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This is a question Teenage Crushes - Part Two

Freddie Woo writes: I've still got weird feelings for a well-known female TV presenter from the 1980s. I'm now in my forties, work in the same building as her and she follows me on a number of social networking sites. And now, she knows about it.

Tell us about the teenage crushes that still make you go wobbly.

(, Thu 5 Nov 2009, 11:04)
Pages: Latest, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Are people misunderstanding what a crush is?
Are crush and hormone-driven gratuitous sexual fantasy the same thing? IMO no it isn't. I think a crush is more like this.

It's a good 950 words, so it's in the reply.

Edit: You can find part two here www.b3ta.com/questions/teenagecrushes/post562450
(, Fri 6 Nov 2009, 13:28, 14 replies)
Lay Lady Lay (Crush x two)
I was in my fourth year at High School and she was in the year above me. In my opinion she was perfection, that and the largest set of mammary glands in the whole school. Add unobtainable to the equation due to her attraction to "older boys". I felt thwarted for almost the whole year!

Roll on the last two week's of term, she was leaving, planning on University and I was doomed to an empty year of study for my highers without the presence of the cause of my almost constant hard on. I'd never felt so low in my life....

There was a campfire in the local glen planned for the Saturday night, the usual cider, smoke and guitars. Long haired hippy types, Neil Young style patched denims, checked shirts, kaftans, smock blouses, patchouli oil and incense...and her! On her own and unattached! The engorgement was almost instant!

Unable to play it cool and aware that everyone who knew me was privy to my "crush" I fucked off from the crowd, guitar in hand and decided to have a pipe of some very lovely lebanese on the periphery, hoping I would be ignored.

Ten minutes later, suitably spaced, I was pissing about with the guitar, playing the intro from "Stairway to Heaven" (oh, the the shame of it now)and I smelled her beside me. It was a peaches and cream, strawberry mix which I knew was her, and once again, the twitching trouser monster threatened to betray me.

"Can you play Lay Lady Lay?" was all she said. Not being a big Dylan fan I stuttered my inability and the next word's stopped me in my tracks!

"If you can learn it before the end of term I'll fuck you"!

Talk about motivation! Bugger me blind if I was not instantly straight, mouth gaping open and closed goldfish style and the rabbit eyes caught in the high beams. She casually walked away and the night sort of fizzled off from there on in.

Except, I had a purpose! Next morning, I headed straight of to my mates house and borrowed his brothers copy of "Nashville Skyline" and spent just about every waking moment for three days learning and perfecting a song that I did not really care for.

At lunchtime on the last day of term, I plucked up the courage to walk across the common room, eyes starting to follow me with much nudging and pointing at me from around the area. "I've learned it" was all I could stammer.

A smile was my reward! That was it! Fuck me, I'd blown it, and was now the subject of much ridicule from my peers.

The afternoon thereafter was a depressing slow moving torture which could not end quick enough. the bell went and I was off the blocks like an Olympic sprinter, but not quick enough to avoid her....

I really had no idea what happened next, all I remember is walking out of the school, dimly aware of a clutched note that was passed to me. Once free from the younger oiks and sure that none of my friends was about I opened the note.

"I'll come round to yours about 7:30 tonight"

Bloody hell! Get in there! Then the logistics sank in. Although my mother was not at home, my sister and three brothers almost certainly would be. Sis was not so bad, she declared that she was on her way out stay at a mates house. That left the boys! Three quid and a mission for the purchase of Fish and Chips sorted that one out!

The appointed hour arrived, I as usual acted like a spastic mong until showtime. Somehow, I managed it, played the song, remembered the words and finished with a flourish I never knew I was capable off.

Then it started. I'm not SpankyHanky so there's no need to embellish the tale with "facts" but it was awesome!

Afterwards, she admitted that even if I could not play the song we would have ended up sharing that evening. It was then I discovered that the "crush" had been mutual, my acting shy to avoid her finding out and her acting "grown up" to avoid me finding out.

We were devastated to discover we had wasted a year, somehow things were exponentially blown out of proportion and making up for the lost time was the most important thing on our minds for months after.

Sadly, as with all good things, after two and a bit years we drifted apart, she transferred from Glasgow University to St Andrews and I ended up working offshore. We remained friends, but, to this day, I have never forgotten the power involved in the teenage crush.

Probably the biggest single emotion that you will experience until adulthood swings at you!
(, Sat 7 Nov 2009, 3:46, 6 replies)
Cowardice & Emily Bronte
*If you're not into cathartic and nostalgic ramblings, look away now.*

To paraphrase Brian Eno, keeping diaries will only ever give you a detailed insight into all the early-Januaries of your life. It's almost impossible to commit to a diary full time. The longest I ever managed was for 6 months a couple of years ago. I set about detailing my past. Except my past is almost exclusively populated by embarrassing situations or complete non-events surrounding girls I fancied. So here, straight out of the diary and brought to you in unashamed honesty, is an anthology of all my (sometimes pre)teenage crushes.

Saying I've never had much luck with women is like saying Hitler was a bit harsh on Jews. I don't know why I've been so unlucky. Maybe it's because I like old music. Maybe it's because I never really got into being fashionable. Maybe it was because I mixed with the right crowd at school. Maybe it's because I'm blonde. They say blondeness is a sign of fertility and therefore an attractive quality. I can't think of a single section of society that likes blonde men. Except Hitler, but enough of that. Most English men like blonde, American women (Cameron Diaz), most English women like dark-haired, Irish men (Westlife), most American women like dark-haired, English men (Hugh Grant) and most American men like burgers and cheese (Kirsty Alley). Frankly, in the modern world, a blonde English man stands no chance.

My first dabblings with women was when I was 7 with a girl I knew at school called Sarah, from South Africa. She moved away a year later, but a few years ago I tracked her down and met up with her near Reading, where she lives. I would like to highlight that it was only once, nothing happened and I've not been back since. Also, I'm not a stalker. (Thinking about it, she perfectly fitted the criteria of qualities I look for in women which I've since attributed to Cheryl Cole. Maybe it goes back further than I think.)

A year later was a girl called Lauren. I was 8 and "on the rebound" and, at our school at that time, pretend marriages were all the rage. So we were going to get hitched. It was all great and exciting. The big day haunts me still. She came down the aisle and all was well. It came to the "I do"s and she turned to me. She and her 2 bridesmaids, in startling harmony, shouted "No!" right in my face and ran off giggling. I didn't find it very funny. The crowd dispersed like salt in water and I was left alone. I held it together till I got the boys toilets and then bawled my little heart out. She was the first girl I ever danced with too. A couple of years on, I found myself going out with her again. On a school trip to the Isle of Wight for 4 or 5 days we were closer than ever. That isn't really saying much as it was back in the day when going out with someone meant smiling at them in the classroom and passing notes. On the last night of the trip there was a disco. I'd never had so much fun before. What a perfect way to end it. All credit to my dad, who was one of the parents helping organise the trip. At the end of the disco, the last song played was My Heart Will Go On from Titanic. There was me and Lauren awkwardly stood sort-of next to each other and not really knowing what to do. Along comes my dad, who must've clocked this, and starts pairing people up. The legend. So we danced. I say danced. We hugged whilst gently swaying. Christ, this is taking me back. Those were magical days. The second the song finished we turned on our heels and walked off in opposing directions. I don't know if we were both shy or just me. Maybe she'd heard from someone that a couple of days previous I'd stood on top of a bunk bed and had a roommate photograph me entirely naked but for a small (yes, small) piece of paper covering my pre-pubescent modesty with "I LOVE YOU" written on it. (At EIGHT... ffs.) That rumour, well, fact, got about incredibly quickly. This being the days before text messaging. I shredded that picture when it came through. You could barely read the words anyway... A little while after that trip we broke up because I thought she fancied someone else. I was right. His name was, and in all likelihood still is, Charles. Not only was he ginger (proper, pale ginger) but he was French too. Gene Hunt would have had a field day. She started going out with him immediately. The prick. I've seen her since and her love life was in a right mucking fuddle. Good.

I nearly forgot. A couple of years after all this, when I was 13 (finally, we're on topic), she phoned me up and asked me out. Being the barely sentient arrogant twunt I undoubtably was I took it all in stride. We went out once. Didn't talk much. We went bowling with some friends and I doubt we exchanged a whole sentance all night. I didn't hear from her again for a whole year, when she, again out of the blue, called me up to call me a sleazy, lying, two-faced, cheating bastard. I would have asked her how she'd reckoned that one out, but I was in the middle of a nose bleed at the time so I just said "Alright then, bye" and hung up. She could have been joking for all I know.

Well into teenage angst territory now and attention falls on Roxanna who lived, and still lives, down the road from me. I met her at one of the many barbeques we used to have at my house. I knew she faniced me from the subtleties of our conversations. I just remembered how long this whole affair was going on for before it all got fucked up. Word got out that I was going to ask her out. She got shy and instantly went off me. We've since got back in touch and I realise now it was for the best. She's far too serious.

Shortly afterwards, in the same year, I developed a paralising crush on her best mate, Gemma. Gemma was tall, olive skinned and dark. She also had a boyfriend called Nick. As this all happened so long ago, the foreshortening effect of hindsight makes it seem like it was over in a heartbeat, but trust me, it was a very long time. Relativity, as Einstein would tell us. Way back then I was still naively confident that girls liked me. Gemma did, at any rate, so she wasn't really helping me shake off the delusion. In one day, she dumped Nick and gave me opportunity to go out with her. I remember it now. I'm there. In the centre of the school playground. I stood facing her and she smiled at me. Just me and her... and about 60 onlookers forming an equidistant circle around us, watching intently. Some delightful chap yelled "Kiss her!". Kiss her? Kiss Gemma? The girl who I fantasized about while listening to Here, There and Everywhere? Kiss her? Her? Kiss? Infront of all of you? Fuck no. I lost my bottle, which promply smashed on the floor showering her feet in metaphorical orange squash. My nerve was gone. The onlookers stared, unsure of what to do. Poke the husk? He might be alive in there. But no. I wasn't. I was devastated. How could I be so cowardly? Was this me? Was this who I am? How could someone like this even hope to deal with life?

After her was the most powerful, certainly the most resonant, crush I was ever victim to. The one about which I thought of as true, real love. Maybe it was, but I never got the chance to find out. A lovely girl. Lovely from head to toe, skin to bone. She could do nothing to upset anyone. I think by now I must have been 14 because I would fantasise about corrupting this very angel and fucking her silly on my bedroom floor. From the moment I saw her she infatuated me. Beautiful, pale face. Golden hair. Sapphire eyes. I was amazed. For months, whole terms would slip by and I would just fancy her, think of her, dream of her. Finally I plucked up the courage to do what a real man would do. I asked her friend for her e-mail address. I added her on MSN and on the odd occasion when she would come online I would talk enthusiastically at her. She didn't know who I was, but she was lovely, so she talked back. I remember one day, back in the real world, I spoke to her for the first time. I pointed to her with my begloved hand (which was also holding a Coke can) and said "It was me you were talking to online". She smiled and said "Oh, okay" without breaking stride and she was gone. So aloof. So unobtainable. So ethereal. Then, one sunny Valentines Day, when I was sat at my computer, alone, she came online. Fuck it, thought I, death or glory awaits. "Hello" I began. When she replied I spared no thought for hesitation or subtlety and dove in head first. "I love you", I typed. Then my computer crashed. By the time I got back online, she was gone. When she came on again later that day, I was still in great spirits. Glory, I thought. But no. I had shocked her. She didn't love me. Of course she didn't love me. She didn't even know me. I carried on "loving" her, though she had changed schools and moved away, for about another 3 years. At the leaving party for year 11 she made a surprise appearance. I hadn't seen her in years, I was now tucking into my hormones like there was no tomorrow and she turned up in a skin tight, black leather catsuit. I don't know how I didn't die that night. She even danced with me for a bit. I say danced. She danced while I rhythmlessly swung my arms and shuffled my feet and generally looked and felt like embarrasment personified and feeling very self-conscious about the whole personification situation. She said to me, "When you next meet a nice girl, don't send her love letters right away". I remember going outside and feeling the slow dawning realisation that she was in the doorway watching me. I sat there, trying to ignore her on that chair. That chair whose left hind leg sunk into the soft mud and flung me backwards across the wet grass. I picked myself up and looked over. She was gone. Forever. I wonder where Elizabeth is right now...

I wish I could tell you that any of these stories ended happily but, true to teenage tradition, they never did. Like I said. Maybe it was my lack of fashion interest, my taste in music or the colour of my hair, but things just never worked out for me.

A short time after, when I must have been 17, I fell for a classically pretty girl. My attraction was entirely about her looks. A beautiful distraction from the baggage I'd accumulated from years of pining for Elizabeth. Her name was May and she was, at that time, perfect for me. Gorgeous and seemingly no hidden depth. That's not to say she was shallow. Far from it. But she wore her heart on her sleeves and what you saw was what you got. And I liked what I saw. In classic Meek style, I did quite literally nothing about this. So cowardly (which I'd learned from the Gemma experience) and so bumbling (which Elizabeth had taught me) was I that I let her slip by. Despite evidence to suggest she wouldn't have rejected me like all the others, I played it safe and sat admiring from afar. One day, an epiphone befell me, seemingly out of boredom, and I decided, you know what? Bollocks. I'm going to ask her out. I think she likes me. I went and found her. There she was. This attractive, open and caring person. With Luke. The cunt. The cunt. The cunt. The absolute cunt. He asked her out the day before. Sometimes I wonder if there is method behind this chaos but I soon realise that no, there is none. We are all flung about, colliding, reacting, causing and affecting. It was just shit luck and a lesson well learned. More powerful and poignant than all the others. Don't let great things pass you by.


Here the diary entries end. After that I was spent. I had no more to hope for. I felt useless. I saw no point in pursuing anyone. Noone was pursuing me so why should I bother?

Well, the place where this baroque charade had been staged, my secondary school, called me back. Little did I know it wished to pay me back for all my pubescent years of tortured teenage heartache with the greatest gift of all. I only went there to pick up my mate's A-level certificates. I dropped in on my old media studies teacher and he told me that he was going to be shooting a TV pilot episode right there in the school over summer and asked if I'd lend a hand (I was, at the time, studying Sound Design). I told him I would be delighted. It was fun. For the first couple of days my work was focused and professional. From day 3 onwards, you might aswell have left the boom mic on the floor for the good it would have done. It swayed in and out of shot. It bumped against the ceiling. Listening to the final cut I'm amazed it managed to pick up any dialogue at all. It's operator, me, was distracted by the smiling face of a dark-haired, brown eyed, leggy and thoroughly lovely girl. She was my dream. She had come true. In one of the classrooms we were shooting in, a quote was printed on the wall. "He who dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose" - Emily Bronte. It hit me. And it stung. It hurt with the pain of all those years of fear and cowardice and regret. All those wasted opportunities. All those months I squandered in limerent hiding. That single statement summed up exactly what was wrong with me and my life. I'd always wanted that which I was too afraid to take. Well not this time.

On the final day of shooting, I gave this girl, lets called her Sophie (that being her name etc) a lift home. Shortly before she left the car, I steeled myself and passed her my phone. I mumbled something about numbers and she got the gist. She gave me her number. For the first time in my life, a girl gave me her number. And I felt 14 again; presumably because that's when a girl is supposed to give you her number for the first time.

That was 2 and a half years ago now and we're together and couldn't be happier.

I know that alot of people who frequent this site are older than me, but I also know that there are some fairly young whipper-snappers among us too. So heed Emily's advice. If you crave the rose, grasp the thorn.
(, Thu 5 Nov 2009, 23:28, 17 replies)
Oswestry - the original crap town.
Apart from having the world's worst one-way system and being the muster-point for most chavvages in shropshire, Oswestry has only one internet connection.

As a result, we have to request printouts of the websites we want to read, and then submit the things we want to post to Darren (it's his 28K modem and connection) and he types them up when he has time.

The delays can be shocking.
(, Tue 10 Nov 2009, 10:11, 4 replies)
Carol the Fridge Freezer Lady
I had a terrible crush on one of my mum’s mates when I was thirteen. She’d come round once a week for tea and biscuits and sit in the same armchair, doing wild things to my rampant trouser horn as she crossed and uncrossed her legs, occasionally scratching at the scabs of accumulated psoriasis on her knees through her extra thick sexy tan winter tights. God, she was hot. Her name was Carol and she used to work in a factory putting together fridge freezers.

She’d come round every Thursday at around six. Had done for years. Carol would always bring round a booty bag of sweets that tasted like fizzy chalk which she got off her mate who worked on Coventry market. Of course, as a thirteen year old I was starting to get a bit old for this. But it didn’t stop me waiting patiently for her to clamber out of her Ford Fiesta and trundle up the driveway. I’d open the door, feeling the blood rush to my special secret place as my eye line was momentarily on a par with Carol’s perfect (by perfect I mean fucking MASSIVE) tits. Then Carol would hand me my sweeties and say: “Careful, Spanky – remember to suck them or you’ll break your teeth.”

And I was in heaven. Even at this early age my pervo-filter was already pretty well developed. I focused in on one solitary word in Carol’s statement. SUCK... God, she said it with such... earthly knowledge... such allure... such... FILTH!!! I could feel my japs eye weep as I’d follow her into the living room and sit round for a while, gazing upon her beauty as she and my mum nattered about the price of fish. Thinking back, Carol was actually pretty fit (once you got past the scabby-knee skin condition). Shapely. Mid to late thirties. Buxom (that special nice considerate way of saying a girl’s a bit of a fat fucker). Gorgeous long hair that fell down her back and cascaded off her shoulders like a tumbling obsidian waterfall. And – most important and striking of all - she very rarely, according to my furtive, clandestine glances, appeared to wear any knickers. OK, I was thirteen and couldn’t be sure. But whenever she crossed or uncrossed her legs there was very definitely something interesting going on in the deep dark recesses of Carol’s unholy gusset area. Once I swore I caught a glimpse of pubes and nearly fainted. Besides, the normal routine was to sit there for a bit then slink off to my room for a furious wank.

One time this all got a bit too much... Carol came round, parked the Fiesta, I opened the door – ooohhh, tits! – got my sweeties: “SSSSuuu-ccc-kkkk!!!” Then showed her into the living room, staring at her perfect round arse as she went. Sit down. Natter with my mum. Me sat on the carpet attempting to look at Carol’s gash, feeling my heart race. Then something unusual happened... My mum suggested Carol goes up stairs with her to have a look at the new curtains she’d just put up in the hallway landing. Normally Carol didn’t move, well, only to go for a piss which meant my mum was always, ALWAYS, in the room. But now... Now I actually had a chance to have the Carol-scented living room to myself for a bit, with her wonderful warm, sexy scent still heavy in the air. I was in heaven.

My mum and Carol bugger off up stairs, and I –

Moments later I hear my mum scream: “Spanky you dirty little bugger!” I look up and see Carol and my mum stood at the living room door, they’d come back down for the tape measure or something. I assessed the situation, trying to think of a way out. Shit. No way out. Gonna just have to face the music on this one...

... When your mum finds you with your head buried in the sofa cushion where her mate and said mate’s attached fanny’s just been sitting, while you’ve got one hand down the front of your pants and the other desperately scratching up as much warm beefy womanly aroma from the cushion as possible, well, there’s not really a lot you can do about it...

I said I fell over. I don’t think my mum believed me... Carol stopped buying me sweets after that.
(, Thu 5 Nov 2009, 14:03, 11 replies)
My girl
Have a pearoast from just over a year ago - this question is a rehash, so this is appropriate.

*****

She had large brown eyes and long wavy hair worn in plaits tied with navy blue ribbons.

When she smiled the room lit up and when we all played kiss-chase she never ran from me.

We were both five when I proposed and from that day on for two years each morning we could be found sitting on the steps outside our classroom repeating the same words to each other –
“I’m going to marry you when I grow up”


When we were seven and the allure of an older woman who owned her own jumbo sized pencil-sharpener became too great I faltered.

My lovely brown-eyed fiancée was told that I was going out with Clare H now and I no longer loved her in her pencil-sharpenerless state.

She cried and I felt like a heel.

Even stories of Little Black Sambo who outwitted the tigers and ate pancakes for tea couldn’t cheer me up.

Each time I glanced around the classroom her large brown eyes would find me and silently plead with me but my hand was held fast in a sweaty embrace with Clare and our love was sealed by her placing her pencil-sharpener into my pencil case.

Young love is a fickle beast and soon my relationship with the sweaty-handed Clare was over and I was once again single and sharpener-free.



I was always one of the lads and my days were taken up with football and playing Superheroes.

All of the girls refused our pleas to be our Wonder Woman or Bat Girl.
The girls wanted to play house under the rhododendron bushes, collect the fallen blossom or play strange clapping games.
A few fast and loose ones would entice you into a rhododendron house, lie on the beaten earth and lift their skirts so you could see their knickers.
None of us lads were interested in their cotton undies with the days of the week printed upon them – these could not match our pants with ThunderCats emblazoned upon them.

One girl finally accepted our offer to be Wonderwoman, to eschew the draw of flowers, house and other girl games, one girl saw how good the Superhero game was - the girl with the large brown eyes and wavy hair; she would be Wonder Woman for me.


Soon we were nearing the end of our long days in Primary school. We had all been split up, girls no longer talking to or sitting with boys, separate games lessons, boys smelled and girls were bitchy.

One girl was always in trouble with the teachers.
One girl was to be punished for her constant chattering to other girls.
She was to be sat next to a boy as surely the conversations would cease.

And so it came to pass that my wavy haired, brown eyed girl sat next to me.

Each Monday morning would be spent in giggles as I re-enacted Saturday night’s ‘Jim’ll Fix It’ for her with the aid of my novelty cigar biro pen.


Each Monday afternoon would be spent in detention – each of us smiling gently at the other.


And then the end came – off we went in separate directions to different schools – she to an all-girls’ grammar and I to a mixed comp.


I had been at my new school for a few weeks when I saw Diana – she was fifteen, blonde and stunning.

I found out that she lived in my village and I began a determined effort of stalking her. I followed her each Friday evening when she went to the youth club. I played pool with my friends and Diana, lovely Diana disappeared behind the back of the youth club hut and smoked with the local bad lads.


Then quite out of the blue I received a telephone call.

It was from the girl with the large brown eyes and wavy hair.

“Hello Richard. I’mgoingtoadisconextFridayeveningwouldyouliketocomewithme?”

“Um….”

“……”

“I’ll have to ask my mum. I’ll ring you back.”

Friday nights were Diana’s.

Diana had big bouncy breasts and smoked cigarettes.

I phoned the girl with the large brown eyes and wavy hair; I told her I had to visit my Aunt on that Friday, but thanks anyway for the invitation.


She never called again.


Another year passed, I grew by six inches and my mates sent me into the Offie for cans of Stella.

I still went to the Youth Club with its twin attractions of Diana and the pool table.

Then one evening Diana invited me around the back for a fag.

She leaned forward and kissed me gently, her lips were damp and her breath was heavy with Silk Cut and cheap cider.

My mates stood and watched, each drawing deeply on their cigarettes and laughing about Diana’s friends in their short skirts and large thighs.

I slid my hand up her white blouse until I could feel the silken smoothness of her bra. I kissed her deeper, my virgin tongue slipping in and probing her warm wet mouth. My hand cupped her lacy clad breast and my engorged cock began to nudge against her thigh. Her tongue began to respond to mine by twisting and circling in a way that I thought was sexy in a HotPoint kind of way. I kneaded and pulled gently at her tit, feeling her hard little nipple dance in my inky fingers. Diana’s fingers were playing with the waistband of my jeans, sharp fingernails were scratching my stomach and I could bear it no longer. I took her hand and shoved it down onto my rock hard pork sword and as her cool fingertips made contact I spluffed into my boxers.

“Will you go out with me?” I groaned to Diana as my brain began its slow journey back up to my skull.

“Nah. You’re cute right. But I like a man who can go all night. Wanna fag?”


Fifteen years passed.

During that time I shagged my way through Uni and across the world.

Diana I found out now had four kids and a loyalty card for IceLand.

That summer I received an invitation to a wedding of an old mate I’d studied with in Uni – a bit of a bastard if I’m being truthful, but it was the opportunity to get drunk at his expense, catch up with old mates and maybe even get laid.


I expect you can guess who the bride was…when I saw the invitation I did a double take – she has a very unusual name the girl with big brown eyes and wavy hair.


I went to the wedding and watched my first love walk up the aisle.

I watched her marry a man whom I know is a bastard.

I watched her marry a man whom I know was unfaithful to her during his stag night – I know because I was there right along side him as we both screwed working girls for £60 each.



After the ceremony I finally got chatting to her, my wavy haired, brown eyed girl.

I reminded her of her promise to marry me when she grew up. She laughed and just as when she’d been a child, her laughter and smiles lit up the room.


And finally I had the courage to say to her what I should have said long ago,

“Will you go out with me?”


She laughed again and told me that if ever things went wrong with her marriage I’d be the first one she’d contact.





Six months later she called me.
(, Tue 10 Nov 2009, 16:51, 15 replies)
Like A Virgin....EXACTLY like a virgin in fact...

As I lumbered into the hormone raging, tumultuously tantalising teenage years of titillation, with my spaff-tanks constantly on a hair trigger, I was lucky enough to watch a concert in Detroit* featuring none other then our favourite ‘adoption-addicted practitioner of hokey religions’…Ms Madonna Ciccone.

Note: I would like to add at this juncture that for a very brief stint in the 80’s Ms Ciccone was professionally yet delicately performing a skilful juggling act of balancing innocence, raw attractiveness, and confident sexuality – and was also sporting a fabulous, full breasted, scantily clad body that bore no resemblance to the withered, haggard, grizzled-and-chiseled East German shot-putter look that she currently favours.

I was entranced – but fwapping until my ears bled was a very private method of showing affection, so I had to find the right way of declaring my admiration to the world. This presented me with quite a tricky conundrum…How do I demonstrate my longing for this slutty, lacey-gloved-with-the-ends-of-her-fingers-poking-out goddess without making myself look like a mong-eriffic mutant?

And then the idea struck. I would buy a T-Shirt. What harm could that do? It was a gesture that was simple, yet potentially pointless…Just like me.

Now, although I was aware that it was not the ‘done thing’ for boys to wear Madonna T-shirts, my mind was made up, and I had decided that I was going to make a stand. After all, I had already been forced to keep my admiration for Duran Duran firmly locked in the closet of shame, knowing that all the explanations in the world about the 'skill of musicianship' and the 'groovy basslines' would still have had me condemned to the new-romantic wave of Culture-Clubbing Namby-Pambies, with the other boys who wore makeup on the sly and seemed desperate to ‘out’ themselves to the beatings and ridicule of the entire school bullying circle.

Children can be cruel.

But just a T-shirt?...Surely that could have no ramifications whatsoever? So with a fluttering heart, trembling hands, and a cock primed at ‘perma-semi’, I ventured to the record store to purchase a T-shirt featuring the resplendent face of the ‘Material Girl’ herself occupying the entire frontage. She was staring out to me from the shelf as if stating a direct message of intent; indicating that should we ever meet, then surely we would be together for one of the most intensive 12 seconds that I would ever experience before I crash my yogurt truck over her flimsy crop-top.

I paid my money, rushed out of the shop and ripped the packaging open. I felt awash with love as I popped my arms and head into the relevant holes and slipped the wonderful image over me. In a strange way it was as if…’two by two our bodies become one’.

(Actually, it was a little bit tight on me …but I wasn’t fussed).

Bursting with a mixture of pride, glee and rampant horniness I could not wait to go round my mate’s house so I could revel in his jealousy that I had this wonderful vision of sexehness emblazoned across my chest like a badge of lusty honour.

Beaming with joy and squirming to keep my trouser tent under control, I rang his doorbell and was soon confronted by my then best mate, Alex.

“What do you want Pooflake, you monumental spaz?” declared Alex.

I puffed out my chest, placed my hands on my hips and waited for the envious dribblings to flow as he clapped eyes on the creature of 80’s scutter perfection that I was displaying.

“Well…whaddaya think of THIS?” I bellowed, pointing at my T-shirt with my eyes bulging maniacally as I waited for the plaudits that were sure to follow.

"Ermmm….Who IS that?” he asked, squinting and looking genuinely confused.

“HA!” I laughed loudly, and scoffed at his ignorance – What a cretin! – How could he not recognise one of the most famous faces on the planet! I smirked at him with utmost disdain, and was about to verbally cut him to shreds…

When suddenly…out of the corner of my eye, in one of the full length windows of his porch I caught a brief glimpse of something that shook me to the very core with horror.

It was a reflection…of myself.

It is my unfortunate duty to admit that even in my early teens I was still struggling somewhat to shed my over-genorous portions of ‘puppy fat’ (that to be honest I’m still trying to get rid of *cough – 35 – cough*)

So in my haste to display my affection I had inadvertently allowed my combination of blind love, incomparable incompetence and considerable stomach-package to let me purchase a girl's skin tight T-shirt, and stretch it over my preposterously podgy young body, thus contorting the slappertastic songstress until she resembled a misshapen abomination that looked like the ungodly manifestation between a bull rhinoceros and that horrendous billionairess ‘Wildenstein’ woman.

Due to the stretching effect caused by my ample love handles, Madonna’s chin bulged down-and-outwards at such grotesque, disjointed angles that it would not look out of place if it had been nailed to the Rock of Gibraltar. My girthtastic gutbucket also provided the unfortunate added effect of pulling her cheeks out sideways, making her eyes slant ever-so-slightly southwards at the corners and turning her smouldering stare into a more quizzical ‘downsy’ look. To top it off, I had developed impressive specimens of whatever was the boy equivalent of ‘Moobs’ (What is the boy equivalent of ‘Moobs’?...erm…’Boobs’ I suppose)…anyway, my gargantuan, belly-button-worrying spaniel’s ears were thrust forward and had formed two huge lumps on Madonna’s already stretched-to-capacity forehead, just over her eyes, and it made her look as if she had contracted a severe, almost fatal case of the Mumps…and Elephantitis

My eyes filled with tears as I turned and sprinted home as fast as my wobbling bosom-boulders would allow…nearly giving myself two black eyes as my tits repeatedly pound me in the face with my own frantically flapping nipple action.

I knew from then on that I could never look at Madonna in the same way again – In all fairness I probably ruined her for Alex too – In fact I think he’s gay now.

I then realised I had no choice, and I did what any self-respecting teenage boy would do in the situation. I never wore the T-Shirt again, and instead decided to employ the garment as a quite frankly unnecessarily over-sized replacement for my standard-issue wank sock…and it was with sorrow that I was eventually forced to finally throw it away after it became so crustily rigid that it could have potentially been used to karate chop the Star of India diamond in half.

In hindsight, I suppose I’m quite lucky that she’s such a munter now. I don’t feel like I missed out that much.



*She was the one who was in Detroit - I was at home in Coventry watching it on the telly – I’m not fucking made of money you know.
(, Wed 11 Nov 2009, 10:56, 6 replies)
GCSE French, 1991
We had a rather fat, very lazy and terribly ugly French teacher (Miss Witchall), who's preferred method of 'teaching' was to screen old French movies to terminally bored teenage boys, in the vain hope that we'd pick up the lingo via some kind of absorption process.

Double-French on a Thursday afternoon was a snooze fest. One unintelligble French flick after another. Sometime in 1991, with our GCSE's looming, I'd been kicked out of class for extreme insolence. Witchall had asked me a random question, I gave some vague, wrong answer to which she replied:

'Are you pulling my leg?'

'No,' I answered back, 'I'm pulling your tree-trunk!'

Classic gag aside, I was let back into the class after 30mins of moping around outside. That week's movie had already started. The rest of the class was sleeping through 'Jean de Florettes' (the one that plays the old Stella Artois tune throughout). I found my seat and doodled my way through the remainder of the lesson.

The next week, Miss Witchall was proud to reveal that we would be subjected to the 'bigger and better' sequel of last week's film - the 'marvellous, rave-reviewed Manon des Sources', which she was obviously desperate to see. Great. Another 2hrs of inbred, backward froggies arguing over a piece of land.

The blinds were closed. The film started. Class 4b assumed the position. Heads on desks. Jumpers for pillows. Double-French.

Then it happened. At the same time, each and every member of that classroom had what can only be described as a celestial moment. A moment of collective awakening and understanding. A moment of un-embarrassed, simultaneous lust, as appearing from the interminably dull French countryside, wearing nothing but a harmonica and closely flanked by a wandering deer, was the vision of beauty, sex and dreams that is Emmanuelle Beart.

Those of us that are in touch still talk about that moment. For many of us it remains the only orgasm we've ever achieved without the necessity of touch. In the days before porn on tap, the sheer unexpectedness of her appearance on that mind-numbingly dull Thursday afternoon combined with the utter perfection of Beart's nymph-like exquisite body, caused our 15yr old bodies to react en masse. Brains spoke to groins, hormones exploded and semen was quietly spilt.

We also discovered something else. As our initial rapture descended into muffled giggles, we sheepishly glanced over to Miss Witchall expecting a bollocking, only to find her staring steadfastly at the screen, one hand moving very subtly beneath her skirt.
(, Fri 6 Nov 2009, 11:01, 12 replies)
Lacey
For that was her name, and unless she's changed it via deed poll in the last half hour, it still is.

I've known her for five odd years. I've only just trotted off to uni (at the other end of the country, although I'm delighted I have and love it here) and she will be doing the same next year.

We've always been good friends, there would be periods of where we'd drift apart in the sense that we wouldn't see each other as much, but we were close none the less. She was and is perfect. Stunning, funny, clever, great taste in music and she doesn't take the piss like everyone else does about the fact I lurve Deal or No Deal.

I've always fancied the pants off her, always. You know when you deny it to yourself, and tell yourself you don't, but deep down, despite not even admitting it inside, you can't stop thinking about someone? That was me. I didn't want to admit it because I didn't think she'd ever feel the same way about me. I wouldn't say I'm unattractive, to be honest I haven't a clue, but it's one of those "why would she go for me" situations. Plus with our friendship having gone on for so long, why would she want to change that now?

Six months ago, give or take, I finally managed to confront my feelings. I was head over heels and thought about her all day every day. She dropped me a text one afternoon that simply said "I'm coming over, I want to see you x". Gulp. What the hell did that mean. The door went. She came in. The usual stuff happened. Watched tele, listened to music, talked for hours as we were cuddled up on the sofa. Then she revealed that she fancied a lad a couple months back and he knocked her back. She showed me a picture of him on the laptop. Nothing special by any means. I told her that as I went to get a couple of drinks.

"Lacey. You're perfect, any man would be the luckiest person alive if he had the chance to go out with you".

She stared at me for a moment, like never before. I could see she was looking at me like I'd always looked at her. "Well then, who do you think I should go out with?". There it was. My moment. And you know what?

I bottled it.

I couldn't even tell you what I said because I can't remember. All I know was it that was some inane drivel, and I haven't forgiven myself or had the courage to tell her how I feel since then. She looked dejected and left soon after.

She's going out with an idiot now. The one moment where I knew she felt how I had all this time and I messed it up. I'm only young, but I still kick myself every day and I'm still torn up inside. If you think there's ever a chance with someone, fucking take it is the lesson I've learned. Getting shot down can't feel half as bad as it did for me in the hour or so after she left that sunny day.
(, Mon 9 Nov 2009, 18:25, 34 replies)
Smoooooth Operator...
How do you...

What do you do when...

Erm....

you want to talk to a girl... You know, pay her a compliment, make her feel special. What the fuck do you say? This is the sort of shit that raced through my mind, aged twelve, at the school disco when I caught sight of Amy Bell (Ding Dong to her mates), as she bopped merrily away to New Kids on the Block, her twelve year old bosom heaving against the finest wrinkly acetate of her red C & A dress like two eager puppies competing for attention.

I approached, dry mouthed, Amy was fucking lovely. She was perfect. A fucking angel. She even used her knife AND fork when she was shoveling down her school dinners. We're talking posh. Really fucking posh. She probably had a butler in her semi on the outskirts of Duston, Northampton.

Amy stopped bopping, she stared at me with her quirky lopsided smile. THINK OF A FUCKING COMPLIMENT YOU PRICK!!! My brain ached. I felt sick. Too much Tizer, way too many sausage rolls and bits of cheddar on cocktail sticks. Then it struck me, ok, here goes -

and I said it. And even before the words had left my mouth Amy had punched me in the tit and fucked off in a major league hissy fit of a girly huff.

That's when I learned that, whatever you do, whatever you say, never ever ever start a conversation with a girl you fancy with:

“Just want to let you know that when I wank I'm almost always thinking about you....” a sexy pause, maybe raise the eyebrow a little a la Roger Moore, then finish with, “and you're always naked.”

Well, not unless you want to get a punch in the tit for your troubles...
(, Thu 5 Nov 2009, 23:52, 5 replies)
The follow up
The first half of this story is here: www.b3ta.com/questions/teenagecrushes/post564037
And here is the follow up.


The brown eyed girl.
My first crush. Yeah, she phoned and we talked and talked and talked. She told me about her soon-to-be ex-husband - she'd found out what a bastard he was - throughout their marriage she'd never come first or second or even third.
I wanted to make her first in my life, I really did.
Or at least I did when I spoke to her on the phone.

We arranged to meet for coffee, catch up on life and laugh about school days.

She still wore her brown wavy hair long and her face and the whole way she moved still held memories of long gone summer days and the kids we once were. Over hazelnut lattes she told me about her dull job in an accountants and I told her about how I'd always loved her, loved her wavy hair, her big brown eyes, the way she laughed, her smile, except what I said was, "Yeah, my job's shit too." She smiled, nodded and sipped her latte.
"So, um, what's your ex doing now then?" I have no idea what made me ask that question - I wanted to know if she still loved watching old Tom and Jerry cartoons or if she remembered being engaged to me all those years ago. She looked up from her coffee and frowned a little, "I'm not really sure. I think he's seeing someone. I know you two were friends...I've got his number if you'd like it?" she tilted her head and looked at me like she thought I fancied him - it was a sort of pitying look because she knew just what a bastard he was. "Oh, right. Er, no, I was just, um, curious." FFS some days I'm an idiot. She began to rake around in her bag and wrote down his number for me. I didn't want his number but I took it and then she said she had to get back to work - there was an urgent job on and...well, you know what it's like. Yeah, I did know exactly what it was like, I nodded and smiled and said some crap about doing this again sometime soon. She smiled politely back at me and told me that would be nice and how lovely it was to catch up with old friends and how I hadn't changed a bit and hoped my mum and dad and my brother were all well. Then she grabbed her coat and left.

When I could no longer see her walking away from me I drank the rest of my coffee - it was cold and tasted rank. The slip of paper was folded up on the table, I shoved it in my pocket and forgot about it.

Soon after I began to have an on-off thing with this really sparky girl she was fun, a lot of fun, very into al fresco sex which is great during the summer but not so good when there's snow on the ground. Have you ever had a relationship with someone who fits you like a glove, almost? Deb was fit, funny, sexy and amazing in bed but - and there's always a but, isn't there? She was bright and sparky but had left school at sixteen, messed around with drugs, drink, a few criminal activities, in short - you name it and she'd done it. Everyone's got a past and mine is nothing to be proud of but when I talked about books I'd read or films I'd seen she'd just smile and slide her hand down into my pants or hers.

You know, I'm writing this now and kicking myself - why on earth did I think there was anything wrong with a woman who didn't want to talk about stuff and would rather go to bed?! Maybe I'm getting old. Anyway, Deb and I were still going at it like jackhammers most nights when I found that piece of paper again and this time I opened it up and looked at what the brown eyed girl had written.

It wasn't her ex's number.

She'd written the same words I'd said to her on that ill-fated wedding day: Will you go out with me? and a mobile phone number.

I would have phoned her right there and then - it'd only been a few weeks, perhaps a month or so since I'd had that coffee with her, perhaps she'd still feel the same way.
So what stopped me? Deb was in my bed at the time - I'd got up to get a glass of water and heard my mobile go off, it was in a jacket pocket and I ended up looking in that jacket. I may be an idiot and sometimes perhaps a bastard, but it wasn't fair to Deb or to the brown eyed girl to start anything. I put the piece of paper back in the pocket, got my water, returned to bed and wrapped my arms around Deb. I kissed her neck and hoped she couldn't tell that I wanted her to be someone else. I'd like to say that I was honorable towards Deb, kissed her tenderly and said, "I can't do this anymore; I love someone else, I think" but I didn't. When Deb turned towards me my hands found her perfect perky tits and my cock just fell right into furry cup velvet heaven - I did close my eyes though.

That all seems like ages ago now. Deb and I eventually split up - last I heard she's getting serious with a personal trainer and is happier than she's ever been before - I'm happy for her. I've still got the slip of paper and on days when it's pissing down I look at it and wonder what the brown eyed girl is doing now.
(, Wed 11 Nov 2009, 10:08, 23 replies)
A pearoast but still worth it......
"Emma"

I was quiet when I was young. Not shy, but just didn't see the point of saying anything if I didn't have anything worthwhile to say. This is a terrible problem when trying to chat up girls, especially when attempting to talk to Emma for the first time. She had long, blond hair, big blue eyes and a fantastic body (even though we were both about 10 years old, she still had a perfect figure).

So we devised a plan, 'we' being myself, Greg, Steve and Brian: I'd phone her up and ask her if she'd like to go and watch a film with me.

The four of us set up an amazingly elaborate script which covered all eventualities; every conceivable twist in the conversation was covered - no matter what Emma said, we were confident we'd have a pre-prepared answer.

The time came to make the call.

I had the several sheets of A4, Greg, Steve and Brian were listening on the extension so that they could hear how things went and could point to the relevant part of the script if I lost control of things, and the most nerve-wracking call of my life began.....

Me: Hi Emma
Emma: Hi Jerry. How're you
Me: Fine thanks. Just wondered if you'd like to go see a film on Friday
Emma: Sure. Shall I come over to your place for about seven o'clock?
Me: That sounds good. See you on Friday.
Emma: Bye


I'm so astounded at how easy it all was that I'm stunned into silence. A silence which is filled by Greg, et al yelling things down the extension like, "You've nailed her", "You're gonna have your hands inside her knickers within a minute" and "She's gonna be sucking you like a whore" together with other unsavoury comments.

Emma: I'm still here you know. I'm never going to speak to you ever again.

And she didn't.
(, Sun 8 Nov 2009, 5:05, 1 reply)
OK, cards on the table time…
I think we all know the completely hopeless feeling that washes over you like a sudden and terrible frost, spreading from your internal organs and ending with a strange tingling feeling in the tips of your fingers and toes, when you suddenly realize at a tender teen age you’ve fallen for someone for the very first time. Just the sight of them makes you feel giddy, makes you feel sick, makes you feel completely and totally alive. You hang round them, not knowing what to say, feeling utterly helpless – hoping they’ll notice you and somehow read it in your fraught expression; they’ll run over and take you in their arms, hold you close, stroke your hair and tell you they feel exactly the same for you as you do for them. Then you’ll both live together forever – happily ever after.

This is how I felt about Sue…

I must’ve been about fourteen. Sue was round the same age, she lived with my mate’s family, must’ve been adopted or something because she had the most beautiful tan skin – like a dusky Amazonian maiden. It started off with a vague attraction, but after a couple of weeks I was completely and totally in love with Sue. Whenever I went to visit my mate, Martin, usually on the flimsy pretext that I wanted to kick his arse at Street Fighter, I’d spend my time stealing the occasional glimpse at Sue as she sat on the sofa, a mild look of amusement on her face, whenever she caught me looking at her. And she had such beautiful eyes. Such gorgeous eyes, filled with summer days and deep dark depths. God, Sue was beautiful. And so reserved, so ladylike. Not at all like the usual slags you used to find round my neighborhood who’d let you finger them for a Peperammi and a bag of Monster Munch.

After a month or so I still hadn’t actually plucked up the courage to speak directly to Sue. I was crushed inside. Completely incapable of forming vowel sounds, my breath would just catch in my throat. I think Martin was starting to see something between the two of us. He’d look at me strangely as if to say: Try anything with her and I’ll kick your arse, you dirty little prick! And the danger of all this just made me want Sue more. It was like Romeo and Juliet, only set in a shitty backward part of Coventry instead.

Then one day after beating the crap out of Martin while playing as that big green fucker while he was the fit bird with the nice tits, Martin got a bit of a cob on and decided to fuck off to the shops to pick up a bag of Maltesers and some small blue Rizla. And that’s when it happened. I was alone with Sue. I went to speak. Couldn’t. Shit! I was completely paralyzed with fear. Then, soundlessly, Sue sauntered over to me, turned round, and presented her fine, slightly muscular arse to me. She wiggled it from side to side. Well, fuck me… I put down the Nintendo controller, turned round and – hands shaking – grabbed her gently round the rear and nuzzled my nose against her sweet smelling bumhole. God, Sue was hot. She remained silent as I slowly, ever-so-carefully, eased my tongue inside her tight chocolate starfish. Jesus, this was WRONG! This was so fucking wrong! But it tasted so good. Sue wriggled down onto my lips, a strange contented sound escaping from her mouth, she started to pant as I increased the speed of my probing tongue and then –

Martin burst in the room. He decided he couldn’t be fucked going to the shops so found us, Sue and I, locked together like some kind of sexy jigsaw puzzle. Martin went absolutely apeshit. Sue was more alert than me, she legged it into the garden leaving me to deal with Martin, who was attempting to remove my head from my shoulders. I managed to evade most of his punches, sprint past him, and make like Linford Christie up the road.

Eventually I slowed, caught my breath. My hard on was subsiding despite the taste of Sue’s anus that still hung heavily in my mouth, driving me wild, making me want her more. Then I started the long trudge home. My friendship with Martin was almost certainly over. I knew I’d probably never see Sue again. Sue. Sue. SUE!!! Ahhh, lovely, amazing, beautifil, gorgeous, SUE!!! I suddenly felt silly, I felt incredibly childish, and that’s when it sort of occurred to me for the first time - Sue was a pretty damn stupid name for a pit bull terrier….
(, Mon 9 Nov 2009, 11:51, 7 replies)
Driving Miss Karen...
OK, last one from me this week and apologies in advance for the lack of the funnies. As people are sharing their deepest, darkest (and in some cases incredibly depressing) tales of their first skirmishes with the opposite sex, I thought it only fair to tell you about Karen and the lengths I went to to try and be her boyfriend. I must’ve been eighteen or nineteen – first year at Uni. All I wanted to do was stroke her hair and make her dinner. This was love. I was fully aware she was anatomically correct beneath her clothes, but I never really thought about fucking her. All I wanted to do was be with her.

I’m usually a complete and utter gobshite, but whenever Karen would breeze into our local I’d go deathly quiet and suddenly find a shitload of interest in the bottom of my pint glass. Karen was so lovely she robbed me of my voice. My mates were forever thankful of this and would usually breath a heavy sigh of relief whenever they saw her walk through the door.

Karen was on the same degree as me. We’d occasionally have the same lectures. Every now and then we’d be put in the same group to talk about dead important economic-related stuff*, and all I’d manage to say was the occasional: “Meep.” Or, if I was feeling particularly chatty: “Errrppp…” I was absolutely fucking hopeless and consoled myself by getting off with as many ugly munters as I could possibly find. Karen just didn’t seem at all interested in me. It was like I didn’t exist.

Then one day we went on a trip to Stockport to look at a leisure centre (fuck knows why). I spent the day sulking and trying to breath Karen in. It was incredibly fucking miserable. Then we went back to Manchester on the train and I went directly to my local and had a pint. Kicking myself for being such an incredible, spectacular retard.

Then Karen walked in the pub. Then it started to – as it tends to do in Manchester a lot – absolutely fucking piss it down. After half an hour or so I felt someone behind me as I nursed my pint (I was a poor student and had developed the act of nursing a pint of Boddingtons down to an art form). I looked behind me. It was Karen. She explained she lived in halls way over on the other side of town. She explained she was supposed to be meeting mates here but because of the weather they hadn’t turned up. She asked if I could drive her back to her halls, just as long as I wasn’t drunk.

Of course, I agreed. Didn’t matter that I didn’t have a car – one could be arranged. And then the terror struck. I went back to my halls, none of my flatmates were in so I ‘borrowed’ my mate Mike’s car keys, then went and found his crappy old battered green VW Golf. Got in it. Started her up and drove, incredibly slowly to the pub where Karen was waiting by the window. She grinned with relief and legged it outside, her coat protecting her head from the rain. She slid into the passenger seat and we set off. Thus began the most terrifying drive of my life. I went slow. Very slow. Peering intently at the road out in front. Clunking through the gears and doing my best to appear all manly. We drove in silence, the car protesting, stalling occasionally. Then, after what seemed like a decade, I dropped Karen off at her halls and she said: “Thanks, Spanky – see you around.” And she got up and left without another word.

Visibly shaking, I turned off the ignition. Tried to figure out what’d just happened. Karen, my big chance, and I’d somehow managed to fuck it up. But then something more pressing came to mind. I spied a phonebox over the road, got out the car and, still shaking, crossed over. Found a ten pence piece in my pocket. I phoned the communal phone in my own halls. All the lads I lived with were on engineering courses, they worked later but should all be back by now. I asked if I could speak to Mike and gave the flat number. After an age I heard Mike say:

“Hello,” in his broad Blackpool accent.

“Mike, it’s Spanky,” I said. “I need your help, mate. I borrowed your car. I’m over near Trafford. Could you come and get me? “

There was a pause as Mike digested this news. I could hear him pad over to the window and check the car park for his motor, which, of course, wasn’t there. “Fuck me…” Mike was strangely calm. “You do know I’m gonna pound your head in when I get there?”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” I said and hung up the phone. Then I went back to the car and waited, feeling sick to the pit of my stomach.

You see, Mike and I knew something Karen didn’t know - I CAN’T FUCKING DRIVE! Never got a license, had one lesson once when I was seventeen and that’s about it. When I think that I could’ve been killed, taking my major league teen crush with me it still makes me want to do a little poo in my pants.

And Mike wasn’t lying. When he eventually got there – by bus – he did pound the living shit out of me. He hid his car keys after that. And apart from the occasional “Hello,” Karen never really bothered with me again… Just don't think she was that into me...


*All bollocks, of course…
(, Wed 11 Nov 2009, 12:23, 3 replies)
My English Teacher
She came to our all boy's grammar straight from teacher training college. She wore stockings; we knew because she used to cross her legs so often. She always had her blouse unbuttoned far too low; we saw it when she bent over us to look at our work. She was the face that launched a thousand wanks.
Then she disappeared. She'd apparently left her husband for one of the sixth formers.

Fast forward about seven years. I'm a medical student doing my obstetric attachment. I get called to labour ward to mend someone's post childbirth torn-up minge.

Yup, it was her, with the sixth former standing next to the bed, blushing.

I made my excuses and left, so i never did get to see what I'd have paid for in blood as a kid.
(, Thu 5 Nov 2009, 18:53, 4 replies)
I fapped over the middle one from that band Hanson once
I'd still do her now, come to think of it
(, Thu 5 Nov 2009, 12:50, 7 replies)
Wendy Richard as Miss Brahms


Thought she was lovely when I was a little boy but she now looks like this:


(, Wed 11 Nov 2009, 14:58, 4 replies)
It's not like I had much choice
As I entered my early teens a few events managed to take me down the social ladder. As a violent opponent of 'The Phantom Menace', active member of the chess club and library enthusiast, I found myself relegated to the position of holding up said ladder for the rest of the adolescent turnips in my backwater school.

I've mentioned before about some of the antics getting the shit kicked out of me led to, but one lucky day it got me a lady.

A very large lady

Who smoked

And dotted the 'i' in her name with a heart

Ladies and gentlemen, my first girlfriend if you please, Dani. Dani felt sorry for me being the butt of most jokes, and quickly took me under her massive, deep fried wing. She took it upon herself to peg me up a few notches by being seen with a woman, and I was 13 years old and glad to be associated with a pair of tits that weren't my own. Soon enough, Foxy was the talk of the town and invited to all sorts of social gatherings with his lady accomplice.

Looking back though, I realise it was me making her feel better and not the other way round. Who nicked fags off his mates to feed her gargantuan habits? Me. Who took her back after she admitted sucking a bloke off in an underpass for some alcopops? Me. Who had to tell her how beautiful she was as another Big Mac flew down her gullet? It wasn't even love, it was a direct order if I wanted 'to make it to the next base'.

One day, dear readers, I did. In time-honoured tradition, my family disappeared one Valentine's Day leaving Dani and I to have an adolescent fumble underneath my Thunderbirds duvet. Her breasts rolled over each other as I worked my toungue, her stomach was sweaty and stretched. Trying not to heave, I decided to switch to batting practice and use my hand to get her going downstairs.

Even now I find it hard to describe the moment. It was like my hand was taking an expedition through the warm amazon only to discover Ben Nevis in the foreground. What I felt, and still feel to this day, was a pair of flaps so disfigured it felt like a couple of cocks swinging around my palm.

I'm not proud, but in the middle of a game of tonsil tennis, it made me throw up a little into her mouth. She swallowed it and licked her lips. That made me spew a little more, and nearly again as she rubbed it over her chest. I quickly got dressed and walked her to the bus stop.

We broke up soon after. The Phantom Menace is still shit.
(, Sun 8 Nov 2009, 10:48, 3 replies)
I've always had strange taste in men (sorry love)
Neil Tennant, Bill Murray and the West Brom manager Brian Talbot were on my bedroom wall twenty years ago.
When I was 15 I was the only girl in a computer studies class. Long, long hours were spent writing in Basic (10 You smell 20 Goto 10 etc.) and the boy sat opposite me (I'll call him Benny) developed a bit of a crush on me. God knows why. 15 year old Betty was very naive, geeky and unattractive..I didn't even have my first kiss until I was 17. He used to walk me home and we went to the pictures once but to be honest real boys scared me so i wasn't very interested. Once Benny realised I wasn't interested the poetry began, then the 'drawings' and then he began sitting on the wall outside my house. Eventually my dad had to go out and tell him that if he didn't clear off he'd have to get all 'dadly' on his ass. Anyway all went quiet, twenty two years passed and I didn't think of this lad at all. Indeed when my child was born I called him 'Benny' as it's also my Grandad's name. Imagine my fear when I get a message from Stalkers reunited.."I see you called your son after me. You've obviously spent twenty years thinking of me as i have you" AAAAARRRRGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGH.
(, Fri 6 Nov 2009, 11:44, 6 replies)
Not me, my daughter.
I had a really odd conversation with my sixteen year old daughter the other day.

She was telling me about a conversation with a friend of hers, where they were discussing their crushes. My daughter admitted to having a thing for Dr. Chase on "Criminal Minds", the scrawny ubersmart geek kid. Her friend replied that she intends to marry Ben Affleck.

I considered this for a moment. "She does realize that Ben Affleck is already married, right?"

"Yeah. It's selective thinking, Dad. It's like how I think that Brad Pitt is hot, but I don't think about the fact that he's your age."

.

..

...

oh FUCK I didn't need my mind to go there.
(, Tue 10 Nov 2009, 1:00, 2 replies)
Cyber stalking
Through my teenage years from 11- 18 there was just one girl I was besotted by. Others might come and go, but there was always her. Being the nerdy social death magnet that I was, she was always weary of me. After A-Levels we went our separate ways.

So one day last month I spent a lunch hour tracking her down. She had a fairly rare surname which makes it easier. Typing her name into 192.com, I can tell that she spent 4 years at university which means she will be extra qualified. She then spent 3 years in the south east at an address with a man's name on the electoral roll before moving back to her home region. Landlord or boyfriend? Well he left the university at the same time, so I'm guessing boyfriend relationship that didn't work out.

From her LinkedIn profile I can see her original job. The company location matches what 192 says about her being in the SE for 3 years, before moving back here and taking on a more impressive job title. With the extra university qualification I can see that she must be quite well paid now. And she works in IT, after belitting me over it for all those years.

A quick visit to nethouseprices.com, and there is the house shes living in, bought 4 years ago for a decent sum. I even download the title deeds from landregistry.gov.uk and confirm that it is her. I never knew before that she had a middle name. An aerial scan at various online mapping sites reveals a tidy garden and a sensible car which is always a good sign.

Finally I check with facebook. There she is, and her friend list is made up of people from her current company, tieing in with linkedin.com. Whilst I can't see her profile, I can see that of one of her friends. They went on holiday together recently, and there is a pool photo of her that would have wanked myself to a dry husk over in my teenage years.

And happily now I've moved on. Theres no payoff to this story that I'm going to go round there with an axe, or even contact her. After a dismal teenage decade, I'm taking this as a small success that I've got over it.
(, Mon 9 Nov 2009, 12:53, 13 replies)
Miss McLeod
Ah Miss McLeod. Also known as the one and only reason I had any interest in French whatsoever.

At the tender age of 11, I joined my new school. The first day, first lesson was French. As we all toddled into our classroom in short trousers and brand spanking new blazers we sat down with pre-pubescent curiosity coursing through our veins. Then, in walked a vision of pure loveliness. Imagine the best bits of Kylie, but with a slightly fuller figure, and the ability to turn any young males in her presence to jelly.

In her gorgeous mouth, French conjugations would turn into the most wonderous poetry. We hung on every froggy word that sprung forth from her lips. If she asked us to, I have no doubt that each and every member of her class would have thrown themselves to their doom if they thought it would bring a smile to her lips. And then in the summer....

...apologies, had to take a moment to myself there....

...in the summer she had a specialist line in rather fetching denim blouses which she with the top two buttons undone. Bear in mind, in an all boys school, basically a burgeoning jizzy soup of sexual tension, she was a Goddess. I have no doubt that several of my contemporaries fwapped themselves into a gooey stupour over the merest glimps of Miss Mcleod's top-bollocks. Many was the night that I myself experimented with crashing my yoghurt truck over that image, and I turned out to be a Gay (TM)

For three wonderous, gorgeous years we had the pleasure of Miss McLeod until - oh tragedy of tragedies - she got married and moved on. Yes, she left - to go into acting! She was replaced by a crusty old cunt with about as much sex appeal as Susan Boyle's fudge tunnel. My interest and ability in French crashed and burnt.

So, imagine my surprise when the other month I was watching TV to see the object of my adolescent adoration playing the mum in an advert for Nintendo DS!

And yes, you still would.
(, Thu 5 Nov 2009, 12:02, 4 replies)
When a crush goes too far
Mary O'Connor was a 40-year-old woman that lived alone across the road from me. In my early teenage years I used to fantasise about her all the time; what I’d like to do with her, and her to me. Most of these fantasises would end in an almighty wank, but I was young and just doing what came naturally I suppose. I would think about her constantly. During school classes, I would daydream about her, and at night I would peer through my curtains across to her house, trying to get a glimpse of her. She’d displaced my Geography teacher, Mrs. West, as the number 1 lady in my life, although at first, she didn’t know this. I’m not sure why my crush was so strong on a woman I’d barely spoken to. Perhaps it was because I was young, or it could have been the fact that she was utterly stunning. She was small in stature; a nice little body with perfectly formed breasts, I estimated about a B cup. I often wondered what her nipples looked like, and longed for the day when I could catch her getting undressed. She was also a business woman, and it was something about her dressed in a suit that got my young juices flowing. Her crisp white blouse was often tight against her chest, and on a few occasions I could make out the detail on her bra. It made getting up for school worthwhile, as I got to see Mary leaving for work. ‘If only she knew how I felt’, I often thought, wishing that I had the bravery to approach her and tell her how amazing I thought she was. However, as time went by, I started to take my crush a bit too far.

I started to stalk Mary and became obsessed with the same things as she was. One morning, as she was collecting her milk from the front doorstep I threw my shoe onto her front garden whilst her back was turned. As I went to retrieve it, she turned and looked at me. I swear she smiled.

“My brother threw my shoe onto your garden. Sorry”, I lied, and felt my cheeks go red in the process. It was a conversation starter though (albeit a strange one) and that morning I learnt what her favourite food, singers and hobbies were, and stated that mine were the same. She seem impressed. This went on for several weeks. I’d go out and say hello to her as she collected her milk and make small talk about things that I knew she liked, having researched them further on the internet.

After a few weeks, simply talking to Mary each morning was not enough. I found her phone number in the phone book and started to ring her. If she didn't answer, I’d keep ringing her back until she did, leaving a message on the answer machine every time. I started off with things such as, "Hi it’s me, just seen something that reminds me of you, ring me back"; but I got progressively worse, becoming tetchy and angry with each message I left. After a couple of days with no response I was leaving messages such as "Do you hate me?? What have I done wrong, Arrrghghhhh!!" complete with an almighty, deafening scream. Yet again, I had no response, but still I chanced my luck - skiving off school one day when I knew Mary hadn’t gone to work. I rang her again and she eventually answered. She asked if I was ok, and that I should speak to my parents, but I acted like nothing was wrong, and said that maybe she was the strange one for believing I was angry.

It soon progressed. I started to follow Mary and make random appearances at places she was at. I followed her to the local supermarkets and accidentally bumped into her, "Fancy seeing you here!”, I exclaimed, trying to sound surprised. Mary seemed a bit scared by this. I kept this up for another two or three weeks, and began to get a bit more aggressive in my approach to stalking Mary. I already knew where she worked, but I started trying to find out about the people she worked with. Then, when in conversation with her one morning when she didn’t collect her milk quick enough without having to make conversation with me, I made snide comments about some of her colleagues that seemed to freak her out. "You know Bill in your office? I’d love to see a lorry reverse over him, and his rotting corpse be scavenged by crows. Sorry, did I say that out loud?" I said. Mary looked at me, then quickly went inside, slamming the door behind her. A month later, despite my best efforts, she moved out.
(, Tue 10 Nov 2009, 14:30, 8 replies)
The Really Wild Show
I can trace my sexual awakening back to when Michaela Strachan had a monkey do a piss on her shoulders during the really wild show.
(, Sun 8 Nov 2009, 23:57, 1 reply)
Dr. Lurve...
I went to an all-girls Catholic school, so between the hours of 9 and 4 those of the male persuasion were very difficult to come across. We shared buses with the all-boys school up the road, but the ones our age were all spotty oiks and the sixth formers wouldn't talk to us for some reason.

So yes, picture the scene - A school which is little more than a holding pen for walking hormones, all the male teachers being over the age of 50 (in the 70's they had a spate of teachers running off with sixth-formers). Suddenly, when I was in Year 10, the school, in their infinite wisdom, decided to hire a new Lab Assistant. Who was male. Who had just graduated. Who was quite literally, to this day, the most spankingly gorgeous person I have ever seen in real life.

Now, I wasn't the only person to think this, not by a long shot. Every single girl in that school thought this guy was the best thing since B&H and Bacardi Breezers. Everywhere he went, girls would follow him around wolf whistling, and after a while, our science teachers just stopped trying to speak whenever this guy was in the room, since all we did was stare at him and burst into rapturous applause whenever he turned around. We never got bored of this, and all he ever did was blush, the poor guy. We called him Dr Lurve, and to this day, if someone mentions him to my friends, we all sigh and go off into little daydreams for a while.

Unfortunately, Dr Lurve was fired after getting off with a sixth-former after about 8 months. A large group of Year 7 girls beat her up after this for "taking him off us". Those of us in the upper years all agreed that she deserved it, the bitch.

So there you have it - not my first teenage crush but a powerful example of who NOT to hire if you are charged with looking after over a thousand teenage girls, and just how scary they can be.
(, Sun 8 Nov 2009, 16:13, Reply)
Daisy Donovan
*wimpers*
(, Thu 5 Nov 2009, 14:33, 7 replies)
hmmm
Apologies for bringing my self-indulgent musings all up in yo' faces, but I've been pondering this very issue lately.

My teenage crush was a long-runner. Seven years it was that I was hopelessly, stomach-fizzingly-cliched, writing-reams-of-shit-poetry and mooning about the place in love with a boy called Alexander. He was one of my best friends at school. I made him laugh. We used to write notes to each other in class, spend hours talking on the phone to the despair and rage of our bill-crippled parents, have adventures together, all that malarky. He confided in me all his deepest angsty woes - including, naturally, how much he fancied Beth/Naomi/Helen/Rachel - whoever it was that week. And I, as confidant and honourary boy-in-girls' clothing, did my best to advise and sympathise whilst internally suffering something equivalent to gout of the heart. And all the while I hoped and prayed that - Dawson's Creek-stylee - he would one day turn to look at me and see - gasp! - not the scrawny and overexcitable sidekick with the bad dye job but the Girl Of His Dreams, and everything would be awesome and wonderful, and so on yadder etc.

It didn't work out, obviously. Matters came to a head in sixth form when, having had it up to here with years of not-very-effective subterfuge, I told him I loved him. I remember the scene in LCD-clarity. I was sat in a muddy field wearing a sequinned tutu and torn fairy wings. He was dressed as Henry VIII. It was someone's shit fancy dress party, and he'd just been turned down by the latest object of his romantic dreams. He just took my hand and said 'I know.' That was it, really. We couldn't ever be close after that, once it was all out in the open. We went our separate ways to uni - I had an amazing time, him not so great. We're still sort of in touch now, and I think of him fondly. It always amazes me now when I speak how alike we still are, how after six years' not seeing one another we can still finish each other's sentences, and all that crap.

This isn't really about him, though. What worries me is that what happened over those formative years - that constant, unwavering affection for someone who just wasn't interested - has moulded me in a fashion that is unlikely to be conducive to a future joys. Put simply, I don't think I know how to do this shit. I'm now officially in my late twenties, and have never had what I'd consider a proper adult relationship. I've had a couple of six-month stints with chaps who were perfectly nice, but who I never really felt much for, and didn't regret the break-up. And I've had my heart savagely broken twice by others who I wasn't with for nearly as long, but the mere fact of them not being quite as keen on me - and not particularly nice - has unfortunately been enough to set me swooning. It seems to take me a helluva long time ( as in years) to get over these ones. Not in a stalkering or melodramatic weeping or obvious way; in fact you'd hardly know it. I had quite a lot of practice in keeping schtum.

So, to come to the point - what if my teenage crush has hard-wired my brain in such a way as to make it well-nigh impossible for me to adore anyone who isn't more-or-less romantically indifferent to me? Where the heck does that point? Cos frankly, I'd rather bounce about merrily on my own than be with someone who I didn't utterly adore, having seen the finest young ladies of my generation fall one-by-one into the cosy stagnant waters of long-term relationships and arguments about bed linen and cutlery sets.

This has all got a bit Dear Diary now, so I'll stop. Ooh, and I really fancied Ioan Gruffudd from that Hornblower series. He could navigate through my waters anytime.
(, Tue 10 Nov 2009, 11:04, 11 replies)
Drew Barrymore
since I saw E.T. when it first came out on video years ago. I'm a little bit younger than her and my wife know I will leave everything behind for Drew even now, after Tom Green gave her some one-ball curse (probly), and Justin Long hit that.

There was another girl, i was not a teen, but she was 18(I was 23). I went to the mall with my friend and saw her sitting in Applebee's, a restaurant if you are unaware. She was eating with her friends and cut her eyes at me. I ended up walking by the window at least 6 times to look at her, and every time I got the same look from her. When she left with her friends, I was gonna go into action! But I froze, I didn't know what to say. My friend, a 300 lb black guy called donut, jumped into action and nearly made 3 little white girls run in fear. He talked to her and got her number for me. Later, I worked up the courage to talk to her myself and we made plans to go out. Five years later, we're married with 2 kids and I'm still embarassed that I was too scared to talk to her. Tis a happy ending though.
(, Mon 9 Nov 2009, 19:01, 2 replies)
The Flake adverts fucked up my first ever BJ
Especially the one with the wanton gypsy floosy going all gooey-crotched over a bar of fucking rancid, mummified chocolate (just don't get flakes, me). They were out in the early eighties when I was too young to really understand it. I was excited in strange new cock-related ways... but I just didn't really get it...

Fastforward a few years and I'm round my first proper girlfriend's house, a girl named Toni (odd name, but she was actually pretty damn hot for a thirteen year old, not blokish in the slightest). We're pissing about playing Pac Man when we start doing a bit of low level smooching. Then Toni reaches for my fly and starts unzipping the beast, then she says: "I'm gonna Flake advert your man bits."

This was odd. I was thirteen. My 'man bits' resembled a baby carrot flanked on either side by a couple of garden peas, and the whole 'Flake' thing was decidedly dodgy. I recalled the ad. The way the girl brought the crap chocci bar up to her lips and took... a... long... loving... deliberate... BITE.

"Fuck off!" I said. "There's no fucking way you're doing that!" Then I quickly zipped away my pecker and went home.

Took a good couple of hours for it to sink in, just how much of a spectacular fucking twat I'd just been. Had to wait nearly four fucking years for my first ever blowjob after that. Fucking Flake adverts...
(, Fri 6 Nov 2009, 13:13, 5 replies)
Bing, bang, diggadiggadong.
She's 18 now so I can say Stephanie from Lazytown without fear of prosecution.

(I know this is not what was meant but it needed saying)
(, Thu 5 Nov 2009, 12:54, 10 replies)

This question is now closed.

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