Phoenix Fights

Fighting the FEAR, depression and BDP on a daily basis AND making my own bread. Bring it on 2016….



Ah, this was so long ago…

But I still remember the song that brings it all back to me

CG was my first boyfriend, my first lover, and the first person to ever make me feel loved.

He was a little older than me, but worlds apart in maturity, was tall, dark, handsome and a bass guitarist in a new wave band. I was some geeky ex dweeb, who had only just binned her National Health glasses, discovered her figure, and started attracting male attention and could honestly not understand what he saw in me. Hence I was incredibly insecure and jealous of the inevitable attention he got from wannabee groupies, and was stupidly unsophisticated enough not to hide it, and so started the beginning of what probably is still, to date, the most passionate, fraught, tumultuous relationship I’ve ever had.

And somewhere in the midst of this, he took my virginity. Not that he had to persuade me that hard. Stronger than the Catholic guilt, worry about pregnancy, and the fear of ‘what the neighbours might think’ (apparently they trained telescopes on our front door 24/7) was the newly awakened surge of lust and desire to own this man body and soul that drove us both crazy whilst we waited for ‘the big day’.

Given the area where I was raised, and the lack of love in my upbringing, it was a miracle that I wasn’t some irresponsible little slapper who hung around outside the chip shop, smoking fags and going round the back of the offy with some spotty yob for a knee trembler.

I was surprisingly responsible and mature and he was unusually protective and solicitous for a working class new age axe man. We both went to see my aunty to tell her that we were in love and I wanted to go on the pill. Then with her blessing, I went to the doctor’s, got my prescription (I was of legal age), then started to take my pill every night when then two of us met, and as he lovingly watched that ‘little yellow bomb’ disappear down my slender, alabaster neck, we counted down the days until I would be his.

Properly. Wholly and completely.

But sadly our idyllic anticipation and excitement was ruined when my mother searched my room, found my pills and confronted me one morning, crying and calling me every slag, slut and whore under the sun because of what we planned to do. I fled in tears to my would be lover, who pale faced and nervous came back with me that evening to face the music himself.

She said nothing to him. Absolutely nothing. She chatted and flirted as usual, pretending much to our bemusement that all was well, but the moment that he left, she went after me again, insisting that he didn’t love me, only wanted ‘one thing’ and that I would be ruined because he would never marry me if I got pregnant.

‘You don’t have to do it’, she’d plead, ‘if he really loves you, he’ll wait’. And when I was naive enough to tell her that I couldn’t wait, she looked at me with hatred and disgust like I was shit on the sole of her shoe.

This went on for nearly a week, by which time, my mother had completely ruined this precious secret that we had, and turned it into something sordid, dirty and dangerous.

By the sixth day CG could no longer bear the effect this barrage of abuse was having on me, and forced a confrontation, which ended with her weeping piteously claiming only to have our interests at heart and forcing us to say that we’d wait until….until what?

Until we got married? I was just turned 17, my hormones were driving me around the bend and I could barely keep my hands of CG in public, nor he me. Did she honestly think we would abstain indefinitely?

Also, by then I was filled with indecision, worried that she was right that he couldn’t love me because he was too good for me, and I was terrified he would go off with some older, more experienced groupie and kick me to the kerb. I was also petrified that he would think I was a slapper if I did it with him, and not love me anymore.

This is where Marvin came in. Not as a third party you understand, but CG bought me a copy of ‘Let’s Get It On’ and that became the soundtrack of my seduction and introduction to the art of sex in a loving relationship.

Of course we went ahead and did it. How could we not? And when we finally did the deed it was sweet, funny, sexy and partially successful as of course my hymen put up a bit of a fight, but I never once regretted that he was the one who broke me in.

And whilst I loved the title track (our mantra was ‘giving yourself to me could never be wrong, if the love is true’), ‘Come Get To This’ was my favourite, and my favourite line was:

‘Oh, nothin’s changed, you’re still sweet as the mornin’ rain’

And whilst my mum finally figured out that I was no longer a virgin and was coldly disgusted, even she couldn’t take the shine off our love and how sex had only made it stronger.

She was right about one thing though. Our relationship didn’t last. And when we finally parted she said smugly ‘I bet you wished you’d never done it now! Don’t you feel a bit dirty and used? Aren’t you sorry you’re no longer a virgin?’ she could only stare at me uncomprehending when I declared that I was not.

The only thing I regretted was hurting him by falling out of love with him.

And I have never forgotten him.

Of late, as some of you know, my dying libido has had something of a resurgence. I have no idea what’s brought it on but can only put down as it’s desperate urge to hang in there and not be buried under my lethargy, indifference and diminishing hormones and it seems a sad way to end one’s intimate life after such a strong start.

If only I had another CG to send it on it’s way with a bang if you will. 😉

We are actually still in touch and it’s tempting to see if we can rekindle something, but experience tells me it’s never a good idea to look back.

Oh well, I had a good innings…now for the focus on love of a different kind.



  1. My first love pissed off to MIT to do a postgraduate degree and never came back. He was gorgeous, academically brilliant, a talented flautist – and possibly even more broken than I was. He committed suicide in his 50s. Very sad.

    Have to wonder whether your mum got pregnant when she shouldn’t have…

  2. I too wonder about your Mother’s experience, it is as if she’s trying to stop you making the same mistake as she made. Glad you still have contact with CG…. Wonder if he’ll see this?

    • No! The only person that sees this that knows me is Aunty C, and that’s the way it’ll stay otherwise i won’t feel free enough to write what i feel. He and I are history and I wouldn’t want to risk spoiling it by revisiting it now.

      As for my mum, she was a virgin when she married and whilst I suspect there was an element of worry, there was a bigger element of judgement and jealousy. Whenever me and CG fought, instead of taking my side she’d blame me and tell me that ‘He’ll go off with a lovely blonde if you’re not careful’ and never did quite get over the fact that I was the one who finished it.

  3. Interesting glimpse Sista, thank you. So sad that you didn’t have that maternal support that every girl needs…

  4. Deferentially following the trail cut by Ms. Meikle, in response to this category I submit a complete musical opus:

    Leslie and I knew one another through our mothers—they were members of a womens’ philanthropic organization. Leslie had all of the best qualities: powerful intellect, sharp and quick wit, humility, kindness, wide-ranging curiosity, a delicious full-throated laugh.  And, she was a true head-turner—a petite, shapely brunette with a lovely visage and a magnetic yet gentle presence.  She owned me.

    Leslie went to school in another state, and we only saw one another while she was on break.  When she came home for the summer, our initial meeting was always lunch with our mothers at a little hamburger stand mid-way between our respective towns. One late May morning, my mother and I were in the kitchen.  In about an hour, we were to meet Leslie and her mother at our special place. I sat at the kitchen table, my mother did some prep work for that evening’s dinner and we chatted about Leslie.  Naturally, I was nearly jumping out of my skin with excitement over seeing Leslie for the first time in months.  Suddenly, my mother said lightly, “Oh, did I tell you?  Leslie got engaged.”

    I was paralyzed.

    My mother turned to me, grinning warmly, “Isn’t that nice?  Leslie’s getting married.”  I somehow regained control of my eyes and focused on my gaily smiling mother as she she nodded her head, affirming the cataclysm.  In sheer horror, I fled to my bedroom and, decimated, hid in the closet.

    Did I mention that I was three years old?  Yes, a congenital self-saboteur in matters romantic, I was absolutely certain that a second-year law student would wait until I was grown-up enough to ride a bicycle and then we would get married.  I regret to inform that, pragmatically, things have not improved appreciably in the ensuing decades.  Also, I expect that Leslie was the well-spring of my lifelong attraction to older women (if never again THAT much older.  Well, actually…).

    At the time, my mother was enthusiastically introducing me to classical music, via her beloved late mother’s collection of 78 rpm albums.  I was especially partial to the Prokofiev.

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