He seemed nice I've met him a few times before but this time he asked for my number. I told him I don't have a phone, so he asked for my e-mail. I said I don't use e-mail anymore I gave up because it was 99% spam. That's when he blushed and asked me if I wanted to go out and I said no it was to hot, that's why I was inside. Then he asked me if I wanted pizza, of couse I was interested but food allergies make eating out questionable. When I told him this he seemed to struggle for a while then he sputtered out "I like you". I smiled and told him that was nice, then I thanked him and walked away. My sister was watching the whole time and when I went to her side she was laughing and shaking her head. For some reason she said she felt sorry for the boy, I don't know why, all his friends seem to be having fun laughing up a storm.

My sister was in love. Real love, the kind that made her cheeks red and her eyes sparkle. I often asked her what it was like and spent hours laying awake each night, trying to imagine. “Love makes your throat catch,” Marie had said, “it makes you afraid to speak for fear of what may come out.” Another time, she said, “Love riddles you with nerves and makes you sweat, it puts butterflies in your stomach when you look at the person. You’ll feel it when you’re older.”

At first, I wondered why anyone would want love, especially if all it did was make you feel as uncomfortable as Marie described. That doubt lasted for very little time because I decided to want love for the same reasons I decided to want anything- everyone else seemed to yearn for it and, more importantly, my sister had it and I didn’t. So when a boy from History asked me on a date, I was ecstatic. I went home and relayed the details of the day to Marie, assuring her that I loved the boy. She stared at me incredulously, almost mockingly, insisting that I was too young and too stupid to be in love, especially if I had convinced myself so quickly without reason. She asked, “Have you even felt the things that I told you about? The butterflies? The frog in your throat?” She had a point. I hadn’t.

I was disappointed, but not enough to give up. I would go on the date, which was planned for that evening. He would pick me up at five, and we would walk over to the diner on the main road. I was devastated at the curfew, which was set as early as seven, but I’d have to make do. My parents wouldn’t budge. I put on my birthday dress, the only one I had, and waited eagerly at the door. The boy arrived four minutes late, much to my annoyance. We set out in silence. Meagre attempts at conversation emerged from his side every now and then, but I was too busy to comply, I couldn’t be distracted. I was waiting for butterflies and a frog. At the diner, I ordered fish, because that’s what Marie had ordered on her first date. The boy had chicken. There was more silence, more conversational misfiring on his part, more waiting on mine.

I envied the sky, for it was blushing red instead of me as we walked home. I cast glances at him every now and then, though he was staring straight ahead. Halfway between the restaurant and my house, I felt something. Maybe just one butterfly, flitting around in my stomach. I smiled to myself. For the first time ever, Marie was wrong. I wasn’t too young and it wasn’t too soon after all! I started to break out in a cold sweat, and a new butterfly seemed to emerge with each step. I looked at him once more. The butterflies were starting to get unbearable. “It’s all a part of the package,” I told myself. We were almost at my house when the frog lodged itself in my throat. I could no longer reply to the occasional question. I couldn’t speak. “This is it,” I thought, “I definitely feel it”. Just as the thought crossed my mind, I bent over and emptied my dinner onto the pavement in heaves.

The boy couldn’t leave quickly enough. My sister didn’t say much, though my parents laughed at my decision to order seafood at a diner. I didn’t think about love that night. Instead, I thought ruefully about how Marie was always right.

She felt the bed curve under her as she sat to face the iron framed body length glass. Her bedroom was dimly lit, but nevertheless it was enough lighting to reflect all of herself from across the room. The girl sitting across from her is nude except for the white lace bra and the equally white lace panties.

Closing her eyes, her burning ears remember the pursed lips that lowly mumbled into them no longer than an hour ago.

“Babygirl, you’re my one and only,” the devishly delightful hushed voice promised to her. The girl’s slender fingers trailed over her collar bone, and she could feel the left over illusion of his gentle kisses over her skin.

The way his thumb rubbed circles into her shoulder, tenderly sliding over her arm to hold her palm. How his lips burned her fingers as he tasted them. Tasted the tips that held her scent and juices on them. They way he gazed into her eyes with something animalistic and lustful that stole her breath away.

Staring across from her is her reflection in only stained white lace lingerine, bruises on her wrists and her thighs. Red marks across her neck and collarbone.

That had been her first time, with her first love. Even as her fingertips traced herself tenderly, and relentlessly, she couldn’t stop the tears flooding over her cheeks. Remembering by herself in her dim lit room, after her first time sweetly kissing his cheek and whispering in his ear, “I love you...”

She choked back the sobs as she curled into herself then, the reflection in the mirror showing the deep blue and purple creeping up her back and around her neck. He promised he loved her. This was her first love, so maybe she didn’t know any better, but he promised he’d be gentle next time. So, she would trust him even though it pained her just to breathe.

That’s what it means to love, isn’t it?

He is Soooo sweet

He even bought me some flowers on our FIRST date.

I mean, that definitely means he loves me.

I JUST know it.

He'll probably ask me to marry him soon.

I know I'm only 17 and he's, like 35 or something,

But I don't care about that.

He told me I was pretty.

Imagine!

Little old me... Pretty!

My girlfriend said he just wants to get into my pants, but she just doesn't know him like I do.

I know this is only our second date, but I can just tell.

He's not like other men.

If he was I wouldn't be in this hotel room now waiting for him to come back from the bar and make love to me.

He'll probably ask me to marry him when we finish.

I think love is more than just a feeling

I think it’s a hobby

I think love shouldn’t be paired with a period but a question mark instead

Here’s the thing

When you’re in love

It’s simple

And you know like super complicated

One minute you’re drooling over someone

And the next you’re questioning your judgement

Love? Love. Love? Love.

Is it really more than just a mouthful?

And am I a hypocrite if I say

Damn boy

You really rock my world