’re happy and active, but I’m more glad my computer was eventually moved into my room.

I return.  Not completely back at full health, but better enough that I feel the need to post.  This is one I’ve agonized over, too, because she’s so important to me.  I’m only using my memory in all this, so any discrepancies I apologize for.  As I’ve said earlier in the blog, this is all my point of view and not meant to cast anyone in any sort of unfavorable light.  This will also be the only time I’ll change the real name of the person I’m talking about, even though anyone who knows me will know who this is.  I gave her the option out of my total adoration, and not out of the fear I once had of her.  (Hahaha, you’re scary!)

Freshman year at a great big school full of strangers.  I was as eager as I was frightened.  This was a much bigger city.  I was full of hope that it would be better suited to my eccentric nature.  I was sure I could find people like me.

Natasha.  She was gorgeous.  Black hair, green eyes, tan skin.  Later I’d find out she wore colored contacts and dyed her hair.  It never bothered me.  Her smile was gigantic.  She saved it for those who truly deserved.  She was fierce, opinionated, passionate, interesting, and unlike anyone I’d ever met before.  Even her handwriting was complex and beautiful.  Natasha took me home with her and taught me about Tool.  We shared our love of Lisa Loeb.  Sandalwood became our song.  She wrote stories and poetry.  She sculpted an adorable character out of a Neil Gaiman story.  She had a single bed, so often I chose to sleep in her large closet when I stayed over.  It was cozy.  It smelled like her.  She was ballsy, too.  Once while in the school bathroom stalls I mentioned I’d been experimenting with different ways to shave my pubic hair.  Suddenly I hear her voice from above me  asking to see.  She was standing on the neighboring toilet and peeking over the walls.  My furry clover really had brought me luck!

If I remember correctly, our first kiss was while talking to a boy on the phone.  I made the pretense of leaning over her to get something and let our mouths brush.  Her lips were fantastically soft.  She was receptive, and allowed it to happen again.  She became my first girlfriend.  I was secure in my feelings for her, but she was still getting used to the reality of being with a girl, I think.  In her mind she didn’t have any problems with it.  She had no prejudice against anything but ignorance.  Well, she also hated pretentious and fake people.  Whatever the cause, we were rocky.  I was an an unabashed flirt, which bothered her.  She would pick on my weaknesses, which bothered me.  I was very sensitive and susceptible to criticism at that point in my life.   While together we never went very far sexually.  She wasn’t ready, or wasn’t sure how, I don’t know.  But I always desired her.  She, on the other hand, had a few sexual toys she was fond of.  It was her that gave me the push I needed to finally seek one out.  Once while discussing toys she made a comment in passing that she felt she could never have a real long-term relationship with someone who didn’t have a penis.

That’s what sticks in my mind from our time together.  Coupled with the nights of eating ice cream from her skin and making her shiver is this phrase looming over me that I would never be good enough.  Our time spooning in her small bed and watching the pond through the window was simply killing time.  It hurt.  I didn’t know quite how to tell her that as much as I adored her I was tired of being bullied and unhappy to realize I was only second best.  I put some of it in a letter and left it in her backpack like a coward.  I don’t know how long it took for her to find it, but she was furious.  We continued our friendship with it’s hot and cold moments, sometimes not speaking for months, but we couldn’t really stay apart.  She dated a boy I turned away out of spite. In retaliation I failed to mention that the mutual friend whom she fancied had a crush on her as well.  Even years later when one of her male things chose to begin fondling her while I was in the room, it sent me into a crazy pout and left me stubbornly locked in a closet for more than an hour.

It took a long time for us to finally work out what happened.  We came to a peaceful state of truce.  I was less sensitive to stuff that didn’t matter, and stopped doing some of the things that irritated her so badly.  She became less harsh and more constructive with her criticisms.  Apparently, she always had more faith in me than I did.  We admitted we were still in love.  We realized it would probably be a bad idea to get back together.  We have become instead very close friends.  She remains to this day my measurement of female perfection.  Darn near, anyway.  Many people, including me, say that Rosario Dawson looks and acts like our Natasha.  Natasha, of course, hates this.

Our story has gone on for over a decade now, so it has been impossible trying to pick and choose which bits to put in and which to leave out.  Trying to get across just how huge an effect on me this one woman has had.  How much I admire her.  Long for her.  How pleased I am with the way we finally ended up.

One of my favorite memories is from just a few years ago.  We finally got to see Lisa Loeb live in a tiny venue, close enough to touch her.  We requested Sandalwood, and stood hand in hand listening and remembering.  Natasha had brought along her boyfriend of the time who was good enough to understand and respect our complicated situation.  A part of me feels a possessiveness that she is mine most of all, and anyone else she deems good enough to be with her had better not let her down.  I think a part of me hopes she feels the same.
She currentlylives in Seattle with hippy scum she can relate to.  She’s learned how to be with women, and has been. She even bought a fantastic velvet strap-on.  To say I’m envious is selling my jealousy short.  She’s still my top standard for beauty in women.  I constantly tell stories about our adventures together, and try to get across to people how lovely she is.  She’s dating a really cool guy I totally approve of and agrees that Natasha can be pretty scary at times.

While we never got too far sexually together, she was definitely the point from which I could not return.  Females were able to turn all the same knobs and levers inside of me that males could.  My heart and loins stood united in their desires.  I was a bisexual.  Not one of those high-school fakes who make out with girls to attract boys, either.  Unfortunately I had learned that not everyone was as open to it as I was.  Unfortunately this was not to be the only time not having a penis would end an otherwise promising relationship.  More on that much later.

Ever had a cowardly break-up?  Ever been dumped or criticized for something you had no control over?  Forgive me for my long break?

Let me hear it!

I apologize for my continued absence, but I’ve been dealing with some particularly bad health problems that interfere with my ability to form structured thoughts.  Not to mention looking at the laptop too long makes everything worse.  Hopefully this should all be over before too much longer.  I’m heading to the doctor tomorrow morning.

This post is a bit embarrassing to write, even for me.  As I’ve mentioned, masturbation was a subject that would instantly leave me beet red and mute.  This is because I was a dirty little addict.  I would love time home alone to continue my quest for satisfaction.  Sure, water pressure was great for the clitoris, but I wanted something more authentic.  I wanted to know what it was like to have someone IN me.

My quest has led me to some strange places.

The earliest thing I remember using was a curling iron.  (I pray my mother never reads this.)  It was generally the right shape, so I’d pump away eagerly in spite of the fact that the metal monster often left me bloody.  In many of the stories I’d read virgins always bled a little, so I made myself believe it was alright.  At some point I got creative and used a handful of sharpies all at once.  Caps facing out, of course.  I was able to control the thickness by how many I used, and in addition to the thrusting I could rotate them about in my hand for a nifty bonus.  That experience led me to stuff myself with a long large strand of Mardi Gras beads hoping to achieve orgasm by clenching my legs together and working my muscles about.  It was nice, but ineffective.  Many years later I’d see vibrators with the ‘rotating beads’ and wonder how many other people knew the technique.  Unfortunately, because the pens weren’t secure, it was hard to fully control the action.  The method was abandoned.  I was happy to end up with a uniquely shaped toy at one point that became a great standby.  I’d love to tell you exactly what it was so that you can fully appreciate how well suited it was, but I’m not sure yet if it is legal to mention a specific brand in relation to my orgasms.  Both ends were great in different ways, I assure you.  Only, because it was a plastic kid toy there was a seam all around it that tended to leave me a bit bloody.  Again.  It wasn’t as bad as the curling iron, but it was something I wanted to avoid. My quest continued.

I was wary of food for most my life.  I couldn’t quite bring myself to use something edible.  I think this may have something to do with the widespread expectation that all women do it.  There were always jokes about phallic foods and perhaps the very infamy of it made it akin to actual sex, in that if I participated I was just as bad as those dirty people.  Desperate times, however.  Cucumbers are by far the best, and yes, are still delicious after you’ve washed them.  I once used a hot dog from the freezer in a moment of extreme sex frenzy.  It grosses me out to think of it.  The cold kept it solid, but numbed me, and was ultimately thrown away.  I then ran to the shower and washed myself out over and over again wondering if I’d ever be clean again.  Candy canes make a sweet treat, but leave you *very* sticky, and end up only being worth it if you’ve got someone assisting you to lick it all up.

What I ended up learning was that tapered candles were the way to go.  Hard enough to satisfy but not enough to damage.   Inconspicuous by the bedside, especially in the room of a firebug.  I had loads of candles, including tapered ones I didn’t screw, so my special one was unnoticed.  There were no strange mental stigmas attached to the use, either.  Food, toys, and my mother’s hair curler all bothered me.  Candles I could get behind.  Or rather, they could get in me.

Eventually I made a friend that had a vibrator.  I admitted my unnatural fear of masturbation and toys related to the act.  She told me, “You’re not a real woman until you own one.”  That seemed sensible enough.  I finally mustered the courage to acquire one and I’ve never turned back.  I’m a huge fan of adult toys now!  My problem seems to be I like them too much.  The clit simulators on my rabbits keep ripping off.  I don’t suppose those are meant to be bounced on, only hand-pumped.  Le sigh.

I’ll leave my reviews of proper masturbatory utensils for a later post, however, and cover sex toys in general all at once.  I wanted to put this post out there just in case any of you were as embarrassed and ambitious as I was when growing up.  I didn’t think I’d ever admit these things to lovers, let alone the general public, which is how I knew it had to be done.  After all, we don’t know what’s normal unless everyone can be honest about what actually happens, right?

Sorry about my occasional days without posts.  Daily isn’t something I can actually do with any reliability.  Being a grown up and being a young adult at the same time means I occasionally end up in situations where I don’t come home for a few days, or if I do it’s just enough time to shower and change clothes.

To be honest the concept of daily is something I’ve always had a problem with.  The only thing I can successfully do daily is take my birth control.  It’s been good to me!  I’ve never been pregnant, knock on wood, because I’ve always been mindful of the right protection.

In the mean time check out the links I’ve added to the sidebar!
Confessions of a College Call Girl was shown to me a few days ago.  I’m very jealous, because reading through it is taking the wind from my sails.  She’s already said some of what I have and am going to say, and I think she’s done it better.  Curses!  It’s worth a read.

Annie Sprinkle is a porn star turned sex guru and performance artist.  She’s got delightful insights and life stories you have to read to believe.

Dr. Ruth was the only person I knew of besides prostitutes and porn stars that would talk openly about sexual matters while growing up.  It seemed finding real information about our bodies in a sexual way was almost as vilified as doing the naughty.  Dr. Ruth assured me that you could be informed and respected.  Besides, who doesn’t love that accent of hers talking about such filthy things!
Have you got any links you feel might be useful to me?  Send away!  I’m putting together a page that will hopefully list people of sexual interest through history.  I’d love your input.  The movers and the shakers, the ones to expand and define the world, the open thinkers, the open lovers, sexual deviants, hippy love gurus.

On the topic of setting up pages, what do you think about a page for sexual influences?  It’d be a tricky one to set up.  Should it just be for movies/songs/plays/television that shaped ME growing up, or ones that in general had a widely accepted role in the world of sex?  I’m not wanting to just list a bunch of porns.  Give me your input!

At the end of 8th grade I moved to Orlando.  I had a whole summer to go before starting highschool in which my only real friend lived six and a half hours away.  Luckily I had already discovered the Internet.  I had already been on it a few years.  I was one of the ones who started as soon as it was available.  Sometimes I miss the sound of a modem connecting, and I remember the AOL logo being a key that sent electricity into a door.  I liked that.

The Internet was magic.  As a song from the musical ‘Avenue Q’ explains, the Internet is for porn.

I was safe behind a computer screen.  All my curiosities could be researched and explored without actually causing any damage or getting knocked up.  There were endless sites with all the porn I could ever want.  No more did I have to risk getting my dad in trouble by sneaking away with one of his Penthouse Forums.
Besides that, I was popular online.  Online you rely on your personality to communicate, and I had that in bulk.  I was always receiving IMs from all sorts.  I made friends, I fended off perverts, I got to know people with similar interests.  I discovered role-playing.  It started off very innocently.  A chat room where people would pretend to pass out refreshments to those hanging out.  I liked the idea of it.  I felt it was like writing a book of life as it happened.  Then I learned there were whole groups and forums for that sort of thing where you could live whole lives as another person.  Elves, Fairies, Vampires, Angels, anything you could think of.  I was in heaven.  Or rather, a Bayou.

Black Bayou was set in a fictional place in Louisiana and revolved around the paranormal.  It was there I met another player named Zack.  Our characters were often against each other, but ended up *very* close.  We finally started chatting outside the role play since our characters had so much chemistry together.  It turns out he was much older.  He was kind and educational towards me.  I had been afraid that he’d get weirded out when he found out my age, but he only acted surprised.  He told me he assumed I was at the end of high-school, not the beginning.  I was flattered and didn’t consider that he could have been lying.  Luckily I wasn’t naive enough to give him my address or anything.  Thankfully, he never asked.  After a few years of online friendship I did finally give him my phone number.  In all that time he’d never come across as creepy, asking for personal information of any kind, and I felt pretty safe.  His voice was deep and smooth with a hint of growl.  I believe I briefly developed a stutter.  He told me my voice was like bubbles.  He wanted a few sound waves of innocent things so he could hear me whenever he liked.  Harmless phrases such as “nifty” and “wow.” He was polite as could be on the phone.

In our textual relationship he was much more evocative.  He helped me better understand the elusive world of sex.  Dominance and submission were lessons taught.  I began to understand why some people could find pleasure in pain.  How to use people to get what you want.  He gave me the words to describe the acts I personally knew little about.  Real descriptions, not the cheap thrills of a bad porno.  He was better than the romance novels.  I never failed to get off chatting with him.  He may have been just a voice and some text, but he cemented my love for the darker side of things and I remember him fondly.

Unfortunately we lost touch not long after he entered a serious relationship with another person from the group.  She was his age and lived near him, so I gave it my blessing and wished them well.  I do wonder if he ever thinks of me.

I was lucky enough to never have a bad experience with someone I knew from online.  What about all of you?  These days many people have best friends that live all over the world.  But back when it was still scary territory, did you ever give in?  Meet someone you maybe shouldn’t have?  Hook up?  Date?  File charges?

In 8th grade a boy name Michael joined our class.  Chin-length dirty blond hair.  Blue eyes.  Freckles.  Button nose.  Quiet.  Different.  In the advanced classes with me, but never did the work.  In math the seats were split down the middle of the room so you faced half your classmates.  He would always sit across from me and stare.  Eventually he got the nerve to talk.  I was intrigued.  In my tiny little town there wasn’t a lot of variety, and he was not something I was used to.  My family moved around a LOT growing up, so I always knew there was more out there.  It was refreshing to find something new.  We exchanged phone numbers.

He listened to Korn.  I’d not even heard of them before.  That was just the beginning of my education.  He was emotional, blunt, conflicted, completely and apologetically perverted, bad for me, good for me, and I adored him.  All of our long conversations would come back to sex.  Where Robert had been harsh and demanding, Michael was as curious as I was with the courtesy to be nervous about offending me.  He brought up masturbation.  At this point in time I couldn’t even say the word out-loud.  I was so embarrassed by the subject I would turn red just thinking of it.  That seems strange considering it was my favorite thing to do, but I guess I felt if anyone knew I’d be stoned.  Somehow he made me comfortable enough to admit I jilled-off.  He wanted to hear me do it.  Thus I was initiated into the world of phone sex.  It was thrilling!  A way to get even closer to the male species but keep my virtue intact.  He’d tell me his naughty fantasies while pumping away with his free hand.  I’d reply in like.  In person we held hands, we kissed.  Once he came to visit me at my grandmother’s house.  We stayed on the porch swing and whispered about the tension of being so close and so unable to do anything.  My nerves made my blood run cold, and even though it was a nice night I was freezing.  It was the most intimate I had ever been with a boy.  He, on the other hand, was lava.  I mumbled something about how warm his hands were.  He told me ‘warm hands, cold heart.’ I was startled.  I’d never heard it before.  I couldn’t understand why you’d say that to the person you were with.  He then explained I made him feel like a better person.  He had no esteem and was always praising me as being the only good thing in his life.  I’d never heard anything remotely similar from anyone before.  I felt important for the first time.  I felt special.

Just before he dropped out he gave me his Kurt Cobain poster with an exerpt from “Dumb.”   Just after he dropped out we moved to Orlando.  The poster was one of the first things up on my wall.  We wrote long pitiful letters to each other.  He sent a picture of the dwarf Dopey he’d drawn and colored for me.  I’d be allowed to call him from time to time.  Eventually we met other people and drifted apart.  I remember being sad it was over.  He was my first serious boyfriend.  The first time I’d felt cared for.  It was not a surprise, however.  The distance had been taking its toll and we were only 13 or 14.  I was entering high school.

I was about to become a new person.

Years and years later Michael found me on the Internet.  His first message was sweet.   Wondering if I remembered him, saying he still thought of me, that I was one of the prettiest girls he’d ever dated and he hoped I was well.  I wrote back telling him I never forgot him, that I was doing wonderfully.  Then it all went downhill.  He started telling me he wanted to get back together.  I had been his only chance for happiness and he’d let me go.  I don’t remember it all exactly, but I still have that email somewhere.  I wasn’t sure how to respond.  I had told him I was with someone and happy.  He was still in our old town and hadn’t done anything at all with himself.  We hadn’t spoken in many years and I wasn’t the same person I had been.  How could he assume we’d still even get along?  When I didn’t reply within a couple of days I got a much nastier letter.  It accused me of thinking him below me.  How rude I was to ignore him.  And by the way, if my best friend was single, because he might try dating her instead.   I’m still baffled.

At least for a few years he was a sweet memory of my past.  He made me ready for relationships on a serious level.

Ever dated a hopeless case?  Someone who was determined to spiral into misery, but you were compelled to try and save?