[A conversation I had in the comments section with another blogger got me to thinking about a dance I attended in middle school and how that dance led to an interesting series of events.]
In the eighth grade, I went to the Valentine’s Day dance. Near the end of the dance, one of my friends took it upon herself to pair off all of her wallflower friends. And not only did she do that, she decided that we all needed to kiss as well.
I hadn’t kissed a boy at that point, nor did I really want to, but I closed my eyes and let it happen. Ew, I thought at the time (and still do).
After that one peck on the lips, Andrew went out to the lobby and bought all of the Valentine’s Day items that were being sold to give to me, much to my discomfort. He asked for my phone number, which I gave him, and then told all his friends that he now had a girlfriend.
Andrew was–and is–a nice guy. Super nice, even. We dated on and off from eighth grade until my freshman year of college. I broke up with him multiple times each year when he started trying to get too serious, so after doing the math, that has to be some kind of record.
The Monday after the dance, he was waiting for me at the lockers and grabbed my hand. Hand-holding was a sign that things were official. We walked 20 feet to my classroom before he shoved a note in my hand and left to go to his own class.
I opened up the note, which gushed over my eyes and how happy he was to finally have a girlfriend. I didn’t know what to make of it all. Over the next couple of weeks, after more hand-holding sessions that lasted upwards of 30 seconds at a time, the notes got more serious:
E, I can’t wait for us to graduate high school and spend our lives together. We’ll get married and then have kids…
I told my friend that paired us off to tell him that we had broken up. He was pretty upset.
In ninth grade, he asked me out again, and I accepted. There was even more hand-holding than in eighth grade, since we were no longer confined to a single hallway and had 10-minute breaks between classes. But once again, the notes got serious after a couple weeks and referenced our future children, so I wrote him a note telling him we were done.
This is the way it went up until college. Sometimes we’d last for up to two months at a time before the love, marriage proposals, and future children were brought up. I had no interest in love, marriage proposals, or children. Each time I would tell him that I didn’t want to be that committed or whatever, but it never failed to come up. He was such a sweet guy and I really enjoyed hanging out with him (it didn’t dawn on either of us to just hang out as friends only, apparently), but the moment the kiddos were brought up, I bolted.
The final time we dated, in my freshman year of college, he upped the ante a little in an email he sent me.
E, I love you so much. I can’t wait until we graduate college so we can get married, have kids, and start out lives together. [He went on with some other lovey-dovey stuff.] And I would really like it if you would give me a blow job.
Oh my god. I about peed my pants laughing at the absurdity of that request. Just the fact that it was so politely requested by email after talking about our future kids was too much. And then I was like, “Dude, you haven’t even attempted to get to whatever base is before that!” which doubled the absurdity factor.
I promptly emailed him back to inform him that we were broken up again (no, I wasn’t a very mature college freshman). I’m sorry. I knew I shouldn’t have asked for a blow job, he responded back.
A few months later, I started talking to my future husband online, who did not talk about marriage, kids, or fellatio until well into the relationship (and definitely not in that order).