Mercury Blood

This is a memory of my first boyfriend:

8th grade is pretty much the entranceway to all things hormonaly exciting and confusing. Wouldn't you say? I mean, you're still awkward, either still wearing glasses or just beginning to really explore your identity. There's probably a few years yet until things normalize as much as they're going to (until one hits further uncertainties in their 20's, which is another matter altogether). You're experiencing things for the first time. Not huge things yet, but some pretty major things in the universe of an 8th grader.

My 8th grade English course was called SAGE (not sure what exactly it stood for - maybe Student Association for Good English? Smart-Ass Gang of Encryptors?) but we were told it was a special class for gifted English students. I think basically we could all read and write above the average student at our high school, which was astoundingly populated by people who couldn't put a paragraph together even if their pack of Marlboro Lights depended on it. But there we were, all exceptional in our own way, and I observed the social dynamics of the room on a daily basis.

One person caught my fancy. And I don't know how exactly it happened, but we hooked up.

We had some things in common. He was an oddball, an alien amongst humankind it seemed. I would later write a poem about him called "Mercury Blood", my reflections on his personality. As for myself, I was nerdy in my own way. We were both into music, playing guitar, Beatles and rock and roll. However, I don't think he was quite ready for what I was ready to explore, seeing as boys are generally behind girls in certain matters. Despite that, we were together for a whole three months. We mostly rode our bikes to a local park where we could be alone, and mostly I let him do the talking. He was so much smarter than me - I was enthralled by his intelligence. I also recall exposing some personal areas of my life to him, as if he could help me or offer some kind of advice, but being just a somewhat egotistical 14-year-old punk, I don't believe he was really listening as much as he was waiting to tell me about himself again. There wasn't much else for us to do, seeing as I was forbidden to go to the movies with him by my parents. Apparently, I was too young to do such things. Perhaps they were afraid he would lead me to new vices, like holding hands or something equally naughty.

Despite my parents vigilance, it was the first time I was held by a boy. Nothing too adventurous, but still new and breathtaking at the time. We would stand with our arms around each other, sometimes quite tightly. I would breathe in the musky sweat smell of his boyness, the smell of sun on skin. Moments, years, eons would pass. We wouldn't talk. I didn't dare interrupt this precious time between us, so sweet and pure as the breeze that blew over our fevered skin. The nearness of him was nerve wracking. It was so novel to feel someone that close to me, and to know they wanted me close to them as well. It was bliss.

But again, I sensed he wanted more from me and just didn't know how to get it. I certainly didn't know how to tell him - I wasn't really that experienced myself at the time.
Pretty soon, there were petty disagreements and less phone calls. He actually got pretty cruel to me in the end, which I figured was his 8th grade way of saying he wasn't interested any more. So I moved on. But now that I'm older, I wonder if it's because I couldn't show him what he wanted to know. He eventually hooked up with a known trampy burn-out chick who probably had not hesitated to show him the delights he was curious about. Perhaps upon reflection 22 years later, I now realize the reasons behind his insensitive behavior towards me.

It did take me about 3 years to get over him. I felt like I should have had some enduring importance in his life being his first girlfriend, but he moved on and my mind still lingered on what could have been between us. Just your typical teenage melodrama, I suppose. But one moment sticks out in my mind. At the end of a particularly enjoyable day, we were about to part ways. We were both straddling our bikes, just about to pedal off to our homes when I was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion for him. Having never made sense of such feelings, I blurted out "I love you". He surprised me by saying, "I love you, too".

I'd never said that to anyone before. Someday I should ask him if he was as moved by that day as I was, though I fear he probably won't remember it. It was so long ago, after all. What does surprise me, however, is that we've managed to always not be too far away from each other. We've remained friends until our adult lives, and he ended up living in the same city. Presently he, his wife, two dogs and one cat live within walking distance from my house.

Perhaps I did make a lasting impression on him after all.