My wretched school days

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-23

I

'm reluctant to admit I had a first love, but if I had to categorize it by actions, H was my first love. During those four lonely years spent in that small college in Xi'an, she was with me for five months (to be precise, only three).

I don't think I loved H. Because I don't think that kind of love was true love; at least we didn't have what I consider true spiritual connection, and I've always felt guilty about that.

I didn't love her, but we were intimate.

However, she was my first official girlfriend, and I even told my family about it.

And, as I write this, I don't have a second girlfriend. I'm still single.

I miss H. Especially when I lie in bed alone at night, I recall the details of our caresses, the moments we shared. It gives me something to do to pass the time during those lonely, empty, and boring days.

Those were barren years.

Before meeting H, of course, I liked some girls, but sadly, whenever I fell deeply in love, all those girls left me. Before I could even express my truest feelings, all those girls rejected me.

Later, one girl told me why, and she said it was because I'd never found the right person.

I asked her what about H? She said the same thing. Of course, that girl eventually rejected me too. Later, someone else told me, "You've always been too honest, and honesty is often cruel."

I think that's probably true. I take everything too seriously, especially feelings. So, what about H and me? Of all the girls I've dealt with over the years, only that one time might have been unrealistic.

I remember meeting H at a dance at the Fisheries University. By then, I'd already been rejected by the girls multiple times. This led me to a decadent mindset, frequently hanging out in dance halls on or off campus.

I'm not bad-looking, just a bit thin. Some girls even said I was quite dashing and stylish, but I didn't feel much for any of them. Maybe my standards were too high.

I remember the first time I saw H was in a lecture hall. She was wearing a miniskirt, her legs propped up on the table, slightly parted. Her legs were so shapely and beautiful, and her posture aroused my restlessness. I spent the whole night fantasizing about her legs.

To be honest, I started seducing H in the dance hall back then; I wanted to try this method, even though my heart was pounding. Unexpectedly, I succeeded on my first try; H was attracted by my humor and cunning.

However, I haven't tried that a second time. I know it's not difficult, but I don't want to treat romantic relationships this way because I still believe in the connection between hearts.

Seizing the opportunity, I mustered my courage and invited her out dancing one weekend night. On

our first date, I only held her hand; on the second, I put my arm around her shoulder; and on the third, I hugged her waist. That night, I took her to a secluded, dark corner of the campus. I unbuttoned her top and caressed her breasts, over and over again. Later, I slipped my hand inside, and she didn't resist. But when I tried to insert my fingers, she squeezed her legs together. She told me she didn't want to play anymore and hoped I was serious. At that moment, I was serious; I genuinely wanted to experience this feeling I'd never experienced before.

She loosened her legs, and my fingers grazed her moist ground before slipping between her labia. The insertion felt easy, without any tension, and I suspected she wasn't a virgin. But I didn't really care; it's the world these days. Besides, I was just experiencing a feeling I'd never had before.

Her vagina slowly became lubricated with the insertion and withdrawal of my fingers.

After the first time, there was bound to be a second, and the second time she didn't resist as much. We were still hiding in that secluded corner. My fingers were much more agile. This time, my fingers went in very deep; I even touched her cervix. She let out a rather excited moan, and my desire surged as well. I told her I wanted to do it, and she said no; but I insisted I wanted to, and she still said no. She said she only had one year left before graduation and didn't want to cause any trouble. I agreed, otherwise neither of us would be in good shape; the school's punishment for this was quite severe.

I told her, "Then help me." She asked how, and then she put her hand inside my pants and started touching me.

I said I'd use my mouth, and at first she was reluctant. But finally, at my pleading (men always seem so subservient at times like this), she slid down, I unzipped my pants, and she gently took it into her mouth, but quickly spat it out. I think it must have been her first time, and she wasn't used to it. But she probably didn't know I'd watched countless pornographic videos and was very familiar with this kind of behavior, even though it was my first time too.

Later, I gently grabbed her hair and pressed her head down against my stomach. She took it into her mouth, and I gently thrust in and out. The feeling was wonderful, like an electric current suddenly coursing through my body. She gently took it into her mouth, rhythmically sucking back and forth. I looked down, watching her movements beneath me. I felt a sense of pleasure, a feeling, for the first time in years, of an incomparably moist, dew-like nourishment that soothed my parched body and soul. Moreover, that tight attraction seemed to draw out and release all the loneliness and confusion, solitude and unease, tenderness and wildness within me.

Halfway through, she suddenly looked up at me with pleading eyes and said, "Please don't put it in my mouth, okay?" For the first time, I looked at her with a rare tenderness and said, "Of course."

Quickly, I said, "It's coming." She spat it out of her mouth, and I had gotten it all over her clothes.

An unprecedented sense of release washed over me, and I felt weak all over. My breathing became feeble.

After drying her clothes, I held her tightly and kissed her passionately. I was so thirsty; her tongue explored and searched my mouth, and I often bit her tongue. She cried out in pain, so I kissed her from her lips to her cheek, and from her cheek to her neck, her hair, her chest, and her breasts, which were partially exposed by her loosened robe. Her breasts were not very large, but under the kneading and caressing of my hands, they continued to swell, and her nipples became more and more erect and harder.

She reciprocated with equal fervor, kissing my lips, kissing my unkempt chin, pecking at my cheeks like a little bird. Our saliva mingled, our bodies embraced tightly, we breathed the same air, the air filled with our shared youthful, parched scent. Our souls resonated in that moment through this primal physical language… A year later, H, I want to tell you that you were the woman who gave me the first truly wonderful feeling. Regardless of whether we were truly in love during that period of our relationship, regardless of whether there were ugly and base thoughts in our souls that guided our actions, I just want to say to you: "Thank you, you made me grow."

In the days that followed, the weather grew colder, and we were less inclined to stroll through the chilly campus on cold nights, or to hide in some unknown corner for secret trysts. We hid in empty classrooms, or in our dorm room when no one was around, playing these kinds of games time and time again.

I was afraid of getting her pregnant, so every time she would use her mouth while I used my hands. Only once, in the dorm, I turned off the lights and pulled down her pants. The first time I penetrated her, my heart pounded. I was afraid my roommate would suddenly burst in, and even more afraid of losing control and ejaculating inside her. I thrust a few times, then hurriedly withdrew, saying, "You should use your mouth instead." So she knelt down and sucked, and when I told her to thrust harder, she did, constantly changing angles, using her tongue and lips to satisfy my youthful hunger again and again.

Later, I stood up, grabbed her hair, and thrust violently into her mouth. My movements were intense and rough; she almost suffocated from my frenzied actions. I thrust deep into her mouth again and again, even reaching her throat, making her breathing difficult. In the final moment, I pulled out of her mouth and uncontrollably ejaculated on her. She then leaned over and dry heaved for a while.

Then I carried her to bed, and we shared another long, passionate kiss. My fingers were inside her, pushing harder and harder, her face a mixture of pain and pleasure, her mouth emitting blissful moans.

I even inserted three or four fingers at once, thrusting forcefully. She was in pain, tears welling in her eyes, and asked me why I was being so cruel to her. I buried my head in her chest and said apologetically, "I'm sorry." She said she wanted to marry me someday, but I said no, I would find her a better man. She said, "You've made me like this down there, how can I marry someone else?" I was speechless. I saw her blood on my fingers.

I once secretly shed tears in her arms. At that time, I felt sad and lost about the future. I told her, "I'm afraid of tomorrow. I don't know what tomorrow will bring." I said, "Don't marry someone like me. If you're willing, one day I'll go to your farm in the Great Northern Wilderness and sit with you on the edge of the field, watching the endless golden waves of wheat. I'll write my novels there for the rest of my life." She looked at me with a strange expression, puzzled, and said that I sometimes had strange thoughts.

After that, she didn't ask me to marry her much anymore, because we both knew that after graduation we would inevitably be separated, whether we wanted to or not, we had to obey the arrangements of the school and society. Our fate was in the hands of others. But we still secretly played this game when we had free time.

I broke up with her before graduation. Although she had told me that she wanted to marry me and that she loved me, I still couldn't quite believe it was true. Perhaps it was because my standards for love were too high, so I always showed her signs of weariness. Whether she pretended not to notice and tolerated me, or whether she simply didn't feel much, she didn't seem to care much, though she would sometimes get angry with me. I felt we had very different interests.

After the breakup, she wrote me two long letters, but I wasn't particularly moved. At that time, my spirit seemed completely dead; I was in a daze all day, drinking and smoking with friends, talking about life's disappointments and anxieties, about the confusion and sorrow of love. More importantly, we were about to graduate, and after graduation, we would no longer have such youthful days. We were both adults, forced to bear all the trivialities and complexities of life, forced to fight against the world, to be men.

Now, I've been working for a year, and only I can taste the bitterness and hardship.

I no longer think about finding a girl like H to hang out with, because I don't want to. I'm still searching for true love. But I've still been rejected by other girls many times, including a girl from another city who has been silently longing for me for many years.

When I learned of her deep affection for me, I felt I had finally found true love. I told the girl from afar, "Marry me, because I've finally found you." I told her, "Come to me, no matter how hard or tiring it is, I'm willing." But she hesitated. She didn't continue her girlish fantasies; she obeyed her parents' wishes.

So I began to doubt the reality of love, and thus I remain alone.

But I must have my own way of life: listening to rock music, playing tennis, playing computer games, or going shopping, drinking, smoking, chatting, talking about ideals, life, and pursuits with my single friends.

But ideals keep shattering, life keeps throwing challenges at me, and pursuits keep turning into a faith in money.

Only in the quiet of the night, lying alone in bed, do I reminisce about the past. During those days with H, although I couldn't shake off the sadness in my bones, I did forget something in that superficial happiness. At least in that brief period, I was no longer empty, lonely, or bored. Now, I always feel something is missing from my life.

Actually, it's because I'm missing a woman, which is why I often miss H, and the happiness she brought me.

I miss those days of our relationship, eating together in the cafeteria every day, her washing the dishes; walking on campus every day, her nestled in my arms; studying in the library every day, her saving me a seat. Or, sneaking away at night in secluded places, her mouth on me, my hands on hers; or dancing on the moonlit playground, me spinning her around...

I think if I could meet H again, I would tell her how much I miss her. Perhaps, I wouldn't ask for so much from love anymore.

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