Ok. So yesterday I blog about a first kiss. Of sorts.
And then. Not 2 hours later. The first man I ever kissed walked into my office. Just 20 minutes after I pressed “publish”. Told me about his divorce and cried about his children. And asked me to be friends with him again.
I don’t think I can.
I was 12 and he was 22. He lived next door to my dad. He was urbane. And had a leather sofa. And drank Nachtmusiek on ice. And when he kissed me, it was like I lost my anchor to the ground.
But I was 12 and he was 22. I was old for my age, very bright, precocious. But still innocent. And I was too young for the decisions he didn’t even realize were an issue. We couldn’t go out together. Be seen together. Do the normal things a girl with her first boyfriend does; drink cokes and blush and giggle. It was more grown up than that. And in ways that are impossible for me to articulate, while it felt right at the time, it felt wrong later.
He called me two years ago, out of the blue. And all the rage came bubbling up. Not for what we were or what it was, but for his part in my loss of innocence. He never touched me inappropriately, let me be clear. But the whole relationship was inappropriate. And he should have known better. We talked. And talked. But I didn’t want to meet. I didn’t want to reconnect to a part of my past that still wasn’t understood.
But it was impetus. Impetus to sort my shit out. To understand why I love the men I do. And how much of who I am is wrapped up in that girl who loved the attention, the difference he gave me in a very ordinary suburban childhood.
And it took me a lot of work to unravel and understand.
And I forgave him. For what he was. Who he was. What he didn’t do.
Until yesterday. When he was there. In reception. Wearing regret and a leather jacket.