I had the hugest crush on a boy we shall call BP between the ages of 11 – 14; he was the original Mr P, I suppose. After years of blushing whenever I saw him, a brief time when we actually went out with each other and got bollocked for nipping out of school for a crafty fag, we ended up being friends when I started seeing his mate and my first proper boyfriend, Mr A. We would go to my – rather liberal – house and smoke weed. We were buddies; Mr A, BP and me.
6 years ago, BP died. He basically dropped dead in the garden. He was a big guy (we’re talking way over 6 foot and about 20 stone but thin as a rake) and this heart condition is rare but not unheard of. I cried for a week. It was the same year I split up with Mr W, my boyfriend of 4.5 years, and got together with Mr P. The same year my nephew Lil’ Blue was born. An eventful year full of ups and downs, twists and turns.
I dreamt about BP last night. He looked as he looked when we were about 13 at school and my crush was at its peak. I won’t bore you with the details of the dream but there was definitely a sexual tension fizzing between us. Weird though, because I was still with Mr P in my dream but didn’t feel at all guilty for opening flirting with my first love.
I woke up with a bittersweet feeling. I’ve got nothing to remember BP by: no photographs, Facebook wasn’t widely popular when he passed away and he didn’t stay on at school so he wasn’t included in our yearbook. During our weed-filled weekends, he would draw cartoons. I remember him drawing a brilliant picture of a laughing cowboy which was on my wall for ages before it got tore down carelessly. He did millions of pictures, I never thought to keep it. Now I wish I had.
It was lovely to see him again, even if only in the depths of my subconscious, and I’d welcome him back anytime.