CONFESSIONS OF A COMPULSIVE OVEREATER
In my final year of primary school, aged 10, I had a crush on Gary Burrows, the boy I sat next to in class. I was drawn to his goofy grin and piercing blue eyes, hidden by a ridiculously floppy blonde fringe. That year, someone in class had introduced us to ‘Nervous’ – the game where you put your hand on someone’s leg, moving it slowly up toward their groin until they shout ‘nervous’ – meaning you have to stop. Of course, when I got to play it with Gary, I didn’t want to stop. My hand continued to linger on his thigh for a while after he’d called it. Feeling awkward that I’d outstayed my welcome, I sheepishly took my hand away. No doubt he sensed I was getting more out of it than he was, and it wasn’t mutual fun. And that was that. We only ever played the game once. I retreated back to crushing on him from a distance – with Peter Cetera’s Glory of Love on repeat in my head.
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