Goodbye to The First Boy I Dated

The first boy I dated was a BMOC. That term may have gone out of style, but that is what Billy was. President of his class. Football playing star. Well-to-do in my small suburban town. Funny, well-liked and talented.

When I was a Sophomore, aged 15, I earned a part in my high school's Autumn dramatic production, "Witness for the Prosecution". Bill got a part too - one of the leads. Unfortunately, several weeks into rehearsal he got something else, too. A bad tackle on the football field that broke his thigh bone. In a full-length leg cast - and a lot of pain - he resolved to go "on with the show". The director worked on the blocking to accomodate Bill's wheelchair but he also made sure that there was accomodation made for Bill's pain and exhaustion. As it happened, my role was attendant to his and we had scenes together. I agreed to visit Bill and rehearse at his house.

And there, at some point during the process, we discovered ourselves enthralled with one another. That mad physical passion that is only experienced in one's teen years, overwhelmed us.

Indeed, I had my first orgasm (well, the first one in mixed company) grinding against Bill's erection while straddling him on his parents' sofa. Just before his Mom arrived with a plate of cookies.

We were intensely excited by one another all that Fall. With his leg in a cast we did nothing more that squirm and make out. I'd never been French kissed before Billy. And I was the girlfriend of a BMOC.

Quite a nice recovery from the Spring of my Freshman year when my love poetry to another BMOC was revealed and I was a pariah for 9 months. Indeed, my relationship with Bill raised me to new heights, status-wise.

We made out backstage, me sitting on his lap in his wheelchair. Several times our English teacher and director good-naturedly broke up our love fests.

Sadly, I can't remember much about our romance. It was wild, and heady, and we were busy students - both getting good grades and planning on advanced education.

And it was short. Mere months, in fact. Our first kiss was in late September. The play went on and was a great success. Dark, suspenseful, Witness was a fairly adult choice for our school and it was a hit.

Also in the fall was the girls' physical education program called "Sports Night". Divided into two teams - Green Team and White Team - we competed in various activities all while adhering to a theme. Drill marching, gymnastics, and skits and in the end my team, the White Team, won the day. Billy, his best friend Rob and Rob's girlfriend and I went out to celebrate.

Some celebration. With his leg still casted Billy and Rob sat in the front while Bonnie and I did our darndest to get snockered. But it was Boone's Farm Apple Wine and we were thwarted.

That's the last time I remember being "a couple" with Billy.

I don't remember that Thanksgiving. I don't remember the remains of the school days leading up to Christmas.

But on Christmas eve I walked the mile to Billy's house. I had bought a Brut cologne gift set. I had wrapped it in gold foil with a forest green ribbon. It was snowing that night, but the gentle, quiet kind of snow. I walked all the way in the dark. I was going to surprise Billy with my gift. It was the first gift I'd ever purchased for a boy. I was in love.

I arrived at his house and waited for someone to answer my knock.

Billy's mother answered the door. The family had money and stature and some political presence in my town. I was the daughter of a broken family from, literally, the wrong side of the tracks. My house was modest, my clothes not terribly chic.

Billy's Mom answered the door and to this day I remember the cold look on her face.

"Billy's dating his old girlfriend again. He doesn't want to see you anymore."

And she closed the door in my face.

I walked home in the snow, crying. I had the wrapped present in my closet for several years before I gave it away to my brother for some other Christmas.

There were other boys after Billy. Come the Spring musical, Camelot, in which I was cast, ironically, as Gueneviere to Billy's Arthur, we were not speaking but playing lovers. It was a young trombone player in the orchestra who caught sight of me and set out to pursue me and later that same Spring I danced the night away and got my first kiss from a boy named Amato who would become one of the greatest loves of my life.

The play was a hit and Billy and I went our separate ways once again.

Come June, he signed my yearbook. He apologized for what had happened. He wished me well and offered to be my friend. To talk if I ever needed to.

I rarely saw Billy after that. Eventually I moved into Manhattan and dove into an acting and singing career. I made new friends and got crushes on other men. Gay men who couldn't return my affections. Life went on.

And I learned yesterday that while my life was moving on, Billy's had too.

He died at the age of 40, in 1994, of a freak infection. His broken leg had released marrow into his bloodstream in 1972. He had developed various problems as result. It may have been that injury that led to a weakened in some anatomical system or other that allowed the infection to kill him. Or perhaps he was just one of those unlucky ones.

I've been thinking about Billy ever since. That I never knew he was gone. How sad that I can't remember the quality of his kisses. That the memory of his hands on my body have faded completely away. That my melodramatic obsession with him had evaporated that Spring when Amato came on the scene.

He was the first boy I ever dated. He was the first boy I ever kissed with serious dedication. He was the first boy I ever loved. He was the first boy who ever broke my heart.

Goodbye, Billy. I hope you were happy with your life. I hope that you found joy and satisfaction and, above all, I hope that you found love.