Sand in the mouth, forest in the eyes.
My first great romance was at the age of 15 with a man called Isaac who was very much not my boyfriend at the time. Isaac was not my first great love - that was a year later with a man called Alexander, who was also not my boyfriend- but he was my perfect fairy tale romantic hero.
My poor official boyfriend, the thirteenth piglet. I very often surprise myself by remembering that technically I had a three year relationship [with emphasis on the word technically] because both he and I were too young and too shy [and I certainly too afraid of intimacy] to actually communicate and be *together* in any real sense other than occasional kissing sessions, cinema trips and some hedonistic hand holding on buses.
I was in the bloom of my sulky teenage years, and shut down in myself, and he left as much of a mark on my life as a landscape seen from a car, or a dream. I was with him for only the very worst of reasons - fear of aloneness and deviance. Wanting to prove that I was 'normal', loveable, that I could belong. With hindsight I feel tenderness for him in equal measures with embarassment at my insecurity, and our non-relationship and the awfulness being 15, withdrawn into myself, sealed shut like a shell. I think we were little more than two commuters sharing the same elevator, or train. Sitting side by side without looking at one another, on the way to somewhere else.
I was not sure where or what that Somewhere Else was, only that I brushed against it unexpectedly at the age of 15 on holiday in Israel while it lounged by the pool in the shape of Isaac. Isaac was probably the best looking man I shall ever entice: a 19 year old male model, tall, lean, dark haired, olive skinned. With wry smiles, and eyes the green of forest pools. He had a permanent shadow of stubble and occasional dimples when he smiled. I was smitten, and I think the fact that I was the only other person in the resort over the age of 12 and under the age of 65 had a lot to do with why he showed interest in me. That and the fact that there was literally nothing else to do on the shores of the Dead Sea.
He spoke as much English as I did Hebrew, which meant hardly at all. But he smiled often, and sought me out and drew me pictures with charcoal on pieces of paper crusted with sea-salt and wilted with humidity.
I was smitten with his physical beauty, and the idea that this heavenly creature was not averse to me. I just wanted to look at him, and run my hands across the sunwarm smoothness of his back, and the scratchy roughness of the stubble on his face. To watch him glide across the face of the world, and watch the ripple of the taut muscles of his abdomen and drink the spill of light from the hollow of his throat.
I hunted him resolutely in my shy, sideways manner, plied him with my limited arsenal of hooks. Dark-eyed glances, secret smiles, long gazes through lowered lashes and palm reading [seduction secret weapon extraordinaire - allowing hand holding, and intrigue, and excuse to come together again]. And despite my shyness I was determined and eventually it all coalesced into the magic night where I wore an off-the shoulders pale yellow dress with tiny red flowers, and he a lopsided smile and faded jeans and a white shirt that set off the tan of his skin. And we slow-danced in the circle of old fogeys, and held hands as we walked along the beach beneath the hundred thousand burning stars visible above deserts. We talked in our broken human tongues, mispronouncing wildly, and he ran his fingers along the side of my face and kissed my hand, and I reached out to cup his face and touch the edge of his wry smile.
The shape of everything I had dreamt about and never thought I'd have- scented with the sea-breeze and nightflowers, garbed in starlight, walnut-skinned and green-eyed.
I have a single photograph of him and me somewhere, sandwiched between the pool and sun loungers, straight-backed, almost formal. But the photograph is not the moment I keep. Instead I keep the memory of that night in which we are standing facing each other beneath a wheat-yellow moon and the desert wind is blowing hotly as hairdryer, tangling my hair and the skirt of my dress, blowing the moonlit sand about our moored bare feet.
Dull work beckons; to prevent my mind from imploding I invite you to share the tale of your first great romance.
My poor official boyfriend, the thirteenth piglet. I very often surprise myself by remembering that technically I had a three year relationship [with emphasis on the word technically] because both he and I were too young and too shy [and I certainly too afraid of intimacy] to actually communicate and be *together* in any real sense other than occasional kissing sessions, cinema trips and some hedonistic hand holding on buses.
I was in the bloom of my sulky teenage years, and shut down in myself, and he left as much of a mark on my life as a landscape seen from a car, or a dream. I was with him for only the very worst of reasons - fear of aloneness and deviance. Wanting to prove that I was 'normal', loveable, that I could belong. With hindsight I feel tenderness for him in equal measures with embarassment at my insecurity, and our non-relationship and the awfulness being 15, withdrawn into myself, sealed shut like a shell. I think we were little more than two commuters sharing the same elevator, or train. Sitting side by side without looking at one another, on the way to somewhere else.
I was not sure where or what that Somewhere Else was, only that I brushed against it unexpectedly at the age of 15 on holiday in Israel while it lounged by the pool in the shape of Isaac. Isaac was probably the best looking man I shall ever entice: a 19 year old male model, tall, lean, dark haired, olive skinned. With wry smiles, and eyes the green of forest pools. He had a permanent shadow of stubble and occasional dimples when he smiled. I was smitten, and I think the fact that I was the only other person in the resort over the age of 12 and under the age of 65 had a lot to do with why he showed interest in me. That and the fact that there was literally nothing else to do on the shores of the Dead Sea.
He spoke as much English as I did Hebrew, which meant hardly at all. But he smiled often, and sought me out and drew me pictures with charcoal on pieces of paper crusted with sea-salt and wilted with humidity.
I was smitten with his physical beauty, and the idea that this heavenly creature was not averse to me. I just wanted to look at him, and run my hands across the sunwarm smoothness of his back, and the scratchy roughness of the stubble on his face. To watch him glide across the face of the world, and watch the ripple of the taut muscles of his abdomen and drink the spill of light from the hollow of his throat.
I hunted him resolutely in my shy, sideways manner, plied him with my limited arsenal of hooks. Dark-eyed glances, secret smiles, long gazes through lowered lashes and palm reading [seduction secret weapon extraordinaire - allowing hand holding, and intrigue, and excuse to come together again]. And despite my shyness I was determined and eventually it all coalesced into the magic night where I wore an off-the shoulders pale yellow dress with tiny red flowers, and he a lopsided smile and faded jeans and a white shirt that set off the tan of his skin. And we slow-danced in the circle of old fogeys, and held hands as we walked along the beach beneath the hundred thousand burning stars visible above deserts. We talked in our broken human tongues, mispronouncing wildly, and he ran his fingers along the side of my face and kissed my hand, and I reached out to cup his face and touch the edge of his wry smile.
The shape of everything I had dreamt about and never thought I'd have- scented with the sea-breeze and nightflowers, garbed in starlight, walnut-skinned and green-eyed.
I have a single photograph of him and me somewhere, sandwiched between the pool and sun loungers, straight-backed, almost formal. But the photograph is not the moment I keep. Instead I keep the memory of that night in which we are standing facing each other beneath a wheat-yellow moon and the desert wind is blowing hotly as hairdryer, tangling my hair and the skirt of my dress, blowing the moonlit sand about our moored bare feet.
Dull work beckons; to prevent my mind from imploding I invite you to share the tale of your first great romance.