Member-only story
Teenage Selfish Dreams Were Not My Finest Moment
A time when I was not so sweet sixteen
When I was sixteen I met my first real boyfriend. He ticked a lot of boxes. He was older, in fact nineteen and in college. Which I know sounds kind of ick, and maybe it was, but he wasn’t an average guy for his age.
I met him through one of my best friends, Elle*. Brian was her neighbor and they had grown up together. He was kind of a dork, to be fair: an eagle scout, a Jethro Tull and Rush superfan.
But he was cute, which counted for about 95% of my romantic decision making back then. He was tall, lanky, and had floppy hair. He was nice, a little shy, and liked a lot of cool music too. He also had a car. No one I knew had a car.
Most importantly, he liked me, and he wasn’t afraid to let it be known (albeit initially through telling my friend).
We went to the movies with my friend and he put his arm around me in a chivalrous/not gropey way. I liked this very much and was pretty sure my entire body was going to explode with excitement.
It was the end of summer and our first real date was at a local amusement park. I was so excited. He picked me up in his little red hatchback and opened the door and I felt like a movie star.
