My First Love

Teenage love. It’s dramatic, messy, and completely irrational – which is probably why it’s also so bloody unforgettable. Let me take you back to when I was seventeen, dizzy on hormones and heartache, and madly in love for the first time. Like, proper love. The kind that makes you write tragic poetry and stare wistfully out of windows to sad indie songs.

It was during a sport I did with my dad – the kind of activity that bonds you over mutual exhaustion and muddy shoes. Now, here’s where it gets juicy: he was there. Not my dad, obviously, but him. The boy-man of my dreams. He was 22, at uni, and completely unaware I existed. Textbook unrequited love. I didn’t even have a proper conversation with him, ever. He was that unattainable type who floated about the event scene like a Greek god in mismatched socks and sports tape.

The uni lads had a reputation. And not the charming, ‘oh-he’s-such-a-good-bloke’ type, although that too. No, they were known for getting absolutely bladdered and losing their kit at after-parties. I’m talking full-on streaking through the night to the lake and back, no shame, no trousers. As luck (or teenage idiocy) would have it, I ended up at one of these infamous parties. My parents were there too – naturally, because there’s nothing like throwing back your first few drinks in front of your mum to truly kickstart your social downfall.

Now, I’d never really drunk before, so it didn’t take much to loosen the nerves. The uni boys were in peak form – sweaty, chaotic, and completely naked by about 9:30pm. I spotted him across the dance floor, shirtless and slightly unwell-looking, but to me? Utter perfection.

I gathered every ounce of false confidence my watered-down cider could muster and did a little shimmy up to him. We danced – well, I danced – he sort of swayed like someone trying not to vomit on a boat.

I pivoted. If I couldn’t win over my dreamboat, I could at least make him jealous. Enter: one of his mates. Fit, friendly, and just drunk enough to find me fascinating. We ended up sneaking outside, my heart pounding with reckless glee. He kissed me. My first ever kiss, pressed up against a suspiciously warm car. And reader? It was… average. A bit sloppy, and he smelled like sweat and desperation. Then, mid-snog, he peered over my shoulder and asked, “Hey, is that your dad?”

Mortifying.

Apparently, my mum had sent him out to find me, no doubt convinced I was in the bushes doing god-knows-what with god-knows-who (she wasn’t far off).

We trotted back inside, and I spotted my crush again – slumped, sniffling, and half-conscious. Not exactly Prince Charming, but to me, he looked vulnerable. Beautifully tragic. I got him a blanket, like some Florence Nightingale of the drunk and oblivious. He had snot. I wiped it away. Gave him a little peck on the lips in front of the entire room like a hopeless romantic in a bad teen drama.

My mum’s glare could’ve curdled milk. I ignored it.

That was it. My one moment of closeness with this mythical lad – a single kiss he likely never registered, and I carried it around like a pressed flower for months. Every time the sport season ended, I fell into a spiral of melodrama, listening to sad songs and journaling like my life was over. I missed someone I’d never truly met. Wild.

Now, 25 years on, I still cyber stalk him occasionally. Don’t judge. Turns out he’s a safari guide now – rugged, successful, and pushing 50 with a face like sun-dried leather. Honestly, I dodged a bullet. But back then? He was everything.

Crazy, glorious, cringe-inducing teen love. It stays with you. Like glitter. Or trauma.

And that, dear reader, is how I fell in love, got my first kiss, wiped someone’s snot, and embarrassed myself thoroughly – all in one night.

Stay tuned. I’ve got plenty more tales of emotional chaos, youthful idiocy, and uncomfortable encounters to come.