Her er en tekst om kærlighed, jeg virkelig godt kan lide, den er fra bloggen Sugartits:

Brad was my first boyfriend. Not the Real Kind of First Boyfriend you go to the movies with or lose your virginity to or even blow in the woods behind school but the kind that says “will you go out with me” when he can’t actually take you out, the kind that only holds your hand and kisses you on the cheek because you’re both only Twelve Years Old-the kind that you eventually leave for a High Schooler.

Brad and I met in Sixth Grade Tech Class where I praised his spiky hair and he made fun of my Blink 182 shirt. He was slight, fair-skinned and silly. The funniest person I’ve met. In the cafeteria I could count on him to make me spit out my chicken nuggets or square pizza or whatever shit we were eating because of how hard he’d be making me laugh - and you could forget having a class with him without peeing your pants or getting afternoon detention. We shared our lunches every day until his friend Paul convinced him to “ask me out” via a handwritten note my friend Naomi had to hand me, which I said “yes” to and thus became “His Girlfriend.” So for a few months we’d meet at our lockers to exchange nervous conversation intended to impress our friends and imply we’re sexually active until I actually did become sexually active, with an older kid. So I let Brad go as my Middle School Boyfriend, to remain friends with him instead.

The problem is we couldn’t be friends. We went off to different High Schools and I started running with a “bad crowd” while he began dividing his time between band and reading and generally being creative and great. Still, as teenagers, he’d call my house every night while I’d either be out with my Boyfriend or telling my Mom to convince him I was - and I don’t recall why I avoided him but figure it had something to do with the fact that I knew he was better, smarter and sweeter than any of My Boys and didn’t want to deal with that guilt, or, worse, be forced to question my choices. Yet he persisted, even sending letters to my house, one of which I remember specifically saying, as I read it hundreds of times, that I made him “want to be a better person.” The irony of which isn’t lost on me, as at that time I was a piece of shit.

When Brad got accepted to the same University as me he left an excited message on my answering machine, and, listening to it, I thought maybe we’d get the chance to Reconnect. Maybe we’d go to Frat Parties together and help each other with exams and bond over shared memories of “old times.” So I called him back and he was happy and I felt good about Our Future until we actually moved into the ASU dorms and I quickly became too busy scoring coke and going home every weekend to my Junkie Boyfriend to return his enduring calls. And by the time I did become single and got a bit clean, he had already transferred schools and I had made plans to move to Milan.

Brad called me last night.

“Well you still have the same number and I heard you were back in town.”

“Yeah! Hey! Wow.”

“How long are you here for?”

“Till the 10^th! You?”

“I leave tomorrow. You have plans tonight?”

We decide to meet at a bar on Franklin in an hour so I take a shower and opt to not shave, as I assume that “nothing will happen.” I put on something tight and my sister’s big coat and ask my Mom to drive me “and call me later, just in case I’ll want to escape.”

He enters the bar with shining wet hair, wearing only a black shirt and jeans. “Let’s sit at this table,” he says, pointing to a corner, “it’s the table couples always break up at. And tonight I’m breaking up with you.”

He’s still hilarious. He buys me three whiskey gingers and cracks me up all night. I’m so used to men taking themselves seriously, trying to be intimidating or tough when I’ve realized all I want is a guy who makes fart jokes and can impersonate cartoons. And as I laugh I wonder why I chose losers over him, and more importantly, why the fuck he’s even willing to sit with me now. He invites me to a local Kegger but I tell him I should be getting home. He remembers the way.

He pulls into my driveway and I speak before he can.

“So should we make out or something?"

He unbuckles his seatbelt, slides over to me, and firmly pushes me down. He looks at me, touches my lips, and reaches under my skirt. He kisses fantastically and his hands are large and strong. He’s good. I get wet.

Ten minutes later, I’m naked and we’re grabbing each other like frantic, starved puppies. My head is knocking against the car door as he fingers me and sucks on my tits. I hear a noise.

“Wait! What was that?”

"What?”

“Someone’s here.”

“It’s OK.”

“Wait dude, we’re like, in front of my house.”

“So?”

“So my parents will see us!”

“I can drive somewhere else.”

“No, I mean, maybe I should go home.”

“No fucking way,” he shakes his head, “I’ve been waiting for this for twelve years.”

I let him pin me down again, and this time he’s aggressive, holding my wrists together, with one hand, behind my bruising back. I watch him take off his pants to reveal his smooth, perfect cock - one of the best I’ve seen. I sit up to take it into my mouth and he sighs in relief. When I feel he’s close, I lay back down, so he can split me open. His movements are seamless, as if he’s rehearsed this before, in his head, I imagine - yet it’s so genuine and comfortable I can really relax till he finally makes me cum.

I lay in his lap while he smokes a cigarette and strokes my matted hair.

“I’m sorry about everything,” I say.

“What?”

“You know.”

“Yeah, well. It’s ok. It doesn’t matter now.”

Before he leaves, we High-Five.