By EVA BOTANY
I got my first boyfriend when I was 14. His name was Alex and he liked Pink Floyd, so therefore he was cooler than any other 14 year old I knew.
He asked me out over MSN, which was the instant-messaging medium of choice back in 2004, and as soon as I accepted, I changed my screenname to include a love-heart and an ALEX in it.
The relationship ended when he decided that he wanted a girlfriend that was more suited to him; one with black, spiky hair and an affection for cigarettes, smoked only on slides in forgotten playgrounds. But that was okay.
I moved onto Nicholas, another boy I knew from school. He was blonde and he walked me home from school every day, and I loved him with the kind of passion that only a lovesick 14-year-old can muster.
And then James came along.
Oh, James. He was the tall, gorgeous, basketballer that swept me off my feet before I’d even had the chance to kiss Nicholas. Poor Nick was unceremoniously dumped, once again over MSN, so that I would have my chance with James.
Karma got me back after that one – James dumped me after several months of hiding in deserted suburban streets to make out after school (we weren’t supposed to be seen in our school uniforms). It was winter at the time. I still remember walking an entire 20 minutes out of my way, for two entire years, to avoid seeing him at the bus stop.
There have been many boys since then. A relationship that lasted a year. Another that lasted two years. Another that lasted six months, before blowing into an emotionally abusive mess. There have been non-relationships, with boys interested in my body but really nothing else.