I was sitting across the room from him while he and his friends jammed out on their guitars. We were all a little tipsy and having a blast. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, and once he put the guitar down I couldn’t keep my hands off either. Musicians must love their love lives.
Postscript: We’ll see where the road takes us…
At age 17, I was sat between his legs and racing him on Xbox. After a race, I tilted my head back and kissed him upside down, catching him by surprise. “I love you…and you should do that more often,” was the response I got.
Postscript: He won the race, and after numerous arguments and breakups, I realised that it was slowly crushing my heart. We broke up 6 months ago, had a “thing” two months after which I ended, and I’m still in love with him. I’m slowly getting there.
It wasn’t when I told him I loved him back that first time. It was four months in, we were lying in bed, naked. He was sleeping, and I was hugging him. I was stroking his back, and I could hear his breath. Then, I started sobbing (I’m that cheesy) because that moment felt perfect. Everything fit, and I was in love.
Postscript: I didn’t feel I loved him back that first time because I hadn’t taken his virginity, yet. After those 4 months, I had. Multiple times.
It was New Year’s Eve, and we were drunk. We made out in her kitchen while her mom was arguing with our annoying Russian friend. She told me she loved me, and I said “I love you, too.” And I meant it. We dated in secret until the end of high school. During our first year at separate colleges, I broke up with her, not realizing it would be me with the broken heart.
Postscript: I’ve always wondered what my life would be like had we never split up.
It was drool at first sight when I saw him run up a sunny hill—shirtless. I randomly bumped into him at a bar where my running group was celebrating a race. Turns out he had secretly asked my coach for e-mail updates on my whereabouts so he could finally meet me. We stood outside talking by my car. All our friends left, then the waiters, then the cooks. When the drunken bums started roaming around us, we finally knew it was really late…and that we were hooked.
Postscript: We’re engaged!
She smiled at me, and I was like, “Why the hell is that type of girl smiling at me?” I was watching Star Trek: Voyager reruns on my dual monitor setup at work. She was “cheerleader hot”: size zero, tanned, practiced yoga. To say the least, she wasn’t my “type,” but I invited her out with my friend and I to see a movie. Afterward I asked her if she wanted to come over and have some spaghetti. We got back to my studio apartment, and I told her I wasn’t the type to kiss a girl first. She did. It was primal. Hot. Over and over.
Postscript: We were married eight months later. Our first child was born one year after that.
We texted back and forth for a while. I realized he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box, which in my world is a bit of a turnoff. Then he texted me: “Every time I get a text from you, my dick sturrs.” It was the most inappropriate and cutest text anyone has ever sent me. And I loved it.
Postscript: My inbox is filled with dirty pictures. He is gorgeous, and I’ve learned to get over the grammatical divide.