Faithless.

I think my parents may have given up hope of me ever settling down and bringing home an actual ‘boyfriend’. Many things point to this fact: my mother went from incessantly questioning me about dates, to then asking me what I thought of lesbians (she really thought she was being subtle here), to silence. She NEVER talks to me about my relationships, or lack thereof. I think perhaps she’s decided that it might be better if I don’t have a boyfriend. I can’t surprise her with a child. I think their disappointment stems from the fact that they fell in love with a boy that I was only ‘in like’ with. We shall call him K, for...just for K.

K was my second boyfriend, and first vaguely serious one. I let him hold my hand. I was 13 and he was 16.5 going on 30. He was very mature, very serious about life, and apparently, about me. K always called, came to see me, and sent me sweet texts in the middle of the day. He would even listen to me bitch about what which friend in school had done, and then he’d give me a lecture on friendships and tell me I was being a petulant child (even though, to be honest, I was allowed that. I was 13!). K was seriously smooth; he would always appear with 2 bunches of roses, one for my mother and one for yours truly. My dad loved him so much that I would knock on his door at 1 am, asking him to drop K home, and he would literally bound out of bed and run to the car. They would talk ‘about life’ as we snaked down dark roads, and on the way back, my father would extol the virtues of K’s family, his upbringing, and how proud he was I could see his goodness. He was also quite good looking, all that ‘tall, dark and handsome’ jazz. And a brother knew how to rock white shoes.

But, of course, there was a problem and at 13, it was a BIG problem. I had told ALL my friends at school about him. He was the older boyfriend, the one with all the moves, the one from whom I would learn things that I would later share with the girls. Or so, I thought. He was really nice, and I did actually like him for that reason, not just because he helped me make friends (so we are all clear). But, K would NOT touch anything other than my palms or back and then, only when he hugged me. He never tried to kiss me. I tried everything my little brain could conjure up in way of manipulation. We played truth or dare, just the two of us. He always picked truth, and gave me dares that included wholesome things like drinking tea with 3 spoonfuls of salt in it. I would try and get him to say bye to me in the kitchen so that I could jump him, but alas, he liked to hug goodbye at the front door, and I don’t do PDA. I held his hand, he held mine, and with the other animated his stories. Eventually, I realised my lot in life. I had picked the asexual man, and that was that. By the time I got to 13.5, he was falling in love, and though I was seriously in like, I was breaking up (I couldn’t kiss and tell, so...). We maintained the status quo and our prolonged Saturday afternoon dates, so as far as he was concerned we weren’t really broken up, and I was off elsewhere, trying to get kissed. It worked for us both.

Fast forward many moons later, and he was off to university. He told me how he’d never get with a ‘white girl’ (this isn’t a racist post, but he likes his Kenyan women), so my naive self was comforted by that. I thought he’d always wait. Then in my second year of uni, the bubble burst. I had been out dancing, got home at 3 am and fell asleep. I was jolted from my reverie by a text at 5 am. It was K. We talked, or he did, I don’t remember what I said. I did wake up to a text saying ‘I am so glad we worked it out and we are back together’. I panicked. I run to one of my male friends and threw my phone at him. He read all the texts and then nodded in confirmation. Yes, I had agreed to be his girlfriend after calling him out on being asexual even. Oh dear. I needed to split up with him - AGAIN. After 4 hours. I had good reason though: we hadn’t seen each other in 4 years, and I had changed considerably, possibly into someone he would no longer like. I proposed a ‘getting to know each other’ phase. K agreed. I felt awful, but I knew the alternative was untenable. Then, he stopped talking to me (story of my life). So I succumbed and opened up a Facebook account to stalk him. He did not accept my friend request for 3 months, and only after his mother asked him how I was doing in an attempt to play therapist. When he did, I tumbled off my high horse and fell face-first into the biggest pile of manure. Proverbially, of course.  He was holding the waist of a Kenyan girl in his profile picture, and all over his wall were people congratulating him on finally getting together with her. Many little bits of me died inside. So I emailed him. You know, just to check if I still had it. I didn’t. I have text him once a year, usually on his birthday, for the last few years. I occasionally get a thank you, sent through his mum or brother. A ‘thank you, but no, I am still done with you’. I blame Facebook, and being a teenager.

In hindsight, after my many failed attempts at relationships, I realise K was a good man. He was just out of my 13 year old league. I try not to dwell on it (yeah right), because even though Karma is a bitch, surely the universe has had its revenge?! My parents don’t understand this though, and sometimes I see the worry in their eyes, accusingly saying that ‘he was the only good one that would actually like you’. Cheers Pop and Mum, I love all this faith you have in me. NOT.