The Date That Was My First Date Ever

We were 14 years old and our saga had begun a few weeks earlier when we kissed at the school dance, inspired by the poetry of Ja Rule ft. Ashanti ("Now you street promotin' the dick game is potent"). Our romantic entanglement (with tongues) was cut short by our love story’s first antagonist, Mr. Fraser, the geography teacher who wrenched us apart and banished us to opposite ends of the gym to await our fates (detention). 

In the following days, our star-crossed relationship faltered. Unable to share more than a brief glance across the cafeteria without being subjected to crude oral sex gestures from our friends, it seemed that unless we could get any time on our own, our romance was doomed.

The invitation to The Date arrived in style; a polyphonic version of "Teenage Dirtbag" from my Nokia 3310 alerted me to a new SMS, its contents comparable to Napoleon’s letters to Josephine. "U want 2 go 2 the cinema sat x" it read. I did. He knew me so well.

I dressed in low-rise jeans that gave a sophisticated hint of red thong and a cropped bomber jacket unzipped to my nonexistent (but surely soon-to-be heaving) bosom.

He, on the other hand, arrived at our meeting spot with three of his friends in tow. They ignored me and bought tickets to Ridley Scott’s war epic Black Hawk Down. He bought one for himself and, after a bit of dithering, one for me too. I melted.

Despite the somewhat unromantic nature of a movie based on a military excursion to capture two Somali warlords, my beloved seized my hand and held it for the entire film. At 144 minutes long, by the time Josh Hartnett saved the day our grip was as slippery as a wet fish but the prolonged physical connection had created a powerful bond that could not be severed. We were... together.

Until, that was, three weeks later when I sent him a text meant for a friend, saying I was going to break up with him later that day. He called me and did it first.

Gutted.