Angel of My Creation



I still remember with breath-taking clarity the first time I fell in love. I was 17 and there was a girl in my class called Amanda. She was tall, gamine and with a slightly upturned nose. Her hair was blonde and long, always sweeping behind her.. She always seemed to be hurrying from one place to the next, yet she did so with a measured glide that made her seem somehow ethereal.

I would stand and watch her as she bustled along the corridor in college, her hockey stick poking from her bag and apologies issued from that enticing mouth as the stick bumped against people. I would position myself in class so I could look at her without her noticing. I sat at seven o’clock to her and I drank in her frame as it was hunched over the desk, those long fingers gripping her fountain pen, the blue ink staining her index finger.

How I loved her slender wrists which would often be turned towards me, the skin slightly paler than the rest of her sun-kissed self. Her figure was athletic, her skin lightly tanned and there was always a clean scent about her. Whenever she passed me I would breathe in as deep as I could to savour every molecule of her fragrance that washed over me. I would lie in bed, my eyes closed and invent scenarios for us to meet and spend time together.

I imagined protecting her from those that would seek to defile such a precious person as I knew full well of the darkness that lurked waiting to trap someone as pure as her. I knew my kind and what went on in our minds. I masturbated frenetically conjuring up images of her naked frame enveloped around mine, her soft lips pressed onto my cheek. I could not resist the allure she exhibited yet I cursed myself after my climax for allowing me to think of her in this way. Occasionally she would smile at me and leave me dizzy with elation.

Carefully I built up a portfolio of information about her. There was no internet to aid me then and my intelligence was gathered through a combination of observation and discrete questioning of her friends. I knew where she lived, in a small town along from mine and her bedroom was at the front of the house above the main entrance. She often rode a bike and on a Saturday morning she would go horse riding. I learned she was a fan of Duran Duran and had something of a crush on Simon le Bon when she had been in her younger teens.

I knew she enjoyed playing a lot of sport and her favourite drink was Vimto. Little by little I noted all of this down and then memorised it in readiness of the day that we spoke. I envisaged how I might ask her to go on a date with me. I thought about the two of us going to see a film together, something a little scary so that those delightful fingers might reach out and grab mine by way of reassurance. I wondered if she could ice skate and if not how she could hold onto me as we moved about the rink. I longed to hold her hand and let my fingers caress her clean, clean skin.

I never saw any evidence of a boyfriend although I knew from what other lads in the class said that they fancied her. Inside I churned when I heard them refer to her in a sexual fashion. She was not theirs to be spoken of in that way and during history lessons I would plot how I would cause those leering fools to suffer for their graphic slurring of my beautiful Amanda.

All through that first year of sixth form college I loved her with a noble purity and never spoke to anyone of how I felt about her, but I knew that it was love. How could this powerful sensation I felt each time I saw her, heard her or smelt her, be anything else? The summer holiday was a painful hiatus and my sporadic passes of her home never produced a glimpse of Amanda. I once walked up to the front door and nearly posted a note through her letterbox, but my nerve failed me and I retreated down the path.

Once Autumn arrived and with it the start of the upper sixth, I returned to college with expectant enthusiasm. As I settled into my usual seat and waited for her to glide into the class room I wondered if she had changed much over the summer holiday. The teacher arrived and commenced the lesson, but there was no Amanda. She made no appearance all that week. Nor the next. My sleep was fragmented with concern as to her whereabouts and eventually I asked our form tutor. He explained that her family had moved abroad over the summer owing to her father’s job. He did not know the exact whereabouts. My fury at losing her was monumental but I kept it within, as I had been taught, not wanting the world to know of the agony that I bore. I tried to ascertain where she had gone but my questions bore no fruit.

The decades have passed and I have looked for her again and again. I have used technology to try and locate her but there has been nothing. Her name may have changed and thus she eludes me. I have checked her old friends’ profiles to see if she is amongst their friends but she remains elusive. I have had to carry the burden of my lost love all this time and though I have sought sanctuary in the soft embrace of countless ladies, each time hoping that Amanda will appear to me through their embrace or their fragrance, every time I am left broken and bitterly disappointed. None of them come close to that angel which graced my class room. None of them equal her purity and grace, her unsullied manner and gracious movements. My love for Amanda was perfect and I feared it could never be matched. Each and every time they show such promise and every time they leave me disappointed and full of bile as they fall monstrously short of her perfection. I will not give up on my angel, I never shall, for it is with her that I shall find salvation.

4 thoughts on “Angel of My Creation

  1. KitKat says:

    A pedestal Impervious to toppling.

  2. Renarde says:

    Oh Vimto! Truly the nectar of the Gods and clearly a girl after my own heart! I bet the vast majority of people on here have never heard of it let alone tasted it.

    It sounds vaguely disinfectent-ish. But it’s not. It’s a sweet concoction of raspberry, grape and blackcurrant juices with added ‘herbs’.

    Of course, like all things, they’ve altered it since my childhood. It used to be far more treacle like. I still buy it but I’m careful where from. A Co-OP near me tries to rip me off for £2. No no. I know somewhere far cheaper. Always go for no sugar if I have a choice. One needs to be careful.

    I love Vimto so much that one day when I was in Manchester, I’d been informed by the UMS exactly where the Vimto statue was. A very hot day indeed but I was going. I’ve got a picture somewhere in the archives.

    And by way of a diversion I popped down Canal Street, also known as ‘Anal Treat’. I’ll leave NS to work out why.

    Then I popped into a gay sex shop and boggled at the largest butt plug I’d ever seen in my life. It was like looking at a number 4 football. That was certainly an eventful day.

    It’s funny. I’m a northerner but I rarely visit. All my relatives are pretty much dead and, yeah I did go back to my home town for a funeral a few years back. My Godmother. Her husband was on fine form. As the drinks flowed (not Vimto), he started to flirt with me. Not thinking and fully in Ren mode, I quipped one back before ‘Holy Shit!’ What has he just said and what have I done? Soz Aunt.

    I ended up being asked to an away (football) game where I now live. I didn’t go. That would’ve been a tad weird.

    HG, did you ever find in the end Amanda? And if she was to be found, would you tell her exactly what you are?

    I do hope you find her one day. That time in our lives when we are 16/17 are the innocent times. In my mind it was. At least.

  3. Christine/Philly says:

    That is sweet, brings me back to my love for Duran Duran and a one sided nostalgic love story of youth. Write a book about Amanda.An imaginary one.Meeting up one day with a boom box raised above your head playing,” Hungry Like the Wolf”.Sorry, HG,I know you hate to be told what to do,my apologies.

  4. Bibi says:

    Duran Duran. LOL HG, your age is showing. I guess you to be 2 yrs older than I.

    I had a music memory today but not quite like this. A friend and I had to do a roadtrip but not for anything fun (literally to deliver my car)–and this was the mid 90s and so I had no fancy music BS or even a CD player. Only radio and a cassette player.

    Driving 12 hrs a quarter across the US with shitty radio stations that don’t play–we needed music.
    ‘What tapes do you have?’ My friend asked, as she opened the glove compartment.
    ‘Huey Lewis and the News–Sports album.’
    ‘That’s it?’
    ‘That’s it.’
    ‘Play it.’

    And so we did. Over and over and over and over. Stopped to get gas in Bucksnort, Tennessee. Ate a Blimpie sub and they have a Motel 3. Not even a 6, but a 3.

    Listened to ‘I want a New Drug’ while driving through Wichita and then again in Oklahoma City and then again….

    You think you have been everywhere, HG. You go on thinking that. But you have never been anywhere till you stop for gas in Bucksnort, TN.

    Maybe Amanda moved there? LOL (smack me, now.)

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