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This is a question My first love

I can't remember her name. Rebecca I think. We used to play monkeys in the rhododendron bushes at the edge of the big playground. She was lovely. We were 5.

C'mon, tell us about your first love

(, Thu 20 Oct 2005, 10:31)
Pages: Latest, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, ... 1

This question is now closed.

It's another true love story (well it's TRUE at least)
OK, so most people put this at the end, but Apologies for length - here goes:

She was just another girl in another class, but aged 6 I moved classes for being "disruptive". It was then I met the girl who became the woman who has caused me to waste half my life*.

We shall call her X, or perhaps Catherine, as that is her name. If you are reading this and you recognise yourself, well "Hi". Please let me know what you have been doing for the last 5 years...

First day in the new class, there she was. We did everything together. Sat next to each other in class, sometimes; giggling in the corner. Put school chalk down the toilet and drew rude pictures of naughty cats on the walls.

My one ambition at the end of Infant school was to kiss her, and it was fulfilled only on moving to the juniors. My other ambition in life was to be a train driver. Well that had to wait another 14 years and I am now unemployed again so you could say I have done everything so now I can look forward to becoming senile and incontinent before choking to death on an undercooked brussels sprout in the old people's home aged 78. Only 50 years to go, bring it on!

The junior school building was the same as the infants, only the cloakrooms had been converted into two extra classrooms, so our class had a funny half-cupboard, half-corridor kind of room out the back. I would meet Catherine at lunch-times for a secret kiss fuelled by the passion only 7-year-olds can share (just ask Gary Glitter :o) ).

We visited each other's houses (our mothers knew each other from work) and on her 8th Birthday I gave her a card filled with as many kisses (xxx) as an 8-year-old can fit in in his smallest writing.

I had my entire life planned. I would leave school at 16 and join British Rail and have my own branch line a bit like Thomas the Tank Engine. Catherine could work in the buffet car and make tea for the passengers. When the train arrived at the seaside we could go for a picnic on the beach before driving back again. We would save up our wages from the railway and get married, but instead of buying a house we would get an old sleeper carriage and put it on the back of our train and live there.

Anyway back to reality, and aged 9 I was on my own again. A new boy came to the school became my best friend and secretly loved Catherine as well. The two of them never dated or anything but from then on we were only "friends" again.

I would often move across the class to sit at her table and we would still do special school projects together. Story assignments would normally involve her in some way. For example a story about spaceships involved Catherine being kidnapped by a UFO and me flying out to rescue her. (Film rights are for sale if interested BTW.)

Aged 11 we had to move on to Senior School. only 5 years to go before British Rail and our white wedding beckoned. Then she decided to go to an all-girls school.

Major Bummer.

Fast forward to the summer holidays, I am now 15. I saw Catherine most mornings as her route to school passed the end of my road. The fact I used to sneak out of school early and stand at the end of the road just to wave and say "hi" as she sped past is largely irrelevant.

Anyway, two weeks before the end of the holidays, My next door neighbour David and me are out shopping for records. (CDs being a new "fad" at the time). Catherine is in Woolworth's looking for a CD which has sold out. It just so happens that David has two copies because he bought one with his pocket money, and then got one as a present, so agrees to sell the other one to Catherine at a knock-down price.

We agree to go round her house with the CD the next day. Off we go then. Catherine has a huge poster and has invited all her friends to write their phone numbers on the white border round the edge. David's writing is illegible and he smudges the number. Mine is crystal clear, with a little heart over the "i" in my name (i.e. real name not my b3ta username).

Next day the phone rings and I nearly drop it in my tea. I am being invited round to see Catherine. Every day until the end of the holidays I am round there. Bliss? perhaps...

I then start work experience. Still every Monday and Wednesday I am there. One day at my school I see her at the bus stop."Why are you here?" (it's the next town) - "Oh, I am dating (a sad gimp called NIGEL)". For fuck's sake NIGEL? So when Nigel dumps her I phone him up and play the funeral march down the phone on her mum's piano. Cue two years of bullying from his mates when they find out who it was. Every bruise was worth it, for I was defending the honour of my lady love.

The next bit is a bit of a blur, details are lost. But I start college, and find out she is dating some utter gimp on my college course. Apologies to the bloke concerned. I'm sure some people would have called me a "gimp" when I was at college and I'm sure he's a nice bloke really, it's just, at the time, anyone dating her who wasn't me was automatically a "gimp" in my book. Believe me, it's a thick book.

One day comes the tearful phone call that he has dumped her. I stuff my fist in my mouth and mutter something like "I'm sorry to hear that" whilst trying to disguise the fact I am dancing a merry jig around the room shouting "woo-hoo!".

So I go round and do the "never mind, don't cry" bit, but of course the time is not right to jump right in with "let's run away, join British Rail and get married" so I bite my tongue.

Next is Bad News. British Rail is to be privatised. Half the dream is gone. Let's get busy and remind her of my undying love. Of course I have to wait for the right moment...

The "right moment" comes. A couple of stiff drinks carefully "borrowed" from Dad's drinks cabinet and round I go. "Hi, what's up?" I ask "Do you know (insert boys name here) ?", she says, "He's my new boyfriend".

Repeat as above, about 10 times. I have a crack in my broken heart like the Liberty Bell and it's not getting any better.

Then what? I meet new friends, go to different places, and on Catherine's 18th Birthday, I am in my dad's car, in a layby in some tiny village in the middle of nowhere, snogging some bored easy village girl with a made-up name. I feel so guilty for "cheating" and I promise never to do it again. I think this has affected my love life ever since. There are trappist monks who could call me inexperienced...

Later, after the parents threw me out, I got my own flat and on my moving-in day my first visitor is the lovely Catherine. First visit of many, the beginning of true love? Bollocks. She never came round again.

Then I share a bachelor pad with my best mate, after losing the v-plates in the back of my car with his missus. Before you ask it was his idea. Some blokes like that kind of thing apparently. Two weeks later they meet me from work and this innocent 17-year old gets her first spit-roast.

First day in new "bloke" house I drop a moving card to the lovely Catherine. "She's not here" say her Mum, "she's in London at University". Never saw that one coming. BANG!

Best mate and his missus get married, have two kids, get divorced.

Meanwhile I am off in Mum's borrowed car driving to a party to celebrate Aunty somebody's wedding anniversary. Miss the turn off the Motorway, and end up at Catherine's student house. Pop in to say hello. I give her a lift to a dodgy pub in Dagenham where I get introduced to....

wait for it...


Didn't see that one coming, did I? Having laid awake for about three nights just repeating the words "oh fuck!" over and over again I finally got used to the idea. At least it's not some dodgy bloke. It was easier to cope with in some non-threatening way, the same way that women love gay blokes I suppose. I guess I was some kind of lesbian's fag-hag.

So being dragged round the gay pubs of London I thought "well, why not?" but it was not for me so I went back to being lonely, single and straight.

Some people say there is no such thing as the "right moment". Even if there is then the fast lane of the M1 Northbound just past Luton is probably not it. Just driving in the car, I could bear it no longer I finally burst out a declaration of my undying love.

Her reaction? "I knew all along". Thanks. Unfortunately now I had been a "friend" too long and she didn't want to ruin it. Nice - NOT! Well, the friendship continued, perhaps a little enhanced by the fact I was in love with her and she knew it. Sex was definitely off the menu which made sleepovers at her house frustrating to say the least. Cuddles and kisses were in, but no tongues please.

Walking hand-in-hand whilst shopping was fun, because I could pretend - and most people passing by would think we were married or something. Standing outside the changing rooms in clothes shops with the "other" husbands they must have thought we were "just married" because when their wives came out they said "yes dear, whatever", but I was full of compliments and even smiled whilst I was paying :o)

Then I joined the Railways, or what was left of them, and was pleased to hear I could get free travel, including the service which went within ½ mile of her house... So one day I have a ride with the Driver and go and see her.

I try to forget the new boyfriend she has met at Uni (so much for Lesbian sisterhood then). I meet her in the kitchen in the house next door where she used to do the cleaning for the businessman who lived there. She was dressed in just some old clothes for doing the housework, but to me she was the most beautiful woman in the world, ever. It was as if I was coming home from a hard day's work on the Railway, and here was my lovely wife waiting for me at home.

Never mind, eh?

Eventually I say goodbye on the doorstep, like the goodbye kiss of a husband on his way to work. At that exact moment, the Hatfield Rail crash happened, miles away, and the railways were all messed up for ages, and it was down to that I met Ruth. She was married, but not to me, but that is another story.

That was 5 years and 5 days ago and I have never seen Catherine since. She has never phoned, written, texted, e-mailed, but then neither have I. All I have are memories, and a 6x4 photo of her which I use as a bookmark between pages 86 and 87 of the London A-Z.

If there are any ladies out there, single, aged 20-35, who like railways and don't mind being called "Catherine" in the heat of passion, please get in touch.


* Did I say half my life? At last count it would be three-quarters. Sorry.

Apologies for length... Well, you can't say I didn't warn you! Think yourself lucky you've only got the short version.

Here she is:

Click to see her in all her 800x600 pixelly glory

Comments, marriage proposals, recommendations of good shrinks to the e-mail address in my profile, please.
(, Sat 22 Oct 2005, 1:47, Reply)
I'd pretty much given up...
...on love by the time she came along - I was 20 and feeling a bit lonely after more than two years of 'fuck that for a game of soldiers', an attitude brought on by my first serious girlfriend (see www.b3ta.com/questions/pretentious/post40929/), and a subsequent series of romantic disasters.

So, one of my mates and his new gf offered me a blind date with one of her mates, and I agreed with some trepidation as blind dates are generally a bad idea. The special night came, and my mate and his gf chose that most romantic and classy of venues, a McDonalds fucking drive-thru for our first date. The time at the drive-thru was basically shit for thier company, and things were looking a bit iffy when they drew the date to a close at 9:30pm and dropped us off. Yeah, nice vote of confidence there, guys.

She lived over the road from a big park in town and I had a couple of spliffs on me, so not being quite as can't-be-arsed as our friends, we buggered off into the park for a smoke and some get-to-know-you action - we ended up sat under a tree talking while it pissed down around us til about 5 in the morning. I had to walk four miles back to my place after I kissed her goodbye (our first kiss - so busy chattering we forgot to even get a snog in), but I didn't care :)

We were together for nearly 8 years after that - she taught me a lot about myself, did JT. Sadly, one of the things I learned later on along the way is that I'm gay, which understandably brought about the end of our bf/gf relationship. The day I told her is the day I came out - we ended up going to counselling together because we didn't know how to tie things off without destroying each other. We managed it in the end, and we remain dear friends.

That was four years ago - she has since met another guy and is expecting a kid - the pair of them are over the moon about it and very happy together. As for the guy she's with, I couldn't have picked better for her myself - he's a good lad - got it written through him like a stick of rock :)

And me? Yeah, I've got someone - only been together for a few months, but it's clear that I love him, I'm loved back and things are going really well. It's strange though - after growing up straight to all intents and purposes, I catch myself every now and again thinking 'Fuckin' 'ell, I'm in love with another bloke'.

Apologies for length, but with hindsight my heart wasn't really in it with girls, so length and girth are all I had going for me ;)
(, Fri 21 Oct 2005, 9:17, Reply)
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.
(, Fri 21 Oct 2005, 18:47, Reply)
Well, more about my son...
He was three when i was taking him to tour his preschool. We're walking in and a dad and his little girl, four by my guess, looks at my son, points, and tells her dad "Look daddy! He's my boyfriend! He's my boyfriend!"

The only thing I could think to say was "He never touched her! She said she was eight!"
(, Fri 21 Oct 2005, 19:10, Reply)
Many firsts
I was six years old, and in my class at school there was a girl named Jody Chandler. What exact chain of events led up to this I can no longer recall, however it came to pass that one day we were sat together at the back of the classroom drawing crude crayon drawings of men with huge cocks.

Anyhow, out of the blue she asked me if she could come into the toilet with me. Confused, unsure, but with a strange and inexplicable eagerness driving my actions, I said okay.

We walked into the cubicle and with confidence belying her years she grabbed my trousers, tugged them straight down, and there in front of me jutted something I don't recall ever seeing before that moment; I have since learned that it is called an "erection", and surely an example so fine can seldom have been seen on a six year old boy.

We both stood there staring at it, neither quite sure what to do with it. But suddenly there it was again, that uncanny voice in the back of my mind, now compelling me to return the compliment and yank down her elasticated green nylon flares.

But before I could act, the cubicle door, which evidently neither of us had remembered to lock behind us, flew open. And there stood this kid called Craig, a bit of a dirty gippo type not too popular. His jaw hit the floor, his eyes bulged, and he blurted out "uuuh! aah! ummmmm! I'm telling Miss!"

Quick as a flash, Jody said to him "I'll stop you telling"; she grabbed him by the front of his shirt, pulled him into the now rather crowded cubicle - and gave me an almighty shove. Out I flew, the door slammed shut, and there I was stood in the middle of the school with my pants round my ankles, a great big hardon, and an irresistable urge to cry.

Many lessons were learned on that day.
(, Thu 20 Oct 2005, 13:59, Reply)
I Fell in love...
with my right hand during puberty, we are still together now.
(, Thu 20 Oct 2005, 10:39, Reply)
Hazy memory,
but I was about 5, just started school and her name was Claire. We loved each other, and i decided to show my love to her in the only way i knew how - I found a twig, dipped it in dog shit and wiped it on her jacket.

The school gave me detention for the rest of lunchtime. Funnily enough, we are not together any more.
(, Fri 21 Oct 2005, 14:22, Reply)
First Love...
We were born close together in time, our parents reckoned we could have been siblings. Her name was Deborah, which never seemed to be right for her. Everyone thought we'd get married and be together forever but we never did, although it alwasy crossed my mind. I once suggested meeting up in the new millenium, but it never happened, but it would be strange seeing everyone again, since they've all grown up.

Sorry, now you can all beat me to a Pulp ;)
(, Thu 20 Oct 2005, 14:18, Reply)
Ahh... my first love
I remember her well: long golden locks, perfect smile, gorgeous body..

The pages got stuck together and she was lost forever.
(, Sat 22 Oct 2005, 3:02, Reply)
Friends + Love = Disaster
My male friend X is still a virgin (not the same X as previous post). That is partly down to me and our other mates.

About a year ago, we head off into town and meet some lasses. Now, I have a bird so wasn't really interested.. However, X had pulled!

A few weeks later and X has decided he's fallen in love with the lass who he's been seeing since the night out. They haven't done anything of a sexual nature yet but it is certainly on the cards.

They have planned on doing 'it' at his student flat and cooks her a wonderful meal. Candles and everything! We help him prepare before she gets there and everything is perfectly set up.

This may get complicated so read slowly:

The bus that the girl needs to get off to go to X's flat is about a 20 minute walk. The nearest shop is a 2 minute walk from the flat.

We have one friend, Y, standing near to the bus stop waiting. He sees the soon to be popped (i don't know if she was a virgin) lass get off the bus, and sends a message to Z, another friend who is helping me and X to prepare for the romantic night.

Then Z says to X "Have you got condoms? You can't do it without condoms.

Unfortunately, X can't find the condoms anywhere! He's sure he left them in the medicine cabinet! He did. We stole them.

So, we convince X to rush out to the shops and buy the love-wellies. No glove, no love, folks!

Meanwhile, me and Z decorate his flat a little more... with hardcore porn and Ann Summers gear such as whips, chains, lube. Some of the porn is just pictures we downloaded from the net... mainly the horses fucking women and gay bondage. For added effect we cover a load of tissues in hair gel and disperse them around his flat.

Better than we could have wished for, X and the girl actually meet each other whilst X is just coming out of the shops. "Just went to check my balance at the ATM.."

Me and Z are waiting outside the door and hastily make an exit. We didn't want to hang around and spoil their big night!

Needless to say his relationship never really took off. Something to do with her thinking he was a perverted dominatrix. Still, it means he can come down the pub with the lads rather than been stuck with a bird!

Apologies for length? He didn't get far!
(, Fri 21 Oct 2005, 19:21, Reply)
The ravages of time!
"Show me your widgy and I'll show you my twinkle," she squeaked. To my delight, pretty little Danielle was not shy behind closed doors. We were five. The wendy house in the school classroom was a favourite place for amorous young things like ourselves, keen to learn about the opposite sex. Of course, the wendy house wasn't entirely private. The windows in the wooden walls were not glazed and there were no curtains, so any passers by could easily have peered through to witness what would, in hindsight, appear to be either very cute or rather disturbing. They could even have reached in for a fiddle. For these reasons, I never did manage a twinklglimpse or offer a widgyglance, and the option of a swift jimmynudging was years away.

There was another little lass called Heidi who always wanted to drag me into the wendy house. She was wildly jealous of Danielle's relationship with me. I spurned Heidi's advances, fighting her off tooth and nail until she simply gave up and moved on. Imagine my sense of self-disappointment then, when, ten years later, Heidi blossomed into a thoroughly attractive, respectable yet foxy young nymphette, and Danielle turned out to be a filth-ridden, pot-bellied, greasy-haired, acne-riddled, mean-spirited, hook-nosed, gorilla-armed witch of a bearded munter with a voice like a peacock having its neck stamped on and who was as thick as sweet Jack Fuckery!

Bless her.
(, Thu 20 Oct 2005, 16:10, Reply)
First Love
Just for Clapper... The worst love/first love.

I suppose my first true love as opposed to teenage crushes was Anne. A convent school girl (upper 6th - I'm not a pervert!) who I met while on a pissup in Newcastle. She was pretty, bouncy, great fun and we fell head-over-heels in love. Ah. But I was but a teenager myself and, as teenage blokes do, treated her terribly as I didn't want to look "soft" in front of my mates.

We were together for almost two years. Her putting up with all the shit I put her through me, acting like a complete arsehole for almost our entire time together. And then we broke up.

All of the crowd I hung around with at the time were pretty much useless with women. They were terrified of talking to them or trying to trap off with the, especially strange girls - the ones they didn't know. But they knew Anne. She'd been part of our drinking crowd for two years and, now the we were split up, she was fair game. - Only I didn't see it that way.

So. Every Friday night for the next few months I'd head off over town, join my drinking crew and then watch in horror as Anne systematically screwed her way through my friends and I'd systematically beat the crap out of them the next night.

Teenage years the best of your life? I'd rather drag my testicles over broken glass than go through that again.

Still, at least I got off lucky. That slim, full-breasted teenager now weighs about 22 stone and her gravitational pull is so much that she's captured small planets that now orbit her bulk...

(, Thu 20 Oct 2005, 10:40, Reply)
Right, this is off-topic, but just too funny.
He wasn't my first love, nor my last. In fact, it wasn't really love at all, more like eight months of screaming interspersed with shagging and road trips.

But he's the first man with whom I have been trapped on a roof, naked, for more than an hour. That's got to count for something, if not love.

The story goes: Being young, crazy, and in possession of a small single-story apartment with a walled garden and a flat roof, we boosted ourselves (by climbing onto the garden wall), bare-assed, one evening to watch the sunset. Why we did it naked, I don't remember.

Coziness ensues, very romantic, very risque, et cetera. Quite nice, really.

Quite nice until my loud, drunken, horrible neighbor comes home. With a friend. And decides to have a drink in her garden. Which shares a wall with my garden. The wall we've put the ladder on. So, in effect, we can't climb down until she goes inside, unless we feel like showing her our goodies.

Keep in mind, gentle reader, that at this point, I lived in a desert. Deserts, although hot during the day, drop in temperature very, very rapidly at night.

We had climbed up to watch...the...sun...set.

Cue me and him, naked and shivering, no longer feeling romantic at all, waiting for the drunken bint next door to stop drinking and go indoors. We couldn't even walk around, for fear someone would spot the two naked idiots on a roof.

Well after dark, she went indoors, and we scrambled inside, frozen and shivering. Romantic mood completely shredded. Destroyed. He drove himself home, I went to bed.

Off topic, I know. But had to be told.
(, Tue 25 Oct 2005, 23:29, Reply)

yes - yours.
(, Mon 24 Oct 2005, 18:08, Reply)
Twice the pleasure
I have two tales for you goodly gentlefolk:

First girlfriend. We were both fifteen. She was a Wimbledon ballgirl. It didn't last long - a month or two perhaps. She split with me after the first (and indeed only) time I got off with her. I think she mistook me putting my arms around her for, er, something else. Just as well, really. She had long, blonde hair that you could run your fingers through and get them stuck. It was _that_ frizzy. I remember being quite upset about it until my old man told me that Have I Got News for You was on.

Second girlfriend. We were both 19. I fell for her on the floor of the University of Warwick's sports hall. Not the most promising of venues, I confess. We were both at a big student conference there, and were in the same year at the University of York. I had been turfed out of the place I had laid out (German tourist style) beforehand and ended up next to her. She fell asleep and, looking back, I think I fell in love with her then. I didn't really realise it, though.

So, I picked up the courage to ask her out on the coach back. Then she mentioned that hideous phrase - "my boyfriend." Fvcksocks.

A few months later, I heard that they were no longer an item. So, I asked her out, by way of asking her to do a graphology assessment for me, bizarrely enough. I was so nervous I had to write down and practice what I wanted to say ( I've subsequently framed it) She was rather taken aback, and asked for some time to think.

Foolishly, I thought I was in there.

I wasn't. The next day she turned me down. Her previous boyfriend had been a bit of a headcase, apparently. She didn't feel ready for another relationship.

I didn't eat for two days. I wrote out Radiohead lyrics. Nuff said.

Fast forward two weeks. I met her at a Battle of the Bands heat. We had a good natter and she agreed to go out to a club (of the alternative music variety) the following night. I didn't see her until gone midnight - I thought I'd been stood up. She had a decent enough explanation, although I can't remember what it was offhand.

The next day I saw her at the Amnesty stall. She asked to have a word with me. We went outside. It was the middle of February and was a little bit on the chilly side to say the least. We sat down. She asked me out.

Five and a half years later, this October, I took her to the same spot and proposed to her. She said yes.

Ah, almost forgot. Between me asking her out and her asking me out, I decided to take revenge on her previous bf. I got him super-soaked and flanned during RAG week. I eventually owned up to this a few months into our relationship. Her reaction? "But that wasn't him!". I'd put out a contract on the wrong bloke, poor bugger.

Girth? Length? You love it.
(, Thu 20 Oct 2005, 23:52, Reply)
Remington Youth Club, 1995...
She was called Sarah. I thought she said I kissed like Batman:

"No, you kiss like Pacman".

It was shortlived.
(, Thu 20 Oct 2005, 18:45, Reply)
my best mate's older sister, who I hated because she was a snotty bitch and treated me like shit
my mate and I had to walk her back from a school dance, she was 16, half pissed and had been touched up by older boys most of the night. Just before we got to her house she said, laughingly "give us a kiss". I did, she pushed me onto the footpath, mounted me and fucked me til she came, then walked off still laughing.
I sat there stunned for a while then went home - I had several blisters, gravel rash and ant bites on my bum, my clothes were covered in blood, some mine but mostly her menstrual blood.
I was 14, the trauma remains with me to this day.
(, Mon 24 Oct 2005, 12:31, Reply)
it was around 1996...
... i met her in the uni computer lab. she was a bit slow. her name was wyw.com (alas, she is no more). there were loads of others later. harder, stranger, weirder. finnteen.com, milkmanbook.com, indienudes.com.

but i'll never forget my first porn site. it's never been so good since.
(, Sun 23 Oct 2005, 21:18, Reply)
My Finest Hour: Killer Sideburns from Outer Space!
   When the televised version of "Pride and Prejudice" was aired in 1995, the sexual magnetism of Mr. Darcy's sideburns was such that MRI machines within five miles of his image were instantly banjaxed; IV drips, liquid helium and surgeon's appliances went flying all over the place, with disastrous consequences. (So disastrous in fact that John Major was noted to say "I have said it before and I will say it again..." six times in an hour, he was that nervous.) The sideburns' unforeseen magnetic phenomena also affected people's brains; women wanted to be with him, and men just wanted to be him - hence the sudden eruption of facial hair with in the populace that made Friday night down the pub look like an American Civil War veterans' reunion.
   The scramblage of everyone's brains knew no bounds - it even extended to my class at school, where my painfully shy attempts at wooing Sophie - the sweet-natured black-haired blue-eyed beauty of our year - were beginning to look up at last. Unfortunately, all of it was for naught when the brutal forces from the sideburns slammed her neurones into new paths, and she became infuriatingly infatuated with the owner of the sideburns; her beautifully rosy cheeks and lusciously-curved mouth also gravitated downwards into a permanent sneer at the sheer monotony and inadequacy of her suitors and provinical surroundings.1 "Is there no-one," lamented Sophie at great length in public, "who could match - nay, trounce - the sheer sideburniness of Mr. Darcy?" Undeterred by her overnight shift in demeanour, I resolved to out-sideburn Mr. Darcy and win Sophie's heart, even if it cost me my sanity, my liberty and my life!
   (Incidentally, nine years later I had the finest set in the land, which are at their best when I've not shaved for a month - except of course when one side is longer than the other, which happens depressingly often.)
   But in the short-term, my prospects were shattered. I could not match Mr. Darcy's sideburnosity in time, as I was not of French, Greek or Italian stock, and none of the girls my age were remotely interested in any of us, despite being a bunch of handsome devils for our age. My contemporaries grew bitter and twisted, hanging round outside nurseries and primary schools to see how quickly they could impregnate the fattest and hairiest munters these establisments had to offer, but I successfuly maintained my moral fibre during those dark years - I became an iron-hard Christian fundamentalist and forced my little sister to wear thick hairy grey blouses buttoned up to the neck and stupidly large glasses (even though she had perfect eyesight), and to pray to Jesus for forgiveness and redemption, 19 hours a day, on pain of being beaten with a big stick. But secretly my heart still belonged to Sophie.
   The sideburns continued to affect the minds of the nation for many years after that, but their tyrannical grip had lessened slightly by 2003, by which time I had deserted my Christian principles and joined a sinister xenophobic cult which believed the sideburns to be extraterrestrial in origin, and should be destroyed as soon as it was convenient to do so. I was quickly promoted to become their Senior Management Variable Analysis Executive (grade II) when I divulged the extent of my hatred for these alien face-ornaments. The sympathy of these strange, hunched cultists strengthened my resolve and made me more eager than ever to maim the odious face-fungi and finally unite myself with Sophie, who by now was beginning to show some of her sweet nature again, and was more beautiful than ever.
   "Oh Tom," she said, gazing up at me soulfully and caressing my hand, "You make me feel alive in a way that no-one else can, but the sideburns of Mr. Darcy still hold sway over my mind, and in my dreams they say you are weedy; a bookish intellectual with all the courage and gumption of a stunned herring, and poor with it! I don't want to believe them, but my mind refuses to deviate from the honourably-shrived Four-Fold Path of the Sideburn, and still my heart belongs to those remarkable hairpieces."
   She still couldn't remember my real name, but so in love was I that I cared not one bit.
   Said I, "Sophie, Sophie, Sophie... ... ..." I didn't know what to say at first, but rallied: "I assure you I shall truly, madly and deeply astound you with an amazing feat of bravery!"
   "How will you do that?" she asked.
   "You'll see," I said tapping my nose conspiratorially.
   Unsurprisingly, she was very sceptical about this. But at seventeen, she was getting too old for most of the local mens' tastes, and was beginning to attach herself to yours truly, despite her disturbing lust for the 'burns. It was a paradigm.
   In the Cult, word got around that Mr. Darcy was going to Manchester incognito for the opening party of a new company. The party was to be at the top of the Hexagon Tower in Blackley, and the Cult needed a brave assassin to go there and top the 'burns. Without hesitation, I volunteered myself for this dangerous task, and simultaneously swore at myself for volunteering, for it is well known that the muggins who volunteers never gets let off easy. But the Cult rejoiced and had a pre-emptive pray to their strange dark god for my safety. In fact, they did so much of this that they held a full-scale ceremony - tea, biscuits and semen were laid on for the duration, and everyone was happy.
   Finally the fateful day arrived. I made a mannequin replica of myself so people wouldn't know I'd gone, and secretly boarded the train to Peterborough, then on to Manchester! But I was not going there alone - Slightly Mad Mike, an old friend from my Christian days, was accompanying me to film my glorious victory (or hideous defeat), get it broadcast on the News the next day, and thereby earn his fortune through royalties when they repeated it non-stop for the following three weeks.
   Four hours later, we stepped off the train at Manchester Victoria, then headed into Blackley itself, some way north. The magnitude of the task in hand became apparent as we approached the ominous Hexagon Tower - for many yards the twin stenches of death and decay permeated the air, and the poverty surrounding the place was truly terrible to behold. Undeterred, Slightly Mad Mike and I sneaked into the building, found out where and when the party was to be held, and managed to spend the whole day hiding in the medicine cabinet by the Gents' without being seen.
   Slightly Mad Mike, besides being the world's best cameraman, was also an accomplished thief - in the best possible sense of the word. He managed to rob a heavy protective visor and a pair of extra-tough vulcanised elbow-length rubber gloves, which would be much needed if Mr. Darcy's 'burns turned hostile. I praised Slightly Mad Mike for his admirably forward thinking.
   Slowly but surely, the hour of the party approached, and all the while I meditated and tried to make contact with the Cult's god. I failed. Since abandoning Christianity, my mind was heathen and would accept the existence of no god whatsoever. This was very dispiriting. So was the indigestion I'd been having for the past week; even now, I reckon the semen on those biscuits was well past its sell-by date.
   The fateful hour arrived. From our vantage point in the medicine cupboard, we could hear the distinctive sound of Mr. Darcy's voice, backed by an ominous rustling - were his sideburns sentient beings? had they hijacked his personality? how evil were they, exactly? We would not know the answers to these questions until we ventured out of our hiding-place and confronted the 'burns in person. So I put on the visor and gloves, and hefted an enormous and sharp meat-cleaver (kept under a velvet cloak for lack of conspicuousness). Slightly Mad Mike checked his camera was working, put fresh stock in, and away we went!
   It was crowded in the Gents', but we made our way through without anyone noticing - obviously heavily-shielded people bearing concealed weapons trailed by cameramen were an everyday occurrence in the Hexagon Tower.
   In the enormous ballroom outside the Gents' we spotted Mr. Darcy at the far end, lounging on a feather bed and apparently having a conversation with himself. I strode over, raised the cleaver in the air and brought it down on his legs, swiftly amputating both of them before you could say Jumping Jack Flash. Blood spurted out of the stumps and feathers stuck to them like fluff to half-sucked boiled sweets in trouser pockets. But what was truly terrifying was the transformation of his head - the 'burns instantly doubled in size, met under his chin and pulled the skin off his face to reveal... another, almost identical face underneath, locked into a permanent grimace of terror. "My God!" yelled I, "was *this* the terrible fate of Colin Firth?" (However, nobody heard me because my voice was muffled by the visor - on the film it sounded more like "Mnn HNN!!! mnnhnnvnhnnhnmmmhnnnhnm?!") It soon became apparent that the 'burns had indeed hijacked his body, erasing all traces of Colin Firth and leaving behind nothing of his soul, apart from indescribable fear.
   I had to make a quick decision, for the 'burns were growling in a vicious, animalian fashion, and the inside of my trousers were becoming distinctly damp. So I raised the now-bloody cleaver again and hacked off Darcy-formerly-Firth's arms - this time with some difficulty as the action of severing his leg-bones had blunted the blade. Even more terrifyingly, his 'burns doubled in size again and his nose and mouth disappeared into his head, leaving nothing but madly-staring eyes and bare flesh in their place. The 'burns were now angry, and a blood-curdling roar was coming from their morass of microscopic mouths, so I bodily picked up the now-limbless Darcy-formerly-Firth - taking care to keep the 'burns as far away from my face as possible - and ran to the roof. Slightly Mad Mike had got the lot on film, and was following a few steps behind, yelling out a running commentary as if he was at the races.
   We both got to the roof, and my initiative ran out - what on earth were we going to do with Darcy-formerly-Firth, now that I'd cut off his limbs and enraged his sideburns? Given the enormous height of the Hexagon Tower, and its unrivalled views of Blackley and Middleton, there was only one option, and it was the best by far. I wound up my arm like a spring, and threw Darcy-formerly-Firth off the top of the Hexagon Tower with all my bodily strength, and spiritual strength fuelled by the years of oppression and peer-pressure that hade just gone. His body described a perfect parabola, which was tracked by the all-seeing lens of Slightly Mad Mike's camera. We did not see where it landed, but prayed that the tortured soul of Colin Firth would finally be laid to rest when it did.

And that, comrades, is the story of my Firth Lob, and how I single-handedly defeated the Killer Sideburns from Outer Space. When the news broke out, I was welcomed home as a hero. Sophie threw her arms around my neck and kissed me passionately; I swept her up in my arms, we got married, and divorced two months later over a disagreement about the wallpaper.

1 I must point out here that no-one in my class was more than 9 years old at the time (except for my uptight and precocious little bastard brother Dominic, who was 5 - but we'd killed and eaten him some time previously. He was very stringy.)

*re-reads question*
(, Sun 23 Oct 2005, 18:58, Reply)
Lisa Whitney, aged 5, i walked past the girls' toilets at school
she called me, lifted her skirt and flashed her fanny at me.*

12 years later i started going out with her, and we've now been together for 13 years with 2 kids: awww, bless.

But what she doesn't know is that i already had the horn for Barbara Windsor's bum in Carry on Henry. It made my willy stick up and everything.

*British fanny, but the yank version would have been allright as well.
(, Fri 21 Oct 2005, 20:01, Reply)
Wasn't so much "love" as my first competition (aged 8) with another bloke to win her heart by buying her shedloads of choclates/crisps/lolipops etc

Made the mistake of telling the 'rents, and used to get teased about it royally. Until I gave up on it (broke) and was asked about it at crowded dinner party.

My response?

"Nah...I've decided I'll just rape her" (loudly)

Was forced to watch an "educational" (and mildly arousing, really) video to learn me the error of my young ways.
(, Fri 21 Oct 2005, 13:02, Reply)
Right I've had enough of all these whiney emo cunts posting stories about some teen angst bollocks that no-one else could give a flying shite about, so here's my happy story
We met when we were 16, it was at this local club place with shit £6 bottles of piss and even shitter music, but it was the only place for miles around so everyone in the locality ventured there on a weekend.

This weekend I happened to be out, I had had one too many drinks and saw a ladyfreind of mine with very attractive freind.

Cue me doing that pissed up half walking half dancing swagger up to them loaded with vodka and thus feeling more confident (if slightly less coherent) by the second.

I get closer, they havent run away yet,mmmm things are going well I think to myself, I walk up and deliver my killer opening line..
"hello I havn.."
I'm cut short by the fact Ive just tripped over my own legs and fallen onto both of them, I make light of the situation talk to my freind for a bit then fuck off before I do something else stupid seeing as I'm not getting any more sober.

Well imagine my surprise when said friend walks up to me the next day a school and says her sexy mate would like to get my number!
I'll spare you the next 7 years but to cut a very long story just long, we're still together, she is more beautiful than ever and thanks to her I might be getting a PHD at Oxford university and we've never been happier

In your face miserable emo twats
(, Thu 20 Oct 2005, 19:32, Reply)
She had the best tits in the school...
and I'd fancied her for ages, calling her names, tripping her up etc.
Eventually I asked her if "she'd go out with me" and she said yes!
My two best friends got really jealous and stopped talking to me (one of them turned out to be gay.. sure it was because he fancied me!)
We were together for about a year then I dumped her... because I was bored!?!

Met her again in July last year, both still fancied each other and got on really well now that we'd grown up - so I asked her to marry me!!

We got married in August this year and she’s still got amazing tits!!
(, Thu 20 Oct 2005, 13:46, Reply)
Ah first love.
Still not sure which was my first love. At a very confused 7 years old I couldn't decide between Sophie Smith and her pink BMX (who didn't notice I existed)or Lucy Dunlop who had a moustache but who would let me hold her hand and very occasionaly kiss her. Should have stopped there really as the next girlfriend I had (aged 10) was considerably taller than me and after a tiring game of "kiss chase" consented to a quick smooch. Rather than do the sensible thing and stand on tip toes or gently pull her down to me I decided to jump up and plant a big smackeroo on her. Unfortunately I went a bit too far and head butted her in the nose causing blood to piss out all over the shop. Hope you don't have a crooked nose now Victoria Wright - SORRY!!
(, Thu 20 Oct 2005, 13:15, Reply)
The weird old gypsies next door
to the house where I grew up as a kid (the bloke was actually called Gordon Bennett, hahaha) had a granddaughter who used to visit on school holidays, called Emma. We were about 6, and we used to always sneak off and hold hands in the rhubarb patch at the end of our garden, with a little bowl of sugar each that our mums had given us to dip the stalks in. We'd sit there for hours, just lying in each others' laps and talking about the shapes in the clouds or where we'd run away to if we could go as far as we liked. Then one day she threw her sugar in my eyes and started thrashing me really savagely with this massive piece of rhubarb - at one point she smashed me in the nose with it and blood was just pumping out, all over my favourite Winne The Pooh t-shirt. I was blubbering like some kind of, er, big rubbish duck (?) by the time I got back to my kitchen, whereupon my mum understandably went nuts and stormed straight around to see the grandparents.

Turns out this girl was a complete fucking mentalist, and "occasionally just did stuff like this". Apparently, "completely random things seemed to trigger her off". She'd thrown her rabbit out of the window the year before because it "wouldn't answer her or look in the right direction".

Funnily enough, it's been a variation on that theme with with nearly all the girls I've been close to since - so she actually prepared me quite well for dealing with the myriad hidden horrors of subsequent adult relationships.
Thanks Emma!
Mad bitch.
(, Thu 20 Oct 2005, 12:58, Reply)
From what I remember she was blonde and pretty. We were both 8 years old, and my parents hated her. They thought she was a stuck-up little bitch who was far too used to getting her own way. In the end it turned out that they were right. Cheryl used her feminine wiles to persuade me to steal the odd quid from my grandparents to buy her sweets and pop. She told me I was her favourite boyfriend ever. A few months down the line it all ended in disaster when she caught me playing Kerbie with a different girl one weekend. The 'lovely' Cheryl uttered a 'naughty word' in my general direction, thumped me in a most sensitive area, and ran home crying. She didn't even give me the chance to tell her it was my cousin I'd been playing with, because my parents had told me to 'play nice or else'. After all, I didn't want to be smacked on the backside with a shoe by my scary mother.

Anyway, traumatised by being beaten up by a girl, I could never completely trust a female again. I'm now happily living with a boyfriend and two cats. Yes, Cheryl turned me gay.
(, Thu 20 Oct 2005, 12:39, Reply)
(, Thu 20 Oct 2005, 12:22, Reply)
Fiona Harrison
In Primary 5 (age 10) on a school trip to Ardroy, she sat next to me on the bus and proceeded to pin me down and vigorously lick my face. It turns out that in the innocence of youth this was her interpretation of a "frenchie".

She had been eating Quarterback crisps (remember them?) and my face smelled of them all the way to our destination.
(, Thu 20 Oct 2005, 11:52, Reply)
His name was Robert
His name was Robert and we were both 9 when he asked me to marry him. I told my dad and he wanted to know how Robert was going to support me so I asked him the next day. His mum said I could go and live with them as she had always wanted a little girl of her own. I rushed home to pack and was awfully disappointed when my mum would not let me go.
(, Sun 23 Oct 2005, 19:32, Reply)
He was...
.. 15, fat and pretty ugly. God knows what attracted me to the Spawn of Satan to begin with. Stephan* was 15, horny and totally in love with my best friend, who we'll pretend is called Thea. Since Thea didn't want him I suppose he opted for Plan B and decided to date me to get through to Thea. We got together within 30 minutes of meeting and circa 30 minutes after that he was already up for a fumble. I was 12 years old, and said something on the lines of "No Way Jose'!" Labelling him a horny-so-and-so I dumped him. Should have let it rest there really.

But the flirting escalated and one month later we were an official couple and I was over the moon. You see, I suddenly realised that Stephan was the guy for me (OMG!) However, four days of fumbling later he didn't turn up for our date and I was positively heart broken. Decided to go for a walk by the sea when I saw Thea and him in a passionate embrace, both sporting matching sets of hiccies. AND, that very same night he started dating a horse-faced bad-breathed chav with a big pair of hooters.

Heartbreak ensues for around 5 months before he finally tells Ms. horse-face-bad-breath-woman-with-the-big-hooters that it's over. Pounces on me. We date and split up for 5 times in two months.

By then I'd turned 13 and realised that I couldn't get the little sod out of my head. I sent him a pathetic love letter telling him that I love him. As a reciprocation he fucked me when I specifically had told him that I DIDN'T want to. Ahhh... fuck young love {pun intended}. Following profuse bleeding, lots of panic from both of us, even more of me putting-on-ye-good-olde-brave-face and my mother almost trashing me within an inch of my life (I told her I was consenting of course - had I done otherwise I'm sure she'd be serving a life-sentence), he called the next day to see how I am before hanging up rather hastily.

I pestered him for a couple of weeks, then realised that I had been a hump-me-dump-me victim. Insert approximately 2 years of depression here, with an appology thrown in by him somewhere in the middle. Those were followed by my final attempt to make him love me by confessing that 24 months later, aged 15, I couldn't move on. What did he do? HE SHOWED ME A PICTURE OF HIS THEN [CURRENT?] GIRLFRIEND. He moved away soon after that.

Last time I saw him, circa three years ago he looked positively depressed. That made me unexplainably delighted. I still see his twunting-stuck-up-cnut of a sister around sometimes. Eventually I got over him, the non-consensual sex and didn't fall in love again before I turned 16.

I'm a week shy of my 21st now. In all honesty, I hope he chokes on his vomit :D!

Talk about learning the hard way. Bitter much? Lemon and lime, sweetheart.

*name not changed to protect identity

[Appologies for length... it's his fault, again].
(, Sun 23 Oct 2005, 14:07, Reply)

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