First Girlfriend
My first girlfriend, the first girl who ever chose to return a display of serious interest on my part, entered my life when I was sixteen. Her name was Melissa. She was lovely and artless and warmhearted, a slender girl with long, dark hair and a winsome smile, and for a short time, from late 1969 to early 1970, the two of us were an inseparable pair. We met in high school, where we both belonged to a loose circle of friends, and for a period of months I quietly fostered a private yearning to know her better. When my unspoken crush grew strong enough to became unmistakably apparent to her, I was utterly amazed to discover that the situation was not, as I had feared, totally hopeless.
It began in sweet awkwardness, as usually happens at that age. My extreme shyness with girls was a frequent hindrance at the outset. When we first shared a kiss, in a dark corner at a Christmas party given by one of our friends, it was she who eagerly took the lead, catching me completely off guard when she suddenly pressed her mouth fully against mine. It was an overpowering kiss, an unforgettable kiss. A kiss that was deep, delicious, and determined. A fearless kiss that could not be refused or resisted. For a moment, her forthright expression of impatient ardor rendered me helpless, but only for a moment. I was a fast learner.
During the next half hour, as we reclined together on a couch, wrapped around each other in the darkness and dreamily oblivious to everything but the heated release of our pent-up feelings, I gained entrance to an exciting realm of physical responses that soon overwhelmed me, taking me beyond the timorous confines of my Catholic boyhood. I had never held a girl so closely. I could feel her heart beating against mine. We continued to hold each other, and we continued kissing without pause, for what seemed an eternity, until our lips nearly had blisters. We finally had to stop and catch our breath. From that evening onward, I was considerably less shy with girls.
I was astonished to find that a girl actually liked me, and perhaps, even loved me. In the weeks that followed our first kiss at the party, my life was opened to a host of new, heady experiences. We were side by side at every opportunity, always hand in hand. Her Christmas gift to me was a woolen scarf that she had knitted herself. My gift to her was a spotted seashell, a small treasure from my childhood. We were being swiftly carried along, propelled by a rush of overactive affection, riding the crest of a giddy wave that both of us took to be a state of permanent bliss. Our friends looked upon us as a perfect couple.
Having a girlfriend made my life much warmer and much happier, but after a few months I began to feel restless and uncomfortable. The qualities in her that once had seemed so endearing, her loving dedication to me and her lack of worldliness, were now causing me to have doubts in regard to our future together. I queasily suspected that she might be looking ahead to the prospect of marriage. It seemed that I was being trapped and smothered by the steadiness of our relationship, and I decided that it would be advisable for us to step back from the ardent closeness into which we had tumbled. I hoped, honestly but quite unreasonably, that we would still maintain a friendship.
If I had been older and wiser, and much less nervous regarding the future, I would have understood that most teenage relationships tend to run out of steam on their own, and usually come to an appropriate end without having to be forced in that direction. Instead, as I struggled in the throes of my youthful uneasiness, I was compelled to push us toward an unduly prompt conclusion. I felt that it was necessary for me to break off with her at once, before things went any further between us, further than tight embraces and extended kisses, and before I was faced with the obligation of having to pledge myself to a more formal relationship.
Because I was young and still coming to grips with delicate matters of the heart, I did not know how to withdraw from the situation without being heavy-handed. One morning at school, as we sat together on our usual bench outside, I told her, hurriedly and gracelessly, that I wanted to end our romance. I had not given her any warning of my inner discontent, and she received the sharp import of my blunt declaration, which I had delivered without any attempt at explanation, with a quick outpouring of anguished tears. I felt thoroughly ashamed of my harshness, instantly knowing that I had acted in a thoughtless manner.
She wrongly concluded that I had become interested in someone else. It was true that I had become friendly with another girl at school, which had already sparked a mild flare-up of jealousy, but I was not looking for a new girlfriend. At the age of sixteen, I did not have enough maturity to be truly in love with anyone, but that did not prevent me from being greatly dismayed to see that our friendship was, almost certainly, going to be lost. I was overcome by a burden of heavy guilt. For me, it was the first instance of knowing that my own actions had damaged the tenderest feelings of another person. I had not foreseen that breaking up with her would be so painful and so final.
We parted badly on that morning, and, as I should have known beforehand, we were never able to be friends again. For a long while, she would not even speak to me at all. I felt regretful whenever I saw her. I even had second thoughts, thinking that maybe our breakup had been a mistake. Later we got to the stage of sometimes exchanging a cold greeting in passing, but never anything more, and in time she attached herself to a new boyfriend. I could not help wondering whether she cared for him in the same way that she had cared for me. When we were older and out of high school, we lost track of each other.
One day, thirty years later, I happened to see Melissa again, when she came into the bookstore in which I worked. I glanced up and saw her making a purchase at the cash register next to mine. She was no longer a teenager, of course, but otherwise she still looked much as she had in her younger days. Somehow, I had no doubt that the woman standing there was my first girlfriend. A boy of seven or eight, who I presumed to be her son, waited by her side. I do not know whether she took any notice of me that day (or, indeed, whether she would have remembered me at all), but she left the store before I could speak to her. I missed my chance to offer some words of belated contrition.
Even now, after so many years have passed, I still am inclined to feel a twinge of remorse whenever I think of the clumsy manner in which I broke off our relationship. Although I still believe that it was best for me to unshackle myself from her and go my own way at that particular time, I have always wished that I had been able to handle our breakup more graciously. She was a trusting person, a girl with an open, guileless disposition, and I am sadly aware that, without deliberately meaning to do so, I treated her most unkindly. Our unhappy parting was a hard lesson for both of us.
It began in sweet awkwardness, as usually happens at that age. My extreme shyness with girls was a frequent hindrance at the outset. When we first shared a kiss, in a dark corner at a Christmas party given by one of our friends, it was she who eagerly took the lead, catching me completely off guard when she suddenly pressed her mouth fully against mine. It was an overpowering kiss, an unforgettable kiss. A kiss that was deep, delicious, and determined. A fearless kiss that could not be refused or resisted. For a moment, her forthright expression of impatient ardor rendered me helpless, but only for a moment. I was a fast learner.
During the next half hour, as we reclined together on a couch, wrapped around each other in the darkness and dreamily oblivious to everything but the heated release of our pent-up feelings, I gained entrance to an exciting realm of physical responses that soon overwhelmed me, taking me beyond the timorous confines of my Catholic boyhood. I had never held a girl so closely. I could feel her heart beating against mine. We continued to hold each other, and we continued kissing without pause, for what seemed an eternity, until our lips nearly had blisters. We finally had to stop and catch our breath. From that evening onward, I was considerably less shy with girls.
I was astonished to find that a girl actually liked me, and perhaps, even loved me. In the weeks that followed our first kiss at the party, my life was opened to a host of new, heady experiences. We were side by side at every opportunity, always hand in hand. Her Christmas gift to me was a woolen scarf that she had knitted herself. My gift to her was a spotted seashell, a small treasure from my childhood. We were being swiftly carried along, propelled by a rush of overactive affection, riding the crest of a giddy wave that both of us took to be a state of permanent bliss. Our friends looked upon us as a perfect couple.
Having a girlfriend made my life much warmer and much happier, but after a few months I began to feel restless and uncomfortable. The qualities in her that once had seemed so endearing, her loving dedication to me and her lack of worldliness, were now causing me to have doubts in regard to our future together. I queasily suspected that she might be looking ahead to the prospect of marriage. It seemed that I was being trapped and smothered by the steadiness of our relationship, and I decided that it would be advisable for us to step back from the ardent closeness into which we had tumbled. I hoped, honestly but quite unreasonably, that we would still maintain a friendship.
If I had been older and wiser, and much less nervous regarding the future, I would have understood that most teenage relationships tend to run out of steam on their own, and usually come to an appropriate end without having to be forced in that direction. Instead, as I struggled in the throes of my youthful uneasiness, I was compelled to push us toward an unduly prompt conclusion. I felt that it was necessary for me to break off with her at once, before things went any further between us, further than tight embraces and extended kisses, and before I was faced with the obligation of having to pledge myself to a more formal relationship.
Because I was young and still coming to grips with delicate matters of the heart, I did not know how to withdraw from the situation without being heavy-handed. One morning at school, as we sat together on our usual bench outside, I told her, hurriedly and gracelessly, that I wanted to end our romance. I had not given her any warning of my inner discontent, and she received the sharp import of my blunt declaration, which I had delivered without any attempt at explanation, with a quick outpouring of anguished tears. I felt thoroughly ashamed of my harshness, instantly knowing that I had acted in a thoughtless manner.
She wrongly concluded that I had become interested in someone else. It was true that I had become friendly with another girl at school, which had already sparked a mild flare-up of jealousy, but I was not looking for a new girlfriend. At the age of sixteen, I did not have enough maturity to be truly in love with anyone, but that did not prevent me from being greatly dismayed to see that our friendship was, almost certainly, going to be lost. I was overcome by a burden of heavy guilt. For me, it was the first instance of knowing that my own actions had damaged the tenderest feelings of another person. I had not foreseen that breaking up with her would be so painful and so final.
We parted badly on that morning, and, as I should have known beforehand, we were never able to be friends again. For a long while, she would not even speak to me at all. I felt regretful whenever I saw her. I even had second thoughts, thinking that maybe our breakup had been a mistake. Later we got to the stage of sometimes exchanging a cold greeting in passing, but never anything more, and in time she attached herself to a new boyfriend. I could not help wondering whether she cared for him in the same way that she had cared for me. When we were older and out of high school, we lost track of each other.
One day, thirty years later, I happened to see Melissa again, when she came into the bookstore in which I worked. I glanced up and saw her making a purchase at the cash register next to mine. She was no longer a teenager, of course, but otherwise she still looked much as she had in her younger days. Somehow, I had no doubt that the woman standing there was my first girlfriend. A boy of seven or eight, who I presumed to be her son, waited by her side. I do not know whether she took any notice of me that day (or, indeed, whether she would have remembered me at all), but she left the store before I could speak to her. I missed my chance to offer some words of belated contrition.
Even now, after so many years have passed, I still am inclined to feel a twinge of remorse whenever I think of the clumsy manner in which I broke off our relationship. Although I still believe that it was best for me to unshackle myself from her and go my own way at that particular time, I have always wished that I had been able to handle our breakup more graciously. She was a trusting person, a girl with an open, guileless disposition, and I am sadly aware that, without deliberately meaning to do so, I treated her most unkindly. Our unhappy parting was a hard lesson for both of us.
My wariness of being caught within the stifling bounds of a steady romance stayed with me for decades, which is why, although there were several other women who briefly figured in my life as I got older, I did not achieve a lasting relationship until I was in my late forties, when I slowly became involved with a younger woman, and, to my surprise, wound up getting married. By then I was willing to accept long-term conditions and was not impelled to flee. When I found the right woman, marriage inevitably followed and came easily. Mature love, the kind of love that has the potential to grow and endure, can happen only when it is ready to happen.