When I was fifteen, my twenty-one-year-old boyfriend told me he loved me. In hindsight I still believe it. It wasn't a very mature and healthy love, certainly (I tried to run away with him, it ended in missing person reports and restraining orders), but I really don't think it was a lie. He was my best friend and he was a giant creep, but he wasn't a liar. I loved him. Goofy fifteen-year-old "me an mah bf is soulmates!" love, but it felt real.
When he broke up with me (three months after the drama, no mere court order can keep a teenage girl from her Twoo Wuv), it was possibly the most humiliating moment of my life. I screamed, I threatened suicide, and I tried to seduce him into staying with me. It was Crazy Chick Greatest Hits. He had to literally pull my hands out of his pants and push me away to break up with me.
I met back up with the guy once when I was nineteen. We spent a weekend together in bed and then went our separate ways again. We didn't mention the love or the craziness at all the whole time. I didn't get "closure" (fuck, I still faintly miss him; it doesn't make me cry at night but now and then I think that I'd still take him back any day), but it didn't make me feel worse. At least we got to part on amicable grounds with a nice hug and kiss instead of hideous histrionics.
Am I over him? No, or I wouldn't be posting this. I'm dating other guys and I'm getting on with my life, but... man, I still believe it was love. There was a lot of sex mixed in (we took each others' virginities and fucked like crazy bunnies every time we saw each other for the next nine months or so) (he had a goddamn NINE INCH COCK), but I don't miss that. The guys I'm seeing now are more skilled and sophisticated about it anyway. The only thing they can't do for me is tell me they love me. And there are good, sane reasons for this--Jon is just a fuckbuddy, Brandon has only known me about three months--and I don't really want them to love me. I just want to be loved.
Wah wah wah. I also want to be a doctor and have kids and buy my own house, and I'll wait for love and work up to it just like I'm working up to those things. Love is one of the big rewards in life and shouldn't be quick and cheap. At my age I have no more right to cry about being unloved than I do about not owning a corporation.
Why is all this going in my sex journal? I promise the next two entries will be nothing but steamy fucking with nary a girly whine. By way of apology.