In high school, girls want one thing: a boyfriend. He doesn’t have to be sensitive, smart, or even have any common interests. I’m not saying that goes for every girl; some are lucky and find their soul mate early in life. We’ve all heard stories of people marrying their high school sweethearts. Bitches. Well, I’m wasn’t one of those lucky girls, but I was that girl who wanted a boyfriend just for the hell of having a boyfriend. Throughout most of high school I managed to have a few flings, yet nothing really “Facebook official.” And then during the summer before my senior year of high school I met my first legitimate boyfriend.
My friend Bella and I were invited to some guy’s graduation party at a fitness club. We had only met the kid at Starbucks a day before, yet we decided to attend since there wasn’t anything better to do in a small quiet town when your 17-years-old. Plus, we considered the fact that maybe this kid had some cute friends.
The fitness club smelt like sweaty feet and chlorine, and I was trying to understand why someone would want to have any kind of celebration at a place filled with tan meatheads and frustrated obese people. Bella and I found the party on basketball courts. Turns out, the ratio of girls to guys was the two of us: ten other dudes… none were our type per say. The thing was, we had two hours to kill until Bella’s mom came to pick us up, so we decided to hang by the pool rather than participating in a hardcore game of dodge ball.
While we dipped our feet in pool, I could feel this cute blonde lifeguard eyeing me from his tall chair. Eventually, he grew some balls and came over to us.
“I bet you wouldn’t jump in that pool with all your clothes on right now,” he said.
“Umm, you bet right,” I replied, thinking this kid had no game.
“I would rescue you,” he said. Okay, this kid really had no game.
“Even if I did, what makes you think I would need you to rescue me? I happen to be a very good swimmer, my friend.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he said. What an effing tool.
“Well, it’s not happening tonight, sweetheart.”
“Okay how about instead of jumping in the pool, you give me your number.”
“I just want you to know that this has to be the strangest pick-up line I have ever heard. But fine, I’ll give you my number.”
To be honest, I’m not quite sure why I gave him my number, but I did. And I didn’t really think I would see this kid again, but I did. A week later, he called me and asked me if I wanted to get some lunch and watch a movie at his house. Weirdly enough, something inside of me said to go for it. He picked me up from my house and looked like he was dressed to impress. I got into his pimped-out Honda civic (A.K.A. a rice-burner), and immediately thought: this isn’t going to work out. But then we got to talking… I can’t really explain it, but we had some kind of chemistry going on. Also, it turned out that the kid was a sweetheart and was sort of a gentleman, giving me all the compliments I wanted to hear at 17-years-old.
A week or two later, we became an official couple, and by official I mean “Facebook Official.” Everyday he would come over to my house after work. After some small- talk, we would have an intense make-out session and relieve our raging adolescent hormones. Then maybe after two months of dating, we fell “in love.” He spoiled me with flowers, tacky pajamas, stickers, drug store candies, and stuffed animals. As a naïve teenage girl, I thought this guy was truly a keeper.
On the Fourth of July, he took me out on his friend’s boat. While sitting on the roof of the small yacht, we kissed under the fireworks lighting up the sky. I felt like Julia Roberts in a corny romantic comedy, and my First was like Richard Gere, with blonde hair and a little acne. For the rest of the summer, we enjoyed young romantic love… then senior year came around the bend, and our relationship took a turn for the worst.
For some reason or another, we fought like bipolar animals. Saying this guy was a very jealous boyfriend is putting it lightly. He needed to know where I was at all times and was constantly checking my text messages to see if I was texting other guys, and if he did find one, he would go ballistic. In a way, it was kind of nice having a guy care about me that much; yet, the obsessive behavior got real old, real fucking fast.
As much as we fought we did have our tender moments as well. That October, he took me out for a romantic night in New York City for our pathetic two-month anniversary. He knew I was into ethnic foods and decided to take me to an Indian Restaurant. When we got the menu, I could see his eyes bulge out of his head a little bit. I realized there was nothing on the menu under $40. So he decided to skip out on the meal while I shamelessly indulged. Afterwards, we took a midnight stroll through Central Park, holding hands and smooching the night away.
Then when we got back home, it happened. It wasn’t planned, which is the way I wanted it to happen. We were cuddling in my bed after a precious night in Manhattan. Then it happened. Yes, Houston we have lift off! According to the theory, the earth started with the Big Bang, and I guess my womanhood started with a big bang, too. The only thing was, my Big Bang wasn’t this exciting cosmic explosion. Honestly, I always fantasized that my first time would be like that steamy, passionate, and romantic sex scene with Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet in “Titanic.” But no, my first time was definitely not steamy or romantic; it was sweaty and awkward. I was just laying there like I was playing the “light as a feather, stiff as a board” game that I used play at slumber parties in 4th grade. Regardless, I was excited that it had finally happened, and I wanted to tell it to the world: Briana Blum is no longer a virgin (thank God I didn’t)!
Towards the end of the year, things were not going well with my First. We fought every second of the day, and his possessiveness became rather unbearable. Everyday I would discover something else about him that annoyed the crap out of me. For instance, his laugh… Oh Mother of Pearl, his laugh sounded like a hyena on crack. And then there was his sense of humor; he was white as day, however he couldn’t get enough of Black comedy movies. This is something I could not quite grasp since Black comedy usually involves jokes that only Black people can relate to. Another big irritation-he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the batch. Conversations were rarely intellectual and more on a 3rd grade comprehension level. Although, the list goes on and on, and probably deserves its own book, I knew I couldn’t ditch him just yet; After all, prom was just around the corner and I needed a date.
For prom, the plan was to take pictures at my house, take a party bus to this tacky restaurant, and then have the bus take us to Seaside, which is on the Jersey Shore. Seaside, or otherwise known as “Sleazeside,” is the place that all kids in the tri-state area go to after prom. Basically, we spend the weekend in the kind of cheap motel that you need to bring your own sheets and cleaning supplies to. Seriously, the rooms are somewhat of a biohazard, and you’re chances of getting Hepatitis A, B, and C are likely if you don’t come prepared with antiseptics.
So, prom was literally a week away and my First and I were on the brink of ending it; however I threatened that if he backed out on me beforehand, I would have to kill him. Seriously though. Every night until then, we broke up and then got back together. Communicating with this kid was worse than Chinese torture and all I wanted to do was to get this shit over with so that I could dump him.
Finally the big day had arrived. I put on my shocking blue dress, which tastefully showed off my perfectly perky young breasts (this was when my tatas were in their prime and had not yet been defeated by gravity). I got my hair professionally done, spent hours on my makeup, and I thought I looked like a fucking movie star. Since my prom date and I hated each other, it made taking pictures really fun. Actually, if you look at our pictures you can blatantly see the tension and fire of hate in our eyes.
We all hopped on the party bus and my friend whipped out a water bottle of vodka, to which we treated like holy water. For most of the ride there, I hogged the bottle, carefully consuming enough sips to make prom fun. We arrived and the place looked like your typical tacky venue for a bar mitzvah or something. My date, of course, decided to be a real jerk and tried to ruin the special event every chance he got. He refused to take that stupid professional picture couples take at prom, and for the whole 4 hours he danced with all the dateless girls there. He wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole. So I sat at the table watching all my friends bump and grind, having the time of their life.
After the longest and most miserable prom in the history of proms, we hopped on the bus and we were finally on our way to Sleazeside. My date took his own car because he said he didn’t want to stay with me the whole weekend (I thought that was the smartest decision the dumbass had ever made). My friends and I partied on that bus like there was no tomorrow, sipping cheap vodka we stole from our parent’s liquor cabinets.
We also took various provocative pictures- the same pictures that got me grounded for two weeks after my mother joined Facebook and saw her only daughter posing in some vulgar and offensive positions. I was mortified and angry about the clear violation of my Facebook privacy, thus I created the group “Teens Against Parents Joining Facebook.”
My date and I shared a motel room with my best friend, Megan, and her boyfriend who, might I add, were head-over-heels for one another. Meanwhile, my date and I had a death wish for one another. Despite the tension and strong hostility, my First and I agreed we would still have the traditional prom night sex/breakup sex, even though we would be breaking up at the end of the weekend.
Before I disclose the next detail of the story, I would like to explain where Megan and I were at mentally during this chapter of our young lives. My best friend and I had talked about the day we would lose our “V-Card” since we were young little girls. We both lost it that year (months apart), and suddenly we acted as though we were inducted into some kind of secret society of sex. It was an everyday topic and we would spend hours discussing it. No detail-no matter how personal-was spared. We shared it all. We were like two sport-fanatic men that always talk about sports; except, we were two sex-fanatic girls that always talked about sex… and instead of going to football games, we went to Victoria’s Secret to shop for lingerie and lacey thongs.
That’s exactly what we did a couple of months before prom. We went to our girl Victoria’s and bought matching lingerie for that special night we would be sharing in the same lousy motel room. We weren’t all going to have an orgy or anything, but we thought it would be super sexy to walk out together in matching sex costumes like a couple of Rockettes or something. The two of us even considered choreographing a sexy dance to do before the main event, but then realized that maybe a dance performance would be a tad bit over-the-top.
Right before the “big entrance,” Megan and I pinky-promised to keep our eyes glued on our own sexual situation. We swore to never sneak a peak at what the other was doing in the next bed over. We also vowed to stay under the blankets at all times, keeping the “big show” under wraps. After thoroughly going over our agreement, we stepped out of the bathroom and watched our dates’ eyes widen like ravenous animals.
Looking back, I guess privacy wasn’t a top concern when it came to horny teens having sex. We were young and sex was still this exciting and profound novelty… Basically our mindset was: fuck doors and walls- if we’re sharing a room together on prom night, doing it under the blankets is good enough privacy for us.
The next day, my First and I got in a huge fight about something stupid. I saw it as an opportunity to end the ridiculousness and sent him home. As I watched his stupid loud obnoxious car drive away, I could hear a gospel church choir singing Hallelujah in my head. It was a defining moment in my life-a moment I’ll never forget. I was about to embark on a revolutionary chapter in my life. I was single, no longer a virgin, and ready to freaking mingle.
For the rest of that weekend I met boys left and right, no strings attached. That’s when I knew that if being single was this fun in Sleazeside, and then it was going to be one hell of a party in college.