I’m going to tell you a little story about a cheerleader, as a build-up to a ‘my first kiss’ entry, which I have to post before the end of January, for my lovely fellow bloggers over at 20sb.

I’m actually stalling for time, because I actually need to contact the girl that I first kissed, but she’s not responding to my telephone calls. Maybe the kiss was that bad…

Anyway, the cheerleader (who incidentally looked a bit like Hayden Panettiere). I’m going to step on some toes here, so I won’t be using real names, and I’m going to be fairly obscure with dates, just so I’m fairly safe from some people reaching false conclusions. I am not a manwhore, despite what you might have been told, and I don’t like kissing and telling the story… but I think this one is fairly safe.

It was some time in early Summer, and I was still at university. I’d been dumped by my first girlfriend a few months earlier, and had my second girlfriend (well, the second girl that I’d been intimate with) had just dumped me — for another girl. So it’s safe to say I was fairly sore at the time, considering I’d managed to make it to 18 years of age without a girlfriend, and then chewed up and spat out by two girls in close succession.

My self-asteem has never been the greatest. Being confident about my abilities is only a recent thing, and I’m still pretty nervous around girls that I fancy (‘like‘ for you Americans). There’s something about being bullied that just destroys all of your own self-worth, you know?

It was a bit of a cruel joke, then, to be dumped by my first girlfriend for a guy twice her age. And then an out-of-nowhere dumpage from my second girlfriend, because she decided she liked girls more than boys.

Being a resillient personality, I didn’t take it too personally. Girls still seemed to be taking an interest in me. I still had the gift of the gab; I could still make girls break down into tears of laughter. The problem was, and still is, that I can’t tell if a girl likes me. You know, in that way. I can’t make myself believe that she’s interested in me more than friendship, or she just likes a good laugh. The whole concept that a girl wants to… er… bond with me is just foreign to me. Damn that bruised self-asteem. Damn those bullies.

If only more girls would be like the cheerleader, from the Deep South. After a long internet courtship (I knew I’d be visiting that part of America in a few months), we finally met up in a large house, somewhere near the Appalachians. There were other people present, so for a while we just had to make do with drawn-out glances at each other. A slight licking of the lips. Dilating pupils. It was painfully obvious that the moment we were left alone our carnal desires were going to explode.

Later that night, after everyone else had gone to bed, she snuck into my room and… well, it was wild. Really, really wild. To this day, I put it down to the fact that she was a cheerleader. She had muscles I hadn’t heard of,  in places I’d never seen, let alone felt. I guess it’s expecting too much for every girl I meet, that likes me, to be like that. It’d be nice, though.

For a few days this continued, and I saw and experienced the heart of the Deep South. Trailer parks, hillbillies, and more churches than I thought possible. Some of those towns have 10 churches! For a population of just a few thousand! I had inane conversations with people — people that didn’t care what I said, just as long as I continued to talk. Conversations that made you wonder if lobotomies were performed at birth, instead of circumcision.

All the while, I had this cute, blonde cheerleader by my side. She was intelligent too — this was obviously recompense for the bad times I’d had before. Blissful recompense.

On my last day there, waking up, and stepping out onto the porch that surrounded most of the house, there was a beautiful cobalt-blue lake below me. The sun was just starting to rise over the mountains, and a jet-skiier was speeding across the clear, crystalline water.

A lovely view to wake up to

A lovely view to wake up to.

A few moments later I felt a gentle tugging back towards the bedroom; I looked down and saw her arms around my waist.

That was one of my most spectacular and memorable holiday romances.

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I am a tall, hairy, British writer who blogs about technology, photography, travel, and whatever else catches my eye.