When I was fourteen, I dreamed that one day I would have a boyfriend. But at that age, it seemed to take forever, boy time moved slowly and it felt like I never would. Pudgy and fifteen was not a good time for me. Nightly I checked my breasts to see if they’d grown bigger than my waist. Boys were becoming more interesting, with their thick arms and broad shoulders and their slender torso’. The sense of them, their presence was catching my eye.
My little brother was suddenly able to hold me down when we’d jostled for sibling supremacy. Where, up until that point, I was easily able to overpower him. And like every other girl at that age, I had one of life’s realisations that he, as with every other boy, would be forever stronger than me. Nooooooo, screamed the voice in my head, at the inequality of life, as I lay pinned to the ground with him smiling on top.
But the opposite sex didn’t seem to notice me, didn’t seem to know that I was alive. I was a late developer, well, later than most of my girlfriends around me. They seemed to understand the boy girl thing much quicker than me. It seemed to be a secret that I was forever waiting to come clear. Boys made me nervous; it took me a while before I could relax in their company.
Then suddenly I shot up, my puppy fat fell away and my plainness seemed to be a thing of the past. I learned that boys liked tits and I got good at jiggling them around.
When I was sixteen, I got a boyfriend, his name was Dean. We kind of drifted together, the last people in our group of friends without partners. We were two wallflowers tentatively reaching for each other and our hands slipped together, warm and nervously. I thought he was nice. We spent our days together, we watched movies and rode our skateboards on the weekends. We spent our holidays surfing down the coast where his parents camped each year. The sun, in my teenage years, set like a giant glass ball shimmering as it descended into the sea. The days and nights were golden. We thought we’d live forever, the never ending days of youth.
But there was no passion, just best mates, that’s all we really were. We lost our virginity by the beach in a tent on the sand, one New Years eve, drunk on beer and cask wine, in a whimper it was gone.
In college, I dated a passionate guy. His name was Joe, short for Joseph. We got a flat together to save money as we studied for our degrees. He made me his life. We wore each other’s cloths and we always had to be touching wherever we went. Most weekends we’d be found draped all over each other, semi-naked, studying in bed together, the TV on, smoking dope, just the two of us.
But he was too emotional. Everything was an emergency. If I was late back from work, or too long out in the car shopping, he’d be hysterical when I got home, crippled with fear. He was a drama queen, cried all the time and sulked if I didn’t pay him enough attention and in the end he threatened suicide when I said I was leaving him. So I decided I needed a boy with stability.
When I was twenty-five, I found a very stable mate, his name was Casey. He had a plan, worked out when he was eighteen, to be an IT manager for a medium size company that was going somewhere. He was right on target when we met. He got his degree with honours, he picked the right company, he was on track, he was on the way up. He worked long hours, working late most nights and when he didn’t, he played Volley ball with the guy’s on Tuesdays, the same guys from school that he’d played with for seven years. We both drank out on Friday nights, together, with an assortment of friends. Pretty soon my life was sailing along as steadily as Casey’s was.
But he was boring. He was totally predictable and never got excited about anything. We had Foxtel, which came with thirty-five channels. Every other night we’d crash in front of the television, late and he’d channel surf, relentlessly. We stopped talking and we seemed distant there on the couch. We had sex in the dark, sporadically, suddenly, without talking and then we’d roll over and go to sleep.
We’d have fish and chips every Sunday night, our only night off from the gym.
Life became so dull that I decided I needed a boy with some excitement.
When I was twenty-eight I found an exciting boy, his name was Andrew. He was dark and handsome; he drove a sports car and had money in the bank. He loved to party. We partied hard together.
I got a tattoo.
We rushed from one party to another, never settling on anything for too long. We picked up girls, we picked up boys, and we had dirty sex in all sorts of locales. He did mad, impetuous things and flirted with everyone he met. He introduced me to drugs, ecstasy, MDA and cocaine and some sexual escapades that I’m still not at all sure were legal.
His favourite drugged out fantasy, now that raw sex was out of the question, was “The Rainbow kiss.” When I had my first period around him, in the first few months of our relationship, he got all excited in bed that morning. It was a drug-fucked moment, one of many. There had been a major party the night before from which we’d only just come home. We were tripping at daybreak as we lay in our bed.
The rainbow kiss is oral sex, the sixty-nine position to be exact. He licked my pussy and I sucked his cock until he came in my mouth. And then we’d kiss, me taking my blood from his lips and he his cum from my mouth. It drove him nuts.
But I couldn't keep up with him, with his energy, his sexual appetite. I had a boob job; one cup size bigger, a B to a C. He made me miserable as often as he made me happy, as his attention continually wandered elsewhere. He was great fun and energetic, and as sexy as hell. But he was direction-less and we were rapidly dissolving into just a series of drug related cycles, one after the other. Coming down hard on a Tuesday became my reality. I had to take six months off work to travel to Europe to get over him and my addictions.
So I decided to find a boy with some ambition.
When I turned thirty-one, I found a smart ambitious boy with his feet planted firmly on the ground. His name was Sam. I called him Sammy and I loved him without reserve. He was about to make partner in his Architecture firm, my IT consultancy was just getting off the ground. So I moved in with him, it just seemed the natural progression.
We had the perfect life, matching Saab’s and an option on bigger premises for my venture. We had a block of land in the Ottways on which we camped with our Rottweiler dogs, in the summer when the weather was hot.
We got married over looking the sea; our two dogs were attendants and our close friends gathered around. The surf crashed just below and a cool breeze blew. We built a mud brick house over looking the sea. We even talked about children.
We bought a bigger house every other year and the latest cars. We borrowed heavily. We were on the “A” list socially.
He was so ambitious that he fell in love with a multimillionaire’s daughter, a corporate lawyer and he dumped me. I lost everything with our fancy mortgages and contractual obligations. What I had left he took as a parting gesture, with the letters of assurity that he had me signed, just before it all feel apart. That was last stupid thing I did, right before I realised our marriage was over.
He’s now running a design company, an arm of a global construction conglomeration, owned by his father-in-law, with little miss charity queen giving the orders by his side.
I am forty now and I am doing consultancy work. All my friends are having children and seem as happy as can be. Natural childbirth for the first kid, as responsible thirty-something mothers should. And then knocked out on whatever the doctors would give them, for the second birth, remembering how much the first one hurt.
I met Dean the other day, the first time I’d seen him since we split. He’s looking good and doing well and his boyfriend, Damien, seems nice.
Joe committed suicide; apparently his family was shocked and just kept asking why? Andrew got caught dealing drugs and he is now doing time.
I made a packet from the 2YK bug. I work for myself. I work my own hours; I prefer it that way. I own my own terrace house, which I renovate when I get time.
I am in high demand.
I work four days a week and on the fifth, I do as I please. I still work more hours a week, than most people do in five days. I make a good living and I have some treasured friends.
I think I am going to write.
I had a nose job. I got that pesky bump, which I’ve always hated, removed.
Now I am looking for a man with a nice smile, interesting whit, a life of his own and a big, hard dick.
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