My Bloody Valentine

There was a girl in high school with whom I can squarely lay the blame for my first directed sexual thoughts. Prior to her, I had experienced feelings of mild excitement, vague arousal, general warmth in the tummy region, and associated feelings of attraction and admiration when dealing with girls. I wanted to kiss them, I wanted to impress them, I wanted to be near them, but not for any clear objective. The first time I saw someone and thought "Wow, I really want to do to her what I saw in brother's magazines" was when I was fourteen and in high school. She had the otherwise unremarkable name of Kylie Bone. But to a whole class of teenage boys raised on American teen-titty comedy, she was simply The Boner.

Of course this was never mentioned to her face. She was too nice for that. She never seemed to be completely aware of, or entirely comfortable with, her over-developed body. Her face was pale, with very light brown freckles, and a slightly turned up nose. She had deep green eyes that were usually wrinkled in a smile and pearly teeth that only real money can buy. Her straw blonde hair was cut in a kind of bob, as was the fashion for at least part of the eighties, though she was not exactly fashionable mostly. But her body was about four years ahead of her, chronologically, and was rounded and curvy in a way that most girls' would never be. The sight of her long legs leading up to her netball skirt and bloomers as she bent over a desk was distinctly the one that triggered my first blatant sexual notion.

I was transfixed. I was staring. She was bending. She was talking. Her friends were laughing. She turned to see why and saw me, unblinkingly staring right at her bum. She squealed, I jumped, her face went extremely red, and I ducked away from my desk and stumbled out of the room, ducking and weaving, as she threw my folder, my pencil case, and any other pieces of stationery that came to hand at my retreating head. I didn't dare re-enter the classroom until the teacher arrived. Then I got ignored by the Boner for the rest of the day. This was a shame, as my crush, amongst other things, was growing, uncalled for, throughout the day.

So it was that a couple of weeks later I came to be writing a card to her. It was, of course, a Valentines card. I was going to slip it into the vent in her locker on Valentines day, and all would be revealed to her. I didn't just want to stare at her arse all day, I really liked her, and wanted her to be my girlfriend. I would make all this perfectly clear in a letter outlining my possible devotion to her, and my wish that she would get with me at lunchtime. Or morning recess if she had netball practice.

So I drafted a letter. A heartfelt plea for her attention and a treatise to her heart to open up to mine, and to her legs to open up also. The language could have been torn from the very pages of Shakespeare's finest sonnets.

"Dear Kylie, you're a real spunk. I really want to get with you at lunchtime"

I was going to sign it with my name, but chickened out at the last moment, and wrote, in fine Valentine tradition "Your not-so-secret admirer" in a clear reference to my recent ogling of her a few weeks prior.

I slipped the card into her locker before school, and waited for a sign she had got it. When I saw her come into our homeroom, she was beaming and clutching my card to her well rounded breast. The left one. I tried to catch her eye, and she looked in my direction and visibly swooned. I did my best to look suave and cool, raising an eyebrow, but being incapable of lifting only one, giving the distinct impression someone had just put electrodes on my testicles and I was somewhat surprised. She smiled and turned away coyly, peeking back over at me all the way through morning assembly, and all of first period. I had a different class to her after that, and I winked at her clumsily on my way out, though I think she probably missed it.

I didn't see her the rest of the morning. I didn't see her until lunchtime, in fact, when I spied her pushed up against one of the portable classrooms, securely attached to the face of Luke Milton. Luke's athletic arms were holding her to him, and alternately trying to squeeze her boobs or her bum, her slender arms wrapped about his waist to allow her full access to clean his rear most fillings with her tongue. Luke sat on the desk directly behind mine from Kylie's desk. And I had heard him talking about her quite loudly the other day, though not in the kind of terms anyone would wish to hear, say, their sister spoken of. An anonymous nom-de-plume may be of use at certain times, in certain situations, where discretion is the wisest of choices. But it's the stupidest thing anyone in their right mind could ever conceive of writing on a bloody Valentine.