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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)
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Her name was Annalise
I remember I once followed her home from School to see where she lived… I was a 12 year old stalker!
(, Mon 24 Oct 2005, 16:12, Reply)
Her name was Jennifer Smith
and it was unrequited. I was 13 or 14. I used to lie in the dark, just yearning for her. And no, before you start, no funny business ;-)

She must have had some idea that I fancied her loads cos I used to go red as a beetroot whenever I talked to her at school. Wonder what she's doing now, cos she's not on Friends Reunited.....

(, Mon 24 Oct 2005, 16:10, Reply)
no one liked me at school...
was, ugly ,freaky geeky kid...zero interest from girls for first few years at school (except as object of ridicule). So imagine my delight and amazement when one Christmas (must have been about 14) a seccession of popular and (generally considered) gorgeous girls kept collaring me for Christmas kisses. was over the moon, until in a history lesson i saw a couple of them comparing notes in the back of their books. They were running a 'snog a dog' competition, points scored for snogging the mingingest lads in the year, i was the second highest scorer, and had provided them both with ample pointage. actually, this isn't really first love at all, more first destruction of self worth and birth of self loathing....ah well....close enough :)
(, Mon 24 Oct 2005, 16:01, Reply)
My first Love
At University, I had a bit of a thing with a girl, lets call her x.
We played around quite a bit and was going to invite her round for dinner, film, etc.
One drunken afternoon in the law library (we were students at that time and the Uni bar was so apealing) we were fooling around, close to the All england law reports and the Criminal appeal reports, I propositioned her with...I'd luv to take you up the rongun! I promptly got slapped in front of everyone. We never spoke again...to prude and religious I supposed!
(, Mon 24 Oct 2005, 14:21, Reply)
I fell for my first love at 16 and we have on and off for the last seven years. The relationship is one I could retell to Take a Break for a princely sum. He was older, had been to prison but used to call me petal, tell me he'd keep me and we'd have blissful hours in his house. He made me laugh, used to buy me little gifts, I used to leave silly notes, make him eat properly. I had a bit o' a bad time at home (father's evil new wife)I moved in with the ex and his mate to a house that was gorgeous but he decided it was a better idea to get a bit of a speed problem, get sacked and shag his mate's missus (who was supposedly my friend). She'd had previous too. She'd gone after an ex of mine but he turned her down(cheers Rich!). It all culminated in us having a scrap, which I instigated and came off worse in (I hasten to add he didn't actually hit me) and I moved out. Cue breakdown, me having to continue to pay rent on a house that I wasn't living in, dropping out of uni and all manner of fun like that.

Fast forward 8 months, me getting on with my life, a few disasterous, short-lived courtships (my 40 year old boss, a 17 year old with 'busy hands'), a new university course in the offing and a new pad I get messages from the ex and think it a marvellous idea to show him how well I'm doing. By the October I'm back with him.

I couldn't tell most off my family so I lived a strange half life with him and them. We would have days and weeks of loveliness but he would go through periods of wanting to settle down ('Why won't you move in with me? Why won't you have kids with me?') to him disappearing for days on end ('I feel trapped'). I've lost count of the number of times we've split up and got back. How many times I think he's cheated. How many nights he's gone missing. How many of my friends he has driven away. Yet there have been countless times when he's stuck up for me, protected me and made me feel like the only girl in the world. We split up again for six months and I moved in with a friend, then got back with him yadda yadda. Things have been getting worse for the last couple of months and we have been living increasingly separate lives (particularly cos he is spectacularly bad with money and has moved back home) but also cos he was arrested for certain 'dealings'. The climax was probably the night (and following day) where he threatened one of my male friends, followed me home shouted at another of my friends, railed from frantically apologising to smashing things and blaming me for everything. The next morning I reiterated that it was over and he proceeded to loc me in a room try and hurl furniture out of the window and attempt to set fire to a bed. What was weird though is that it just fizzled weeks later because he did another disappearing act. I recently wrote him a letter saying it was sad but over. This prompted lots of phonecalls, texts and one particularly unpleasnat late night visit.

Here's the rub though - I've been seeing someone from work and though he's lovely, sweet and besotted with me I still love my ex. But if he knew I was seeing someone else he wouldn't want to know anymore anyway. I think we'd be fine if there was only the two of us in the world. Turns out we are made for each other, but not very well. :(

Cheers b3ta. You've made my frickin' day.
(, Mon 24 Oct 2005, 13:46, 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)
Her name was Lola
she was a showgirl
(, Mon 24 Oct 2005, 12:26, Reply)
First love?
I still love him.

Not mutual.

Bastard. ;-;
(, Mon 24 Oct 2005, 7:26, Reply)
can't remember second names. I was five. One was Lara and the other Dido. Dido was HOT. And stupidly rich. Anyways they both showed me their fannies at the same time (that's two girls with skirts-up-knickers-down in front of me when I was five) on the Fort in the playground in return for a look at my cock.

Some filthy Peeping Tom in the year above me called Morris Something-or-other said afterwards that it was "dirty" showing them my willy. Miserable cunt.
(, Mon 24 Oct 2005, 0:59, Reply)
Hah, if only I'd had cancer and a penis...
I was madly in love with Michael Jackson as a child. Hadn't heard any of his music, I just thought he was handsome! In my defense, this was the mid-to-late eighties, so he actually was a bit good-looking for a while there.

When my father horrified me with (cruel and mostly untrue) tales of Michael's face melting on stage, things were over between Mike and I forever.

I then went on to fall madly in love with Rick Moranis after I watched "Spaceballs."

I hope and pray my husband doesn't read this, as he might be offended by my prior tastes in men.
(, Mon 24 Oct 2005, 0:46, Reply)
cursed with memory
I can remember the name of every girlfriend (and yes it's more than 1). First proper girlfriend (not just girls that used to hang around the boys)was Angela in a small Yorkshire village. Lots of snogging and poems and stuff. Her mum was one of our school dinner ladies, didn't even get an extra helping of carrots. I was around 12. Was forced to slow dance at the youth club to Donny Osmond every week. I thought she was lovely and special, even if her surname was Common. Lets hope nominative determinism isn't true (your name determines your profession).
(, Sun 23 Oct 2005, 21:53, 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)
robin the cuntbag and jessica the jizzumface
My first love was a load of bullshit. Name was Robin, aged 14. Will skip all the primary school bullshit, because it isn't fo' real anyway.

We kissed, she showed the b00bies to me, all that carp. 2 years later, we're still dating. We split up after our "anniversary". I hook up another girl in 6 months and lose the virginitys.

Was lovely as well. *sips tea*
(, Sun 23 Oct 2005, 21:15, Reply)
i fell in love with all the people here who could be so entertaining and articulate about their love lives that were so desperate and stupid and emotionally incontinent ... (like mine)

surely a negative feedback thing

is this how we propagate?

shouldn't i just go for normal people?

are there any?

(, Sun 23 Oct 2005, 19:37, 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)
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)
Its quite simple really
I was 8. I look up, the image burning in my eyes. The anticipation was killing me. Finally I would meet my love.

I reach up to the counter and eat.

Chocolate, I love you still to this day. Don't ever leave me.
(, Sun 23 Oct 2005, 18:06, Reply)
My first love
His name was Bruce, and his aunt and my mom were best friends. We were six years old and we walked around the playground holding hands, and it lasted until 3rd grade, when I got cooties and he didn't like me any more. I was heartbroken! Still am, I guess. I may never get over it. (I'm 47 now)
(, Sun 23 Oct 2005, 17:12, Reply)
Gemma Schroeder
She knows.

unfortunately so did her father
(, Sun 23 Oct 2005, 16:54, Reply)
Digital Lurve
why b3ta of course!

(, Sun 23 Oct 2005, 16:08, 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)
re Amos Wolfe
tough break, I seem to be at the start of something like that and I am 36!
(, Sun 23 Oct 2005, 9:39, Reply)
You're so vain . . . .
Carly Simon's erect nipples on the cover of her early 70's LP "No Secrets" did strange things to me. Was it love? Probably not.
(, Sun 23 Oct 2005, 8:57, Reply)
Music was my first love
And it will be my last.

Either that or John Craven.
(, Sun 23 Oct 2005, 7:35, Reply)
try being on the receiving end of first love
for a while i volunteered for a nature organization, wandering about in the wilderness with children to expose them to nature and the like.

on our first day we herd all the kids into a circle, and as a means of inroducing ourselves to the group, have each kid say their name and something that they like.

we went around the circle, until we came to the little boy next to me, who said the following, now-infamous lines:

"my name is joey and i like girls!"

he then proceeded to climb into my lap, wrap his arms around my neck and look smugly at his companions.

a very, very strange nature hike followed with constant requests to joey to let go of my hand while my fellow hike leaders looked on laughing.
(, Sun 23 Oct 2005, 6:40, Reply)
Practicing Muslim + Protestant Christian = don't even try

worked for a little while though...
(, Sun 23 Oct 2005, 4:43, Reply)
Until I found out those cartoons were made in the 70s so now she like a hunderd.
(, Sun 23 Oct 2005, 3:04, Reply)
she was lovely in every respect..

except for her horrible shit cunt. the first time i sucked that thing she had a nasty vaginal discharge in my mouth. it was the vilest tasting substance i have ever encountered.

i guess it was akin to drinking rotten fish water mixed with battery acid.
fucking bitch
(, Sat 22 Oct 2005, 22:51, Reply)
Lying git of a boy
My first love, name of Ian Gale. He had tonsilitis. I was 7 yrs old and madly in love with him. Well as much as a 7 yr old could be.

Anywho, he had tonsilitis and swore to me that if he snogged me (tongues n everything) I would get tonsilitis and wouldn't have to go to school.

Lying git.
(, Sat 22 Oct 2005, 22:33, Reply)

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