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When I was in 9th grade I had my first truly agonizing long-term crush, and it was a hopeless one. But hey, you have to start someplace! Her name was Wendy–same as me. I wish I could say the crush was fulfilled and we became lovers forever, but life isn't like that of course. I still think it's a good story despite all the tears.

She was a junior, a drop-dead gorgeous freckled redhead, and one of the popular elite–class secretary, cheerleader, good grades, expensive clothes, boys all over her, blah blah blah. A likely candidate for Prom Queen the following year. Completely untouchable to me–I didn't even exist to her, and I wouldn't have even if I were in her class and a boy. If you weren't "in" you were "out," and I was out, for sure. I was not involved in any school activities, had no really close friends at the time, had given up on the stress of going to dances, and basically had no social skills. I was extremely shy (still am somewhat) and not a great student (I repeated 6th grade). I am rather short and small-breasted, and at the time I wore overly large glasses (don't know why I picked them), plus I had had only recently–finally–put my 7th-grade acne problem behind me. And the big one: my family did not have a lot of money. Needless to say I was teased and humiliated by boys and girls alike–ain't high school great? I was pretty much just trying to survive each school day so I could get home and read or watch TV. I'm not seeking pity–those days are long gone and I laugh at them now–but you can see what the situation was.

At first I found myself watching her all the time–at lunch, in the hall, etc. and I kind of realized I was a bit obsessed. In my mind it was just jealousy, but I didn't obsess about other popular people that way, only her. I played out fantasies in my mind about helping her find something she lost, or somebody getting us mixed up because of our names, or whatever, and suddenly becoming friends. Then I would somehow be one of the "in" crowd, and her special best friend. Presumably I would magically learn to speak to other people and grow 6 inches too.

There really wasn't any animosity in my obsession, though, and jealousy was too easy an explanation. I decided I just wanted to be her friend, although I knew it couldn't happen. I barely knew her as a person, so it was really just an imaginary idea of her that I was obsessed with. Truth be told, there was nothing truly likable in her crowd. Nevertheless I kept a picture of her from the school newspaper, and hid it in my dresser, and looked at it for hours sometimes. I knew what lesbians were, but for a long time I did not suspect that I was hiding those kinds of feelings from myself.

One day when I was really depressed I shut myself in my room, took out her picture, and cried a little–not the first time. I whispered the words "I love you" to her picture–the words were out before I even knew I was thinking them. I had only thought those words towards someone outside my family once before–a boy the previous year who had been a friend (he was as unpopular as I) and then moved away. I had never been obsessed with him, though, just glad to have him around.

I suddenly felt very uncomfortable and guilty and didn't know why, but the words were now in my head and they felt very important. I began to think those words when I watched her at school–but I still did not think of this as a sexual thing. Then those words escaped my lips a second time, equally surprising to me. I was masturbating at the time, and I don't recall actually thinking about her until I said the words, but then her face was in my mind to stay. I stopped masturbating for a few minutes–but I felt like I had to finish or die, so I did. Her face was in my mind as I came, and afterwards I felt terribly ashamed. I wasn't homophobic–in the same way lots of people are "not homophobic"–gays are fine in principle, but not a part of my actual experience. Being gay was fine for other people, in theory–but not so comfortable for me. I had even joined in gay jokes from time to time growing up, even though I knew better than to belittle other groups. It's a little scary, looking back–I was raised to be tolerant, and if I had a problem with gays, however subtle, then our closed-minded society must have been working on me in some pretty insidious ways. I wish I could feel that my past prejudice is excusable because I am openly gay myself now. But that logic doesn't work for me, so that remains one of the many aspects of my young life that I am ashamed of. It was a long time ago, though, and people can change.

I stayed in my room pretty much the whole weekend, pretending to be sick, and at some point I faced up to the fact that I had a lesbian attraction to Wendy. I did not know what on earth to make of this, and it didn't feel good at all. My fantasies after that involved more than friendship with her. Nothing very sexual–I barely knew how boys and girls had sex, much less lesbians–but in my mind we kissed and danced, laughed, stood up for one another, and promised to love each other forever.

That was the start of a dark few months for me, and I felt like crying every time I saw her. I started going to football games just to see her cheer. Once I was in the right place at the right time and handed her a folder she had left on the floor by her locker. I said something awkward that could barely be heard, something about how "I saved you" when I meant to say "I saved this" (which wouldn't have made much more sense) and she laughed at me a little. She did say "thanks" though, which is more than some of her group would have bothered to do. She left me standing there feeling stupid, and I spent study hall crying in the back of the library. Now she knew I existed: some nameless little kid not worth the time of day.

In the spring of that school year the basketball and football teams held their annual fundraising cookout, at a city park not far from my house. I would never think of actually attending that kind of thing, but I decided to sit on a remote bench in the shade and watch for Wendy. So I took a book and went to the park, which was something I often did anyway. When I got there, she was already there, far away, laughing and squealing while two boys chased her around. She was wearing shorts and a tank top that would never have been allowed in school, and even at a distance she looked absolutely adorable to my eyes. I had her picture in my book, and when I pretended to read I was looking at her face, imagining impossible conversations and bizarre fairy tale romances.

I watched for a good hour, and although I wanted to go home and touch myself I couldn't tear myself away. I had a jacket draped across my lap, though, and I slipped my hand underneath to rub the crotch of my jeans a little. The idea of touching myself, even indirectly, while actually looking at her in the distance, seemed like something I just had to try. After a while, since the bench was solid and the jacket covered me well, I unsnapped my pants and slid them down just a little, so I could touch myself better. I imagined all kinds of reasons I'd have to get up quickly–an elderly woman falling and asking for help, perhaps–and so I kept watch nervously in all directions. Basically, it wasn't much fun, but it felt good and I was compelled to do it.

Then she and a couple other girls left the picnic, walking right past my bench on the way. The best thing I could have wished for–and the worst. I froze, my heart pounding, as they approached and passed just inches away. But the girls were absorbed in making mean jokes about some boy who had asked one of them out, and they barely looked at me. For once, being invisible paid off.

At this point, between working myself up with my fingers and the adrenaline rush of almost getting caught, I was in quite a state. I continued masturbating once they were out of sight, and I wasn't sure if I would actually make myself orgasm then and there, or stop and go home. Well, it crept up on me without warning and I climaxed, and I know I let out a little gasp and made a bit of a face, my eyes closed. When I opened them, the one and only Wendy was walking back to the cookout, passing right by me! She paused, staring at me–I'm sure she heard my gasp, and I probably looked like I was in pain. In a panic I tried to pull my hand out of my pants, and her eyes widened–even under my jacket it was obvious my hand was trapped in my waistband, and I turned beet red. I should have just sat still and pretended to be sick or something. But what was worst of all: my book was lying open beside me... with her picture in it. "I felt itchy," I said, as a lame excuse, and tears welled up in my shame. My fingers felt cool in the air and I suddenly realized they were wet. I made a fist to hide the moisture that I thought she might be able to see. Still she just stood and stared at me. I started to cry for real. She ran back to the cookout without a word. As she left I blubbered "I love you," and then hoped to God she hadn't heard. A minute later the other girls walked past–they almost caught me refastening my pants under my jacket–and saw me crying. They must have all gone to use somebody's bathroom I suppose. They walked on by, looking back sometimes and giggling together. At least they didn't see the picture–I had shut the book. Had Wendy noticed the picture? Maybe she hadn't, given the little performance I was putting on. Oh, God, please, I thought. Don't let her have seen the picture.

I walked home and didn't even answer my mother when she asked what was wrong. I went to my room and cried my heart out. I tore up the only picture I had of Wendy, and then as soon as I had done it I wanted it back. I cried even harder. I wasn't a suicidal teen, but this was one of those days when on a certain level, I really did want to die.

It wasn't hard to avoid Wendy in the following weeks. I half expected the entire school to begin teasing me about what had happened, but thankfully nobody seemed to know. Each day I dreaded going to school, and I was very short with anyone who talked to me, including teachers sometimes. A boy I didn't know, but who was just as much of an outcast as me, actually asked me out–a first for me. He asked if I would come with him to the Spring Dance–the 9th grade version of the Prom. I snapped at him and then felt terrible about it. But I was too shy to apologize, and had absolutely no interest in the Spring Dance.

I hadn't been going to football games any more, but one Saturday my parents and I got in a fight and so I stormed out and couldn't think of anything else to do. So I went to a game. I sat under the bleachers and watched Wendy in silence–the first time I had had her in sight for any length of time since the cookout. A couple of older boys came under and started making fun of my clothes, but I ignored them as usual and they moved on. I sat dejectedly drawing my favorite "moon face" doodle over and over in the dirt. Mr. Moon was looking rather glum that day. I stayed under there, breaking my drawing stick into smaller and smaller pieces, until after everyone else had left.

Almost everyone. I saw someone coming towards me from the side, and to my dismay it was Wendy. I hoped she would just go to her fancy car and leave and not confront me. But she walked under the bleachers and stopped, just looking at me. I wanted to disappear into the dirt. I stared back at her, getting pissed. Couldn't she just leave me alone and forget the whole thing?

Then she spoke: "I maybe love you too." Her voice cracked and this time she was the one crying. Still, looking back, she must have had a hell of a lot of self-confidence to say anything at all.

I was stunned and did not react at all. I was still staring back, probably not with a very nice expression. She ran away, back to her car, still crying. I pictured myself running after her–maybe having one of the thousand conversations I had imagined. Maybe she did know who I was, and had a crush on me too! I envisioned various happy endings to the story. But I was confused and shy, unable to deal with being asked to a dance, much less this. I simply looked down at the ground, unable to move. I heard a car pull out fast. I started crying softly and sat there in the dirt hating myself for a long time.

The sun was setting and I finally had to go back home. To my surprise, a Honda CRX that looked like hers was still in the lot. I couldn't tell if she was in it. I was already walking that way, so I continued approaching, from the rear of the car. If she was in it she might see me in the mirror. Maybe she would come out. If not, I knew I would just keep walking.

She was in the car, and I could see she was crying still. She didn't see me, and she didn't get out. I walked on past, not looking back, feeling dizzy and numb. Then I stopped. I tried to work up the nerve to go back. I was close to passing out and felt like I could scream or just collapse at any moment. I turned around and walked back to the car. I fell to my knees by the passenger door and we stared stupidly at each other through the glass. Then she pushed the door open–smacking me in the stomach, actually–and I climbed shakily in. I never did anything with any classmates outside of school, and getting into someone else's car somehow felt like something I'd be in trouble for.

We both just sat there for a while, not looking at each other, not speaking or even crying. After a while she said "I..." and then suddenly she was crying again, crying hard, and the sound tore me apart. I would have given anything to take her pain away. I still couldn't move or speak. But after a moment I found I was putting my left hand on her right. I wasn't even looking at her.

She fell against me and cried even louder. I began crying again too, and reached for her other hand as well. She turned her face into my shoulder, and I pressed mine into her sweet soft hair. We gradually calmed down and just sat that way, me in my seat and her leaning over onto me. I had no idea what to say or do and I didn't care. I just wanted to stay that way forever. I knew then that there would be no "forever" for us–no possible scenario ended that way. But I knew that she felt something like what I felt. It was beyond belief, and it was the most wonderful feeling in the world. Then she kissed me–really just lifting her lips to barely touch mine, and holding them there, with our eyes closed.

After a moment she pulled away and sat staring out the windshield. I knew that was the end of the only love I could ever imagine having. But she smiled–a shy smile that didn't look right on her–and asked, "Do you, um, want to come to my Grandma's house next weekend? She has kind of a... cool house."

The next week at school she talked to me a little in the hall, and asked for a picture of me. I gave her one and got one in return, a beautiful school portrait which I still treasure. One of her friends said something to her about me–I don't know what–and I heard her tell them to be nice. Apparently she was popular enough that she could do something weird like talk to me and get away with it. My heart fell whenever I saw boys flirting with her–everyone wanted to go to the junior/senior Prom with her–but on one of these occasions she noticed my hurt look, and after they left she came over and gave my hand a quick squeeze. I dreamed of her smile every waking hour, and that week seemed to last for a year.

It wasn't until Saturday, sleeping together in the basement at her grandmother's house a couple of hours away, that we first actually talked about what was happening. It hurt a little when I found out she did not have a long-time crush like I had, and did not in fact truly love me. But she had had little crushes on other girls before, and had felt pretty bad about it. So after the incident in the park, I had been on her mind a lot, and she started having some fantasies about declaring her love to me–which she eventually did. In reality, she didn't even know me–but then again I really didn't know her either. So neither of us truly loved the other–she just was quicker to admit that.

But we really did have fun that weekend, and afterward we did other things together (my parents didn't frown on my social activities as I'd expected). We got to know each other, and we really did like and care about each other. In the end, real mutual feelings replaced teenage crushes. The next time I told her I loved her, it was for real, and I knew she loved me back even before she said it. Otherwise, I could never have said the words myself. We didn't do a lot together at school–I just didn't fit in with her crowd–but we saw each other all the time outside of school. It was easy to be alone together at her house, and we hugged and kissed for hours–real kisses that expressed the desires we didn't talk about. I masturbated afterwards, imagining it was her fingers between my legs and not my own. In reality, we never discussed sex–never even used the words lesbian or gay–and our hands never strayed anywhere private. Our tongues barely touched when we kissed, and we pulled apart by unspoken mutual agreement if anything more intimate seemed imminent.

She even invited me to the Prom–not as her date of course (once upon a time, one of my more absurd fantasies), but she had rejected all offers from boys and wanted me to accompany her. I think she knew it wouldn't be a great evening for either of us, but she knew it was a very meaningful gesture, and it did mean a lot to me. It told me that I came first, before her popularity and her clique. I said yes, but I couldn't bring myself to do it–I was too shy. The day before the Prom I told her to go alone, and she understood. She was really a very sweet person, and didn't ask me to be different than I was. But when she came out to her car after the Prom was over, I was waiting beside it, wearing the blue dress she had picked out for me. My dad had driven me over hours ago, but I never meant to go inside, so I had just walked around all evening, feeling a little left out but mainly glad as hell that I wasn't trying to survive that nightmare.

She smiled and ran up and gave me a little hug, despite having her other friends around. Well, they already knew I was a friend of sorts, and they already knew I was a weirdo. She looked incredible in her short white dress–and she was so obviously surprised and delighted to see me. It's a moment that really sticks in my mind. Probably the one moment that makes high school seem worth the bother.

She hung out with her friends for almost half an hour in the parking lot, and I stood there awkwardly trying to be unobtrusive and laugh at the right times. But finally the others climbed into limos with their dates, and we got into her car. "I didn't think we'd ever ditch them," she said, "I thought I wasn't gonna get to make out on Prom night!" I blushed, but I smiled. That was by far the most directly either of us had ever discussed anything physical between us. It was also one of the most unlikely high school rituals I would ever have expected to find myself in.

We drove around a while and ended up in the far parking lot, almost back where we started, but far enough from the school to be private. We parked out of reach of the lights, and kept an eye open for headlights that would signal anyone else with the same idea. We kissed like we had never kissed before, and if anything I was less shy than she was. I was in her world tonight, in a way, the world of dances and cliques, and it seemed as though it didn't really matter what I did or how I acted. I could be anything. It was quite surreal and powerful. Her hug somehow turned into a hand on my breast, and somehow I was not surprised. She rubbed my nipple through the blue silk, and so I did the same to her. She led the way with confidence and I followed eagerly.

Eventually, our dresses were hanging at our waists, our bras were on the floor, and she was kissing my breasts and stomach. I felt very self-conscious about my flat chest, and terrified of being caught, but her passion captivated me and I willingly let it happen. We felt each others' bodies all over, a thing we had never done before even fully clothed. I led the way in only one thing: my hand slipped up between her legs first. Her panties were damp, and the sensation of her lips under my fingertips through the fabric was incredible. Her fingers found my vagina as well, and she pulled my panties aside to touch my sensitive skin directly. Her own panties dropped to the floor soon after.

I mimicked her gentle touch, and my orgasm came more slowly–and far more deeply–than any I had ever felt. She didn't touch me like I touched myself, and not everything she did felt good, but she found my clitoris, and her inexperience simply made the sensations build more slowly to a higher peak. I tried to give her the same pleasure, but I could tell it didn't feel like much. Eventually she took my hand and moved it herself, bringing herself to orgasm with my fingers. I didn't mind–I knew I would do better next time. We ended up snuggling, half-naked, for the better part of an hour. We promised to love each other forever.

Our relationship lasted over a year, until she went away to college. My life at school didn't improve any, but I didn't feel so alone. She took a boy to the Prom as a senior, but it meant nothing, and I believed in her love enough not to be jealous. She was not crowned queen. We actually drifted apart in public–at school, with her other friends around–as we became closer on our own time. We continued to share physical love, although we never did manage to speak of it out loud directly. Eventually, I even performed oral sex on her, which she encouraged wordlessly, and I learned to enjoy that as the ultimate intimacy. She was not comfortable doing the same to me, unfortunately. We never did label our relationship as gay, either, although I for one had become very comfortable with the idea.

After she graduated from high school, and we both knew that our relationship was coming to an end, we said a teary goodbye knowing that neither of us would ever forget what we had shared. On one of our last days together, she finally "kissed me down there," as we called it, and we both enjoyed it. I'm glad, because I think that made a real difference to my confidence in my own body and appearance, when I found myself in other relationships.

I went on to meet other women, and became a little less shy once I was in college myself. I even came out of the closet, and my family has been supportive. I now have the most wonderful woman in the world in my life. But Wendy will always have a place in my heart. We did not keep in touch. I hope she has found someone wonderful too.

Dedicated to Wendy, who turned around the hardest time of my life, giving me love when I needed it most and expected it least.

 

 

I would be grateful if you would give me your comments and rate my stories in my Guestbook, or email me. Reader responses will determine whether I publish more stories, and will help improve them! Thanks for reading!

If you enjoyed this story, try some of my Buffy the Vampire Slayer lesbian romance fiction, such as Witch's Faith. Feeling rejected by Tara and Buffy, Willow finds herself working with Faith–and falling in love. When the dark Slayer's plots turn deadly, Willow must betray someone she loves. But who will she choose?

Willow felt very exposed. "Thanks for leaving me my socks." Everything else she had been wearing was now in shreds scattered to the four walls. Faith's passion had been downright scary at times. There had been no question who was the natural predator and who was the willing prey.

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