The Collared Coed

i kissed a girl and i liked it

the taste of her cherry chapstick

i kissed a girl just to try it

i hope my boyfriend don’t mind it

it felt so wrong, it felt so right

don’t mean i’m in love tonight

i don’t even know your name, it doesn’t matter

you’re just my experimental game

just human nature

[katy perry, "i kissed a girl"]

I have pretty juvenile taste in music. I like any sort of alternative/emo/rock sounding stuff, and usually most Top 40 hits. Most of the music I listen to isn’t to Sir’s liking, (“Have you HEARD some of the stuff you listen to? GOD!” He says with a smirk.) so most of the time I just reserve it for when I’m in my car or on my iPod.

This song is just insanely catchy. It’s upbeat and provocative and pretty fun to turn up loud when you’re driving around. At least for me, it is.

I also think it captures the, well, fun of kissing a girl when it doesn’t really mean anything. I wrote earlier in the blog about the fact that I pretty much had my first kiss with a girl ‘auctioned’ off at a New Year’s Eve slave auction in a BDSM club. Even though I hesitated like hell when the time came to actually fill the slip out, I was actually excited.

I secretly liked being the object of so much spectacle, too. I liked the crowd at the door that appeared when the submissive woman was going to kiss me. I liked how intently both Sirs were watching us when we kissed. It was hot.

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It’s a bit of a tense time for your lovable coed. I’m moved back into the ECU dormitory. I have to say, that I’m honestly very uncomfortable in my suite right now. I have three other roommates. One is good old A, the silly, happy, perky, fabulous girl from last semester. Two of the other ones are very traditional Asians, with one being intensely religious. They are very focused and driven, but the vibe I have right now is that they’re a little boring.

I feel a little threatened to be wearing my collar around the suite. I’m worried that there might be some confrontation that I don’t want. Last semester, my roommates, as aloof as they were, were at least open and social and fun. My new roommates… not so much.

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So, I’ve pretty much just been brainwashed the last few days. I’m working for my school’s freshman week. I’ve been brainwashed to be perky, helpful, appropriate, happy, politically correct, etc.

But now that I’m done with it, all I want is to be bound up, fucked up, orgasm tortured, my nipples clamped until I feel like I’m going to freak out from the pain and to be flogged repeatedly. It’s not a bad craving.

Maybe it’s some adverse reaction to all that “be happy!” stuff I’ve been indoctrinated with.

Ha.

Of course, Sir is going away for a lovely vacation with His children tomorrow. Damn.

(P.S: I officially wore my collar at school for the first time since May, today. It’s been a good day.)

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I’m having orgasm troubles lately.

It’s taking me longer and longer to orgasm. I get sore and sensitive before I orgasm.

“It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, pet.” He says, reassuring me that I’m normal.

Here’s what happens;

Sir tries to make me orgasm.

I ooh and aah and groan and come very close to orgasming.

I feel self conscious about not orgasming.

I ask myself what not orgasming by now means; am I a bad pet? Is something wrong with me? Why aren’t I orgasming?

I don’t orgasm.

I mean, fuck. I had a Magic Wand pressed against me and I just felt squirmy and sensitive, not like I was going to orgasm.

I started getting frustrated and bitchy and scrowl-y. A little distressed.

I don’t know why I just can’t… let go.

Sir put clover clamps on me earlier tonight as He chained my hands above my head.

Breathe, don’t let the pain take control. Breathe.

I couldn’t. The pain just kept coming.

It felt amazing when He started to fuck my sopping wet pussy. When He wasn’t making my body move/making the clamps hurt like a motherfucker, it felt incredible. To have this pain and this full, wonderful feeling in my pussy. The pain suddenly complimented the pleasure, to an extent. Once He started fucking me hard enough to make my breasts shake, the pain increased.

I was so, so, so close to coming. The pain kept me from me going over the edge.

But part of me craved that pain and wanted it to keep going.

The troubling part was, the rest of the night, was like one long attempt to make me orgasm.

I’m overthinking it. I only started to orgasm when He said I couldn’t.

We did a hard breathplay scene, to the point where my hands came up and literally started to pry His hand off my mouth for air. I started to yell behind His hand, which I never, ever do.

We fought over Him forcing me to say “I’m a cockwhore”. Which I don’t like saying.

I was squirming and trying to breathe. He yelled, “You better say it now!” and took His hands off my nose and mouth.

“Fuck you”, flew out of my mouth.

“You bitch!” He said, and slapped me repeatedly.

So close to orgasming.

But that mental block just kept coming up, thoughts repeating in my head.

That I’m a bad submissive. That something is wrong with me.

I’m a bad submissive, I must be broken, I’m a bad submissive, I should have orgasmed by now…

They’ve just appeared out of nowhere.

And I don’t come.

I don’t know how to make them go away.

I know I’m a good submissive. Sir is pleased with me, punishes me when I’m not a good girl, and that’s the end of it. I make Him happy, I make Him come, I make His life easier, I make Him smile that lovely smile of His. I went through protocol training without too much ‘correction’.

So why do I feel like I’m a bad submissive?

Maybe it’s that oral sex thing. I have the hardest time orgasming from oral sex. I really have to focus and concentrate, and lately, I just flail and get frustrated and I don’t get much pleasure out of it. I tense and tense and tense to the point where I feel self-conscious.

Fuck. Dammit. I’m not a bad submissive.

I’m sitting here at 4am (Sir will be grouchy when He realizes I’ve been up all night) worrying over this.

Fuck. I didn’t think I would be brought to tears over my submissive insecurities. It’s my blog and I’ll cry if I want to.

Only once since I explored this have I ever been called “not submissive enough” for someone. I took the comment with a grain of salt, was somewhat insulted, and chain smoked Marlboro Ultra Lights as soon as I stepped out of J’s apartment. I wrote the experience off as chemistry not clicking. J had told me as I was getting dressed, “Maybe we’ll cross paths one day. Maybe ten years from now you’ll be what I’m looking for. But for now, you’re not.” Which was fine. It wasn’t much of a relationship.

But this. I would be so upset if Sir dumped me because I wasn’t “submissive enough” or I wasn’t good enough. Actually, upset would be putting it nicely. I would be devastated. I don’t know why I have all this doubt seeping under my skin, making me cry, making me worry myself awake.

But I can’t stop crying.

I know this probably sounds ridiculous to all the Dominants out there, a submissive girl, barely a woman, worrying over whether she’s good enough for her Master.

I should be a big submissive and suck it up and deal with it. Like I suck it up and deal with pain, with orders, with nipple clamps, with seemingly endless canings.

But I can’t.

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I looked at the measly shoe collection I had. Dorming at ECU for the summer left me with very little shoe choice. A pair of exercise sneakers. A pair of Vans-like sneakers. Gorgeous, sparkly high heels that are murder on my feet but are absolutely fabulous. They’re black, studded with rhinestones. I kicked off my soggy Vans sneakers. I had stepped in a puddle and they were wet. Sir informed me of a violet wand demo at the nearest fetish club.

I was in a mood. Not horny, as Sir asked me. If I were horny, I would just have asked permission to masturbate with my vibrator and be done with it. No, I was in a mood to talk to people, interact. Make trouble. So I wore what I had worn around all day (polo, skirt, stupid blue polka dot panties) and walked to the public transportation. Oh, okay, I made a little bit more effort than that. I wore contacts, brushed and pulled my hair back into pigtails and used mouthwash. I locked my collar around my throat. I sighed and shoved my feet into my black flip flops. You know the kind. Old Navy flip flops. Plain black. With sparkly red nail polish on my toes.

After the violet wand demo, to my disappointment, most of the interesting looking couples left. I made a big dork out of myself at the demo. (I don’t think I like violet wands that much. Go figure.)

You see, Sir put in place a few rules.

• I could play with women.
• I could play with couples.
• I could only play with guys if I was EXTREMELY comfortable.
• I had to tell people I was not only collared, but owned.

Which made me feel a lot better.

So of course, men filtered into the club after the demo. Men looked me over, said hi. I subconsciously stroked and touched my collar. One Master I remembered from TESfest complimented my collar.

I was sitting on the couch watching a femdom and her sub boy onstage when a guy in a black shirt and jeans came up to me. He asked me my name. Then he asked if I was ever very mad at a guy before. I didn’t know where the conversation would lead so I didn’t really give a hard answer. Then he asked if I would be interested in stepping on his chest.

Note: For all my blog reading, I did not know that trampling was the BDSM euphemism for this. I learned about this later.

He lay on the floor and after I asked him a good number of times if this was really okay, I tentatively stepped on his chest with bare feet. He made a noise and I gasped and asked if he was okay.

“Honey, I’m in heaven. And you’re light as a feather.”

“Don’t flatter me.” I said dryly. With a shock, I looked up and noticed a small crowd had gathered of men. Some very jealous looking men.

He asked my age as I shifted my weight around. I hesitated.

“I shouldn’t tell you my age. I started exploring BDSM 20 years ago.” He said with a groan as I planted my foot in the middle of his chest. I was giggling, God help me. Giggling as I was, well, trampling on a man.

“My Sir is 40.” I said.

He laughed, with almost made me lose my balance. “I’m 39.”

After he had me push down on his chest with my feet and bounce up and down a bit, he helped me off and I scurried outside to call Sir. I told him what happened.

“Wait… you stepped on him in bare feet?” He said as I chewed on a nail.

“I wore flip flops out here.”

“You wore flip flops to a BDSM club? I love you.” He laughed.

I went back inside and he proceeded to give me a foot and leg massage as I talked to a friend of Sir and I. He massaged and massaged and then proceeded to actually lick my toes. He didn’t take any part in the conversation. Men stalked by, eyeing both him and I. One guy stuck around and watched me even though nothing sexual was going on.`He licked and nibbled at my dirty toes. (Flip flops in the big city mean that toes and feet get very, very dirty sometimes.) I guess I was… objectifying him, wasn’t I? Having him rub my feet and not acknowledging him, on his knees, while I carried on a conversation with another man. Hmm.

Then he accidentally tickled me and my foot flew out and accidentally kicked him in the face.

“OhmygoshI’msosorry!” I said all in one breath. I sat up. He looked… happy. He certainly didn’t look like he was in any sort of distress.

All of a sudden I just have this urge to play with a sub boy. Fuck him with a strap on. Torture his cock and balls. Make him worship my feet. Watch Sir flog him. Spanking the sub boy with a paddle, not my tiny, girly hands. Using those tiny hands to pinch his nipples. Slap his face.

Sir ordered me to pinch His nipples while I gave Him a handjob yesterday. While He was listening in on a phone conference, go figure. He would urge me to go harder, harder, harder. I was so tentative. Making sure He was okay.

“You can go much harder than that, pet.”

So I did. I was pinching hard as I stroked His cock. I liked seeing Him grimace and saying “fuck” underneath His breath as I pinched. I was squeezing hard when He said abruptly “Don’t stop.”

So I went harder. I was surprised at how hard I could pinch and watching His face closely, closed eyes, pursed lips. Then His cock exploded all over His stomach and my hand- which surprised me too.

I  was surprised at how, well, fun it was. Fun to pinch His nipples and watch Him hiss in pain. Just like I was surprised at how fun it was to stand on a man’s chest and make him suck on my dirty toes.

So maybe I’m ready to explore this side of myself. I have these urges, but sometimes they feel overwhelming, like I quite don’t know what to do. I guess I have to see how things develop.

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I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to talk about TESfest. Maybe because I don’t know where to start. This is going to be a short post, but I will definitely talk about it soon.

I’m collared. I’m a slave. And yet I still have this fear telling Sir what I fantasize about.

Every day, I send Sir my plan for the day. Every day, I have to do one act that reaffirms my place as property, slave and pet.

1. Update this blog.
2. Exercise.
3. Write a sex fantasy.
4. Go to His apartment and clean.

I thought that once I was collared, this fear would go away. That I could tell Him all my sexual fantasies and not be embarrassed. But I still get embarrassed! Why? Why am I so shy? Why am I so afraid that His desire for me is easily influenced and swayed?

I should be secure in my collar and chains, secure that He loves me and wants to train me, hurt me, own me.

I know it’s vestiges of my last relationship, where “I love you” could be taken away in a second. But I’m past that.

I’m with someone I trust with my life. But I worry and fret over telling Him what I masturbate about. I wish I could be more open. Slave guilt. I have this worry of being judged. Of being seen as… perverse. Dirty. But those are qualities that Sir likes. And whenever I DO tell Him what I think about…

He always thinks it’s hot.

Maybe I should do that sex fantasy slave task more often. Force myself to open my mind up for Him, let Him see inside.

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Sir was brisk in His instructions for me.

1. Clean the floor of the bedroom.
2. Bag up laundry to be taken to the cleaners.
3. Make the bed.
4. Put together the toys and put them on the bed.
5. Be in panties or less when He arrives.

On His way home, He text messaged me to put the blindfold on and kneel on the bed. He asked me if there was anything that I thought about doing in particular.

I admitted that I thought about Him hitting me with His fists. Thumping. Punching. Whatever the BDSM euphemism is.

It was a blur for a while after that. A punishment caning for forgetting my metal collar the week before. Sir’s voice stern and commanding and it made me feel good inside. Some nice rope bondage. Nipple clamps, brutal ones. Him thrusting us back into the intense relationship. No excuses any more for slacking off on the duties that I agreed to under the contract.

This is me reminding you what you are. This is me owning you. You don’t get a choice.

There was a nice moment, a moment that made me feel really submissive, and that Sir would later disclose made Him feel really good too:

Me naked, metal collar around my throat, rubbing His feet. Ass sore from my caning. Just something about the moment made me feel amazingly good as a slave, as His submissive and really made me feel like His cherished pet.

But then, later, after clamps, canings and bondage, He ordered me to sit on the bed.
He steadied me.
He balled His fist.

The first punch was a dull hurt. So was the second. He was tentative, careful, but some of them did hit tender spots and I cried out in pain. He kept going.

I felt myself slipping away as He punched me forcefully, rhythmically on the chest. I felt submissive. I felt put in my place. I felt myself slipping down into a different place. Almost like I wasn’t paying attention. Which disturbed me, because I felt like that moment, letting someone hit me with their fists, would require my utmost attention. Instead, I felt my eyes closing, and Him pounding away, and myself, who I was, floating away. It wasn’t subspace, it wasn’t a floating bliss or an escape from the pain. The pain tethered me to the moment, the dull throbbing and the sharp pain when He hit certain spots.

It wasn’t giving up, giving in, giving out. It was something bottomless and frightening I can’t adequately describe. I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t even fighting. The expression on His face was intense, focused. I didn’t recognize Him. I didn’t recognize this person that was beating my chest with his bare hand. He looked genuinely angry at me, angry for something I did. I started to fret, then panic.

I started feeling angry, but then I just felt helpless. He would tell me later that He could sense my anger. It bubbled beneath the surface, never really coming up. I whimpered that I didn’t like this any more. He leaned me forward and hit my back.

No. I get to put you in this place. This is what you signed away to me. This, right here, this is what I get to do to you.

I was slipping into a space I didn’t want to be in.

I wanted out.

I wanted back in, because I didn’t want to face the moment after that, realizing what had happened.

I didn’t know what I wanted.

He pulled me to my feet, and I felt like I was going to crumple at His feet. I didn’t want to play this game anymore.

It’s real now, isn’t it? The pain is real. He had said that earlier, as He placed clover clamps on me. But the words rushed back to me as I stood in front of Him, limply. This wasn’t what I planned, what I wanted. I thought the beating would make me feel good. Not like this.

I don’t remember how I ended up on the bed with all the rope off. I remember wanting to fall, I remember holding myself up with the bed. I lay on the bed and He hit me a few more times. Then He told me to go on my back.

Then He told me that it was over.

I could feel my anxiety growing inside me, and my hands instinctively covered my chest and collarbone. He loomed over me, then climbed into bed with me. Sir’s tone of voice changed, and when His hands when up to stroke my hair, instinctively, I pulled away. He was trying to soothe me, and I was still filled with anxiety. I was in a defensive space. I didn’t want to be touched. I didn’t want Him to look in my eyes. I shied away from Him, whimpering. I curled up into a ball on the bed. “I just want to make love to you.” He said softly. I shook my head no. “No? You don’t want that?” He said, worried. His eyes were full of concern. I shook my head no again.

I wanted to run. I wanted Him to hold me. I was shook up, terrorized. Any joke He made at this state made my voice boom in a whine, “That’s not funny! Don’t say that!”

I felt unsafe. I felt scared.

In a tiny voice, I asked tentatively, “You would never hit me in anger, right?” My eyes wide.

He assured me He would never do that. He kissed my body all over, my sore breasts. Telling me He loved me.

He would imply later that the beating triggered something. It probably did. I’ve never been hit as a child, or as a teenager in an abusive relationship. There was always the threat, the danger of it, during out of control times. C balling up his fists until the knuckled turned white. But it never happned. I wanted Him to hit me. I told Him I had thought about it since our discussion about it, one muggy morning a week ago.

But afterwards, I faced away from Him, curled up in a ball.

He rolled away from me and stared at the ceiling, upset.

I asked Him to hold me. I needed to feel myself relax in His arms. I can’t describe the uneasy feeling I felt that night. The fear, the desire to run far away from Sir, but the desire to have Him hold me and tell me He loved me. I didn’t feel like crying. I didn’t know what I needed. This was something I couldn’t name. I still don’t understand it now. We’ve talked it out, almost to death. We are willing to try it again, after I fully process everything. Neither of us was expected the way I reacted.

All either of us knew at the moment, was that I was uneasy and I needed Him to take care of me.

I asked Him to touch me. I asked Him to hold me. He spooned with me.

I needed to feel safe and secure again.

He kissed the back of my neck and held me as long as I wanted.

“Sir?”

“Yes, pet?”

“Make love to me.” He slipped His fingers into my cunt. I was soaking, sopping, noisily wet.

We kissed. I eased myself back into His touch, touched Him greedily, grabbing at Him, His smooth skin easing my weary heart. I kissed Him hard, asked to orgasm as He made love to me. He said yes.

I orgasmed.

I held Him as close to me as I could. Squeezed Him. I told Him I loved Him, very much.

I don’t think I could have loved Him any more at that moment.

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So, for the most part, the rut has been broken. Sir spanked me, roughed me up, and slapped my face. All things I was craving, but things I didn’t realize I was actually craving.

He made me cry. He slapped me to tears. He would tell me later that He could sense that I wanted to cry, that I craved the release. He made me put my hands above my head and slapped me, repeatedly. I think this has turned into an almost failsafe way to make me cry. He slapped my face over and over until the tears came to my eyes. Then even after they fell, He kept going. I was crying, sobbing openly, my hands above my head, so I couldn’t wipe the tears away. He kissed my cheeks, his lips immersed in my tears. At first, I didn’t know why I was crying. Then I did feel a tug inside me, something tearing away gently, a barrier of frustration and anger, and I just let go.

I said it again, as I sobbed, “I missed you so much.”

I *sort of* know why we were in a rut to begin with. Real life was getting the both of us down; friend in the hospital (Sir) and extremely stressful finals (for me) and those things made both of us tired and worn out. All we wanted to do was cuddle with each other, and fall asleep. No long scenes in a while, no canings, some pain, but not as much as before. Both of our sex drives were out of whack, and we both felt ‘off’.

What worried me was about two weeks ago when I just plain felt angry and frustrated, as evidenced from my post two weeks ago. I felt like I was on such a short fuse, I was just angry angry angry. And I had no interest in sex, or masturbating, or thinking about anything BDSM related. Sir was worried. I had zero percent interest in the contract, or my submissive training coming up. What was more distressing was the fact that I just felt SO disgusted with my body, and SO mad at myself and SO ordinary and fat. I would brush off any compliments Sir gave me.

While in some ways, the rut gloom has broken, I’m still a little messed up. I’m having a harder time orgasming lately. It feels wonderful to be touched and licked and to have my clit rubbed, but while Sir and I were ‘reconnecting’ that gloomy Tuesday morning, I just could not orgasm. I would get frustratingly close, but then not be able to go over the edge. Of course, Sir was determined to make me orgasm (“You’re not leaving here until you orgasm.” He said) and I did, later on, when He was fucking me.

I suspect one of the reasons I was orgasm challenged, besides the whole rut thing, is the fact that I’m not exactly comfortable with oral sex being performed on me. It feels great, don’t get me wrong, but it’s just… I’m not one hundred percent relaxed with it. I’m totally and utterly comfortable giving blowjobs, that’s not a problem for me at all. I adore sucking Sir’s cock. That’s not it. I just feel so… awkward, receiving oral sex. Self-conscious. My ex-boyfriends weren’t really keen on giving me oral sex. Maybe I’m just not used to it? I don’t know. I understand it’s not really dominant to lick a submissive’s pussy, but… sigh. I have a hard time articulating what feels good and what doesn’t, and a hard time relaxing enough to actually orgasm.

That cloud of awful self esteem is still hanging around me. I still don’t think I’m anything that Sir thinks I am. He compliments me and tells me I’m beautiful, sexy, extraordinary… and I don’t believe a lick of it. Sometimes it makes me cry, which I feel awful about because, well, compliments are supposed to make you feel good! When he says those things on IM, I just type something like, “well, I don’t think so” or “you have to say that kind of thing” or even just a simple “meh”. I don’t know why my self esteem took such a nosedive in the past couple of weeks.

At least now I have an interest in pain, BDSM and sex again, despite my orgasm difficulties. I have a craving for bruises, but I feel like my pain tolerance has been shot to hell. I haven’t been caned in weeks, clamped in even longer. I had pretty/freaky/cool looking bruises on my breasts when Sir slapped them hard. I liked having my breasts slapped.

I have a training session lined up for next week. Three days. I’m looking forward to it, so much. We’ve been talking about it for ages. Sir has been very mysterious about what’s going to happen. I’m very excited.

So things are better than before, but still not one hundred percent.

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He says it without fail, usually when we’re squashed together on the couch watching television, or when we’re naked and lying together on His bed.

“Aren’t you supposed to be out at a college party, or something? Doing something… collegiate?”

Admittedly, though I enthusiastically signed up for a bunch of clubs at ECU’s clubfest, I never really went to any meetings. I don’t really know why- maybe apathy, maybe laziness. Who knows. What I DO know, is that I do plan on being more involved in the goings on at ECU in the fall.

What I’ve come to realize is that this, all this- my collaring, my BDSM, all the screwing around I did before I met Sir, is part of that quintessential college experience of Finding Yourself.

I’m really not grasping at straws here. Hear me out.

Around May/June, all this graduation talk starts floating around. And what do most people say to high school graduates? College is where you go to start Finding Yourself.

I know I sure as hell didn’t know who I was when I graduated high school. I was a dumb, trapped, depressed, suicidal girl trapped in a relationship with a fucktard emotionally abusive boyfriend. I cried when we threw the mortarboards in the air because I didn’t know if I’d live to see my college graduation. Deep down, I truly did not know.

When I started my BDSM-in-the-flesh explorations, I learned a lot of things about myself. Things that I might never have learned, or only learned when I was 40. Things that I’m glad that I know now. My pain threshold, both in the flesh and mentally. My own deep down needs and desires, that I probably wouldn’t have been able to put a name to before. My courage to explore things that some people might never do. How I learn what I’m capable of doing, whether it’s stepping into a BDSM club or baring my basest needs and desires to another human being. How I learned what intimacy really is.

The contract that Sir and I had has run it’s course. I’m uncollared now. Only temporary. The next contract is going to be more restrictive than ever.

He took His time removing my collar. Then He handled me roughly, asking repeatedly, “Why are you here right now? You can walk out if you’d like, why are you here?”

I was shaking. I was near tears. He slapped my face, slapped my tits, shook me, slapped my ass until I almost fell from the force of it.

“I need this!” I said quietly at first.

“You need this?” He said, slapping my tits repeatedly. (Which I actually sort of liked- He hasn’t really done too much of that.)

“I want this, I need this. Please, I don’t want to leave.” I was practically yelling. I just kept repeating, I need this, I want this.

I’m reasonably certain that two years ago, I would think that I was simply not capable of wanting something as much as I do now. To desire something so fiercely that I know deep down, I’d bleed for it. And that ‘something’ is my desire to be owned.

BDSM has taught me a lot of things.

I haven’t had a chance to meditate too much on the temporary loss of my collar, as I’ve been studying for finals all week. I still have a paper due Monday. Then home. Home, with television and snacks and a large bed and someone else to do my laundry. I can blog more now.

I guess the point of this whole post is to hone in on the fact that although I haven’t had the most conventional college experience, I’m not lacking in anything. There’s time enough in the fall to join College Democrats, write for the school paper (Think they’d let me write a sex column? Doubtful.), get involved somehow. I’ve already thrown myself into the deep end and signed up to work at our school’s Welcome Week for freshman.

So! My first semester at ECU has been quite the experience. Getting sloppy drunk for the first time, getting collared, experiencing life in the BEST SCHOOL EVER, falling in love with my Sir, seeing California for the first time, meeting my best friend A and finally, finally being content.

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and i’m all mixed up, feeling cornered and rushed
they say it’s my fault but i want her so much

I haven’t thought about her in ages.

See, I could have had my first kiss, during the winter of freshman year. But I didn’t. Because it would have meant kissing a girl.

Rose was a girl in my Honors program in high school. We were in the “Humanities concentration”. She was obsessed with fairies and fantasy and writing and Shakespeare. We were seated next to each other at the same lab table in Living Environment. I don’t remember how we started talking. But we did.

Then came Halloween that fall. She was practicing Wicca, and she was wearing her pentagram that morning. Some bitchy girls were making fun of her, and me, in all-black and Converse-clad glory, stood up for her. Rose smiled. I put my arm around her and we stomped away. We became really good friends, very quickly. I introduced her to the music I listened to, she read my tarot cards. We would go to Barnes and Noble and spend hours there. I painted her nails black and she gave me pressed flower bookmarks. We shivered in early morning gym class together, in our gym shirts and shorts, playing volleyball. We shared homework at lunch. We talked on the phone for hours.

She was pretty, pale with long brown hair. She was quiet, but had very strong opinions and convictions. Her mother was a lesbian. I knew Rose was questioning her own sexuality, but I didn’t think anything of it. I was totally cool with it. I helped Rose start the first Gay-Straight Alliance at our high school. I helped put up flyers, tried to convince people to come.

The first meeting was around Valentine’s Day. After the meeting was over, Rose asked me to hang around for a bit. I helped put chairs up, and we sat in the empty, dusty art room that we had used for our meeting. The room smelled like paint. She wasn’t looking at me directly. I was blindsided by what she did next. She reached into her pocket and took out a necklace, a silver fairy charm on black cord. She asked me if I would be her Valentine. She said she couldn’t stop thinking about kissing me.

Then it all hit me at once. Her online journal posts talking about some mysterious dark haired person just out of reach. Her general pining and longing for that person. The person who I always assumed was a boy. The person who I never thought was me.

I felt the blood rushing to my head. I could have leaned across the desk and kissed her. She was right there. She was my best friend, I knew that. But how deep did my feelings go?

In the end, I didn’t kiss her. I felt too mixed up. I, in my foolishness, also felt, well, WEIRD about the fact that my first kiss would be with a girl. I took the necklace. I accepted she had a crush on me, but I didn’t quite know what to do with it. Rose was content with our weird limbo. She was relieved that I didn’t freak out.

We stayed friends. I ended up having my first kiss a few months later, with a perfectly ordinary boy in the back row of a movie theater. How… ordinary. Rose would be the last girl friend I’d have for years, until I met A here at East Coast University.

Rose eventually moved away. We fell out of contact, until the wondrous invention of Facebook.

I lost that necklace. I wish I knew where it was now.

(Post title and lyric excerpt from T.a.T.u’s “All The Things She Said”, a song about being in love with a girl, that was oddly popular around that time. Rose always found it ironic.)

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