My First Boyfriend — My First Thief

I first had a boyfriend at the age of 17 years old. Growing up in a traditional conservative Asian household, at a liberal country in the Western part of the world, my life was very juxtaposed, polar opposites of norms, values, conversing, down to the T.

I’m now nearing 30 with a failed marriage and I’m starting to look back on my past relationships and the normality of which I had lived my life thus far and how I could stop myself this time from ruining my future and building upon my past achievements or fails. Did I change? Or did I reveal my true colours? Am I my thoughts? Am I my ego? Or am I as soft as a flower? I decided to ponder and reflect further inward into myself to include flashbacks to my first boyfriend with a 4-letter-word, the only boyfriend whom I recall having a normal relationship with, for the sake of ease of reading, let’s just call him Dave. Dave was a thief. Here is the story of how he stole my heart, my identity and my virginity.

I remembered on my first day of College, my best friend and I back then (and we no longer are now) looked around our surroundings in our new College hall, eyeing up on the newest guys we could possibly latch on to boost and motivate us to coming in to finish our education. Just one guy who could help us make it through this last year of A-Levels as bearable as we possibly can. Having finished our AS-Levels and redoing our Maths GCSE for the previous year, we were excited on taking on board our Media Studies A-Levels.

We were young. Highly spirited. Eager. Happy. Naive.

I spotted Dave in that College hall. I always had a thing for blonde men, perhaps due to a lack of them back where I came from. They were my polar opposite thus making the idea of them somewhat of an unattainable dreamy figure and a prized trophy I suppose.

Dave was a sarcastic Englishman. He was funny, witty, downright sarcastic. I was a tomboy, I probably still am deep down. I hung around with guys a lot, they made me laugh and there weren’t as two-faced as girls — of which I will be carrying on in a separate entry. I plucked up the courage to talk to Dave. He’s got such an air of confidence about him. The way he made these boys in my class laugh. But he was also low-key and modest, slightly slouching, dressed like a skater boy, he was anything but. But he had good humour — hard humour makes my panties wet. I meant that in the most flattering way possible. My tomboy thoughts or ego made it all the more easier for us both to connect. We started off as friends but obviously I made it very clear to him that I was interested in him. Late night calls, text messaging, fuck with chivalry and lady-manners I thought. If I don’t go out to get what I want, I probably never will get what I deserve — I deserve this clown, this blonde-headed trophy.

A little bit about my personality background: I get an ego boost out of building mens’ esteems and being the strong woman smiling in my silky, elegant dress standing behind them, while they go out their way to conquer the world, knowing that I’ll always have their backs and ready to serve them as soon as they come home to me. Service is what I provide. But I expect my man to conquer the world. I could do the conquering, but I’m very much a nurturing type of personality.

If there’s one thing I didn’t see apparent in between my parents’ relationship at home, I was sure that I needed to become the exact opposite if I wanted to build a happy home. “The nurturing nature.”

I wanted a man I could laugh with, I could joke around with, a man who could make me laugh and joke with me, and mostly, a man who will accept me for who I was — a tomboy. And perhaps the odd boyish slip-up would not be all that damaging, but I was sure he was accepting of who I was not — a lady.Dave was accepting of all that.

It didn’t take very long for us to get to allsorts of bases — anything but a home run for him. I was still a virgin. Instilled with very traditional Asian values and religious fear. By week 2 of dating, I plucked up the courage of inviting myself over to his house, and we found ourselves making out. Oh what sensational pleasures. He was good at kissing. We clicked.

I felt like I knew what I was doing automatically despite never having kissed anyone before. I knew when to slip my tongue in and out of his mouth. I knew when to take deep intakes of breaths. And I was excited. A young teenage Asian virgin with suppressed hormonal expressions, this was something new, this was something exciting, it got my heart pumping full of adrenaline. “This is good. This is so good,” I thought to myself.

I allowed him to take over my body, taking off my top, sucking on my breasts as he began fingering me. I didn’t resist. I didn’t get wet either. I was excited with all these new bodily sensations I felt pulsing right through me. And I just felt his fingers working through me, him squeezing my hips, me grinding and pushing myself against his body, I enjoyed it. I enjoyed all these sensations, it felt unreal. All those nights of quiet, muffled masturbation and it’s finally gotten real. This is reality. This is fun. We didn’t talk much but just let everything flowed. We continued to give each other oral sex, he was the only one who managed to orgasm. I was unaware of what an orgasm was. I didn’t know what to feel. What is this slippery substance in between my legs? I smelt something musky. But I was also perplexed with this new world that I’ve just experienced. My hair, messy and all over the place. My face, hot and blushing. My body in heat. I returned home that night in a dreamy state of mind, reflecting back on what I’ve just experienced, feeling guilty. I felt like I was hooked, I wanted more, I liked it, I felt alive and high on life.

We met the next day in College and it was slightly embarrassing. We’d give each other the side glances in class, knowing we’d done the unspeakables. He’d laugh with his friends, I’d smile softly behind him or joke along while he built up on my jokes with extreme/utmost sarcasm. By the end of the day, we’d take the bus from College to go back to his house. A few well-mannered words were exchanged with his mum. We walked up the stairs and into his bedroom. He shut the door and turned towards me. He kissed me and kissed hard he did. He was hot and heavy. I was easily swayed and reciprocated his desires through my own. I wanted this rush again as much as he did.

And so it went on. College was an unfortunate time for me to begin experimenting. Whatever people were talking about, I needed to try it. Drinks? Drugs? How could my dad possibly tell me to stay off them when he hadn’t even tried it for himself? Had he tried and known of the effects? Was he ever speaking from experience? Or was he speaking out of pure pride and hard judgments towards others? Dave also liked to smoke weed. So we did. We’d talk about theories of parallel universes, theories of God, we’d talk a lot. Trying to remember some of our universal conversations, we didn’t even manage to figure it out. All our theories were blown widely out of proportion — nothing came close to the facts or truth. We’d watch a lot of movies. But every time we snuggled after movies, he’d be slightly withdrawn. I wasn’t sure who began the effects of withdrawal from each other. I wasn’t sure whether I started becoming needy or whether he got bored of knowing I was just basic and that I would always be there for him. Perhaps lack of excitement in our relationship and letting it run on its own course took a toll on us. Never knowing what to say. How to be civil. How to make sarcastic jokes without the other getting super sensitive about it. He’d become increasingly moody. We became on and off. Then there’d be me — just sitting on his sofa reading a magazine whenever I got bored at home and just felt like I needed a sexual pick-me-up. Teasing him with my half buttoned down cowboy shirt and jeans skirt (they were Levi’s, and I’d just gotten back from our family summer shopping trip at Portsmouth’s Gunwharf Quays), throwing side eye glances to urge him to make out with me, then leaving him without so much as sucking his cock.

Now that I look back on it, I was also increasingly hypersexed. I needed the rush. I wanted to feel the rush every day. It’d get boring, but I’d still need it. At least for the sake of excitement among my mediocre day-t0-day Asian family living patterns and college courseworks & projects. I was also becoming increasingly depressed and frustrated with mum’s religious lectures, no one to talk about sex and relationships with apart from my girl friends. I’d smoke even more weed, get the munchies and ate so much. I couldn’t even come close to my mum with my relationship problems without her reminding me of God’s wrath. Unlike liberal mums, they always manage to make friends with their daughters, have normal conversations and talk it out in the open. To be open with family was something I never had. Mum’d ask about Dave, but I couldn’t possibly tell her of the things we’d get up to in our relationship. Without the sex or sexy part of our relationship — what was it? We didn’t have much in common. Or we did. The movies that we watched, the songs we listened to, our weed sessions, our hard-hitting sarcastic humour, but we just became so good as friends, he got bored of me and I couldn’t offer anything else more exciting other than loving and nurturing.

For almost 1.5 years of college, we went through our ups and downs, with a few near wishes of having a full-blown sexual intercourse. I made it clear I needed to have sex after I was married. He’d become increasingly frustrated of course — we’d done everything in the book apart from putting his dick in my vag. That was only one step away. What harm could one step be? And what difference did that one step could possibly make? I knew I was no good looking lady. But if I could stand for one thing in my life, I knew that my brains took no part in it. I was still selfish. I thought of myself, what to eat, what to do in my life, I had no hobby. Dave was my hobby. Of sucking dick. The chastity of my virginity was the only thing that I could stand for at this point in my 17-year-old identity.

I wanted to be like the cool kids from college. The gang with the hot guys, they always seemed to be in-the-know of the up and coming gigs, trends, the posse who always seemed to hang around at Leicester or Trafalgar or Camden for nights out. I never had such posse. I’d run to my best friend’s house which was only 1km away from mine, and I’d still get asked as to where I was going. There was such a lack of trust from my parents and come to think of it, a lack of showing up from my part. I began volunteering at Traffic — a street team company back then who distributed merchandises for bands like Blink 182, Zero 7, Jet, Badly Drawn Boy, FFAF, allsorts. It gave me excitement in knowing that I could go to gigs for free and get all these free merchandises and black discs from the office. But I was also incredibly low self-esteemed. I had no guts. To even call up people to make sure that these members were coming to attend the free gigs that they’d signed up to on the website, had me sweating profusely. I didn’t know how to write copywriting for the website articles. I didn’t know how to do anything. I had no passion apart from writing in my diary full of deluded right-brained imaginary situations (or real thoughts at that present moment?), playing bass in my room and listening to music or sucking on Dave’s cock. I felt incredibly insecure and I probably always have been and will be to some extent. But by volunteering, I knew I had no real money value, no social value, no responsibility, no deadlines and no timekeeping, I was still free and still be able to gain access to shows such as Funeral For A Friend at Carling Islington, and free CDs. I was free. But also trapped in my mind. I didn’t want to make money — I just wanted to enjoy life worry-free.

I began to move out to College dorm as my parents went back to our country. Loneliness hit me hard. It was unbelieveably depressing. What a dark moment of my life. I became increasingly intertwined with drugs and experimenting. As expected, my girl friends either became backstabbers or they also took out their frustration on me as I became increasingly dependent on them for companionship or spending too much time with them that we got into a comfort zone. I spent a lot of my days on social media. Facebook didn’t exist back then, I only joined in 2006 and that only happened as soon as I enrolled in University. Friendster was getting boring. Ebaumsworld was something that I was unfamiliar of in terms of humour and comedy. It was the YouTube of the olden days — it was where everyone was. I enjoyed Myspace a lot. It gave me lots of creative ideas and envies that put me into practice of learning the art of CSS coding, copying and pasting, then moulding my page to look as minimalist as possible, to look like I’m in the now and the “in” crowd. I was extremely depressed from losing Dave and gave no chances to other guys who tried entering my life as friends. Come to think of it, why did I not give those guys a chance? One of whom was Anthony. He was a friend of a friend’s, and he was a bit of a downer. But that was only due to his dad’s passing. He would contact me on MSN a few days after meeting at a friend’s party — we were the only ones to stay over till the morning to help clean up the place. He was also a subculture grunge, long-haired, tied back, goatee bearded, Italian Brit, also a very nice gentleman. But I was always too picky. It was either who I wanted or targetted, or it was better to have no one at all and wallow in my misery of loneliness. Such extremes. I could never get the balance right. Until *Sam came along. But that will be a whole other story.

It was at this stage in my life that one of my girl friends who was blessed with some sort of supernatural ability to predict the Aceh Tsunami, also had a knack for reading people’s faces, spotting ghosts in my house and reading my palms. She was a nice girl, a bit too nice, the type of girl who’s a goody two shoes, but she was also very judgmental of me. Perhaps it may only be because of the judgmental vibe I exuded off onto her as well. I always wanted to get close with her, but she somehow never let me in. She was closer to our other friends, but I always felt a bit distant from her. Because she was always so cheerful as soon as she stepped into my house, joking and laughing with my mum. But as soon as we stepped out the house, she’d be extremely serious. Our friendship did not last very long, but she was one of the few people in my life who foretold my future, not a close friend, but we never did make it close enough to one another as much as I or her could ever possibly have wanted. The reason why this character suddenly popped up in the middle of nowhere was due to one of her most memorable predictions, which were about Dave and Sam. I showed her a picture of Dave in my wallet. “What do you think of him? Could I spend my life with him?” “You could spend your life with anyone you want. It’s all up to you. But he’s very moody.” “Yeah he is. I could really imagine myself getting married to him though. Will I?” “You can get married to whomever you want.” Tracing back to my past experiences, it seemed like she tried to keep telling me something important, but I had absolutely no recollection of, and had no idea on how to take in her advice. I shrugged it off. Like I always do about everyone’s serious advice for me. “How about Sam?” “He’s a flirt.” “I know he is. But he’s soo… argh. He’s so out of my league.” “No one is out of your league.” Again, I shrugged it off. And once again, continued on my emotional imaginary rollercoaster. “Sam is hot and he’s tall, and he’s talented and independent. I really really really want to marry him.” “You can marry whomever you want.” “No, I couldn’t. Because he’s out of my league.” “No one is out of your league.” Then I went on my way and shrugged it off yet again.

I spent a lot of my nights smoking weed in my dorm room; focusing on decorating my myspace page (which always took 2 hours at best to learn and play around with the CSS coding) that I’d change every few months or so; texting Dave as to why he’d never invited me over or even so much as asked me how I was getting along without my parents, alone in a country of individualists, pumped with fear. I’d apply for jobs but to no avail — perhaps my oversmiling face gave away the impression that I was too eager, too bold and too naive to take on any job or responsibility.

After I met Sam off Myspace, I decided that I needed to meet up with Dave again. Find out what’s really going on. Because I liked Sam. He was really nice. But there was something about him I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He was a flirt. But I needed my Dave. Dave never flirted with girls. He didn’t have a lot of girl friends, he only had a group of lads with his routine pub or Ministry of Sound cycle. Dave was my comfort zone. I couldn’t move on even further with Sam until I found out for sure whether Dave and I were through or not. So I decided to contact Dave within the same week that I met Sam. He came down with a flu, decided it was best for me to soothe him and nurse him back to health, no sex this time. It was purely because I missed him. I missed the smell of his body. He had a signature smell that would stick on his sheets, his room, it was Dave’s scent. I missed Dave’s scent. So becoming a nurse — that would be what every guy would hope for… right? I came by, asked his mum how he was doing and offered to give him a massage, but he’d wanted none of me. He’d pity himself. He thought I came by for sex. Looked at me straight in the eye and said, “Why are you being nice to me?” Because I love you. “No, why are you here nursing me. I’ve only got a flu. I’m not dying. You don’t have to.” I know I don’t. I guess I just wanted to take care of you. It was at this precise moment that he sat up halfway and pulled my face in closer. We kissed. Slow. But also turned passionate real quick. He pulled me on top of him. Oh yes. This was what I missed. His sensual kisses. So I went with it. Until we were fully naked, and I found myself striding on top of him. We just stopped and looked at each other. I teased him by gyrating my hips and rubbing myself on him but I looked into his eyes and I knew he wanted it as much as I did. “Aw please! Fuck!” Dave shouted frustratingly as he sat up and quickly fell back down to his pillow, squeezing my love handles at his desperate frustration. “Stop it. Please, stop it.” “Stop what?” “Stop teasing me. You cockteaser.” He quickly turned energetic, threw me sideways, pinned both my arms down and climbed on top of me. “I thought you were ill.” “Don’t say a word,” Dave said. Before, we’d never have this sort of connection. Dave was different this time. He had a different look upon his face. He was serious. “Please,” he begged me, calling my name. “Please, just, urgh. Come on, let’s do it.” Our genitals against each other, as he slow-rubbed himself on me. I wanted it. So badly. I needed Dave. He was all I ever needed. He was home to me. And I knew he wanted to be one with me so bad. I knew he wanted to become a part of me.

“Do you have a condom?” Dave was so eager. “Oh, yes! Wait, wait.” He reached into the white drawer behind his bed and took out a condom. I was drifting with my thoughts. Shit. Do I back out? What if I did? Would he be mad at me? It’s ok. Everyone has sex. Everyone does it. So there can’t be a God is there. Oh God. Please send me a sign. “Is it expired? Wait,” he fidgeted rapidly reading the expiry date on the condom. “Haven’t used one in a long, long time.” I looked sideways at his sofa while he hurriedly put on his condom. It’s ok. If everyone does it, there’s no God. Just pretend there’s no God. Is there? Give me a sign. Oh what the hell, why bother. As soon as I turned my head towards him, my phone vibrated with an incoming text message. What…?

Dave was on top of me. He was full of fire. Eager. I was about to open my mouth and tell him I wanted to check my phone. “Leave it,” he said. “You can’t back out now.” I stayed silent. And he pushed himself into me. It hurt. It was no longer the fiery passion I knew after all this time. It was not what I had expected. My whole body went stiff. I felt him inside of me. “Do you want me to go fast or slow?” “Just do it. Quick,” I told him. It wasn’t sensual as I had always imagined in my head that first time. As soon as it was over, I checked my phone. It was my dad sending me a text message. Asking me how I was. I left his house, him walking me to the door and kissing me on my forehead. I remembered thinking, what’s for dinner? I decided to walk it to Sainsbury’s near Dave’s house. As I picked up a beer jerky, my favourite snack, I remembered walking around and noticing everyone. “I’m now just like you. All of you. I’m no longer a virgin.” But I could not for the life of me shrug off that feeling. Why did Dad send me that text? Why did it come as soon as I asked for God’s presence? Why was it almost instantaneous? I walked around Sainsbury’s gathering food for my dinner, cooked up a meal, ate quietly in my dorm room and went to sleep.

We stayed in our relationship for 10 months after that. I had turned into someone I could not even recognize myself. I lost all innocence. I lost my sense of self-identity. I was no longer the virgin, the innocent 17 year old Asian girl image I had in my head. I was just like everybody else now. I had nothing special to differ me from other people. Could I have seen myself building a marriage together with him? Sure, he was moody as hell. But that wouldn’t be Dave if he wasn’t moody. Looking back on it now, that was his balance. Without his moodiness, he wouldn’t be the creative genius that he is. The scriptwriter. My assistant Director. We worked so well in a team during our College days. His genius dark scriptwriting — almost reminded me of Chuck Palahniuk, both of us fangirling over Fight Club. His dark sense of humour, he came from a very dark place. But that was his balance. That was his sensuality. We met because we both came from places of darkness. He embraced his darkness just as I had mine, but we didn’t deny it. We were both just as imaginative and just as crazy about each other, but had no idea how to get any closer than we did. Dave is still a friend of mine, we continue to communicate over Facebook message and I have no hard feelings for him. In fact, I’m grateful he took my heart, my innocence, he had always been a gentleman to me. But he also took my identity. And had it not been for the divorce and a divine intervention from the universe by presenting me with other figures in my life, I don’t think I would have realized that first time that I lost my sense of innocence and my self-identity. It then set the pace for the rest of my life up until this present moment — the blossoming of my awareness and consciousness. But I’ll leave that story for another separate piece.