You may not remember me. In fact I am quite sure you don’t, so I will fill you in on the details of our meeting. It was 2004. I was a fifteen year old boy from the country, and you were a fifteen year old girl from the roughest parts of Ipswich, and you could drink more than anyone I have met. My best friend invited me over for the weekend and dragged me to a stoner basement for an underage party with all of his Ipswich friends that only knew me as “Spanish” even though I do not have Spanish heritage or look in any way Mediterranean. You approached me when I arrived and you were the first girl who ever tried to have sex with me.
I would like to thank you for the six-pack of Woodstock and cola cans that you forced into me in a futile attempt to unlock my mental chastity belt. I was from a poor family and lived too far away from anything to get a job, so I relied on good people like you to get drunk at parties. I would like to say I had a nice time sitting on a concrete sink next to you, but I did not. We looked into each other’s eyes and all I could see in yours was affection and you were too drunk to see that all that was in mine was desperation. An older girl came over to us and picked up my arm and put it around you. It was the first female contact I had ever had. Your older brother stood a little way behind you and gave me a thumbs up and smiled.
It’s not that I didn’t want to have sex with you; at that age I would have had sex with anyone who offered. The reason for my turmoil was that for the entire party, I needed to shit more than I have in my entire life and I was in excruciating pain. I was sweating and prairie-dogging, and all I could think about was voiding myself secretly before I did it publicly. Eventually there was a break in the conversation and I slipped away upstairs to where your mother and father and baby brother were sitting watching television, right next to the entrance to the bathroom. I ran inside and emptied myself loudly and violently. As I stepped back into the lounge room the hideous smell wafted in and your parents stared at me. I stared back wide-eyed before I ran back downstairs and told my friend that we had to leave. He agreed because he wanted to play GTA Vice City and get high. We Irish shuffled back through the empty streets.
If not for my terrible fear of shitting at other people’s houses, this would have been a beautiful experience. You were an important part of my development, even though you will not remember it and even though that development may not have been ideal. If it were not for you teaching me to be uncomfortable around women, I would have likely ended up with a child or some kind of sexually transmitted disease before I had finished high school.
If it is any consolation, I saved your life at another party. You had consumed enough Vodka Cruisers to kill a small horse and I stopped you falling off your chair into the fire six times, one for every can of Woodstock you gave me. Though you will probably not remember that either.