Sometimes when it came to me and Bubs--I was really mean. And for some of those times, I'm still not sorry.

NSFW-ish ahead, you’ve been warned!

So Bubs made a comment on Reddit yesterday—and in our ensuing in-person discussion over the matter, he noted that I’ve never apologized for diming him out to his mom on Junior Breakfast day.

I’ve danced around this topic for a long time, but: Bubs and I first did the deed when we were... of a certain age (don’t want to get banned again). We had already tried to do it a couple of times. There was the time at his grandfather’s ranch where he got us lost and we had to be rescued after dark—that was a bust. There was the time my parents let him come with us to Destin for Spring Break and I convinced them our AP Lit teacher had a teleconference so we could skip family dinner and have the condo to ourselves—Bubs ended up thinking my little sister was me and came up behind her whispering how excited he was. (To this day, I don’t know if I’ve ever heard of someone doing something dumber.) That, too, was a bust.

Finally, I just told him: put an air mattress in the back of your truck, drive me up to the river to one of the isolated picnic spots—we’re doing it.

Up to that point, I was excited about sex (my mom had put me on the pill shortly after the hotel incident because she knew she wasn’t going to stop it anymore), but I was also really prude about it. I don’t know how to put this without it sounding weird, but as I’ve mentioned before, if there’s a spectrum of sexuality, I’m probably about 65% straight and 35% lesbian. I loved Bubs to death, but I was grossed out by some of the things I thought were supposed to happen between boys and girls—whereas nothing between girls ever gave me the heebie-jeebies. With boys it was kind of like, "You want me to touch your what with my mouth? Maybe on your birthday... if you're REALLY lucky."

Well, that completely disappeared because I had a mind-altering orgasm about four minutes into the first time we ever had sex. I was hooked. I went from prude to:

You want me to wear naughty outfits? I will.
You want to use toys? For sure.
You want to explore every nook and cranny of my body? Explore away, my good man!
You want me to explore every nook and cranny of yours?
Well, to be fair, I’m game—Bubs still has some reservations.

But to put it mildly, I became a little nympho for the guy. I don’t know how many times we ended up doing it that weekend and the week after, but every moment we could get away with it—there were body parts in body parts.

It also changed the dynamic of our relationship. Because I was willing to pretty much do everything right out of the gate, it gave me a tremendous amount of power over the poor guy. If he was whipped before, just add the "P" to "p-whipped" and he was a salivating dog every time I even hinted that sex was a possibility. That also meant he was—and has been—willing to put up with a lot of crap from me.

Quick topic change: our high school had this long-running tradition called Junior Breakfast. I’ve heard dozens of explanations for why it always fell on the same day in May—everything from Juniors being exactly ¾ through high school, to the day our local McDonald’s started serving breakfast, to a random solar eclipse. Whatever the reason, for years nearly every Junior would ditch class and meet at several spots between San Antonio and Austin. It wasn’t officially tolerated, but everyone looked the other way because it was safe and fun, and lots of teachers had done it when they were students.

That all changed our Freshman year when several groups drove all the way to Dallas. They were disrespectful, got massive speeding tickets, and worst of all—there was a three-car accident. No one was seriously hurt, but it was enough for the school to ban Junior Breakfast outright.

A few people still tried to sneak out, but they always got suspended. Come our year, several groups wanted to revive it—they figured if enough people went, they couldn’t suspend everyone. I had a teacher who scheduled a test that day and basically said if we had an unexcused absence, we’d fail the semester. Plus, my mom worked at the school, so sneaking out was a no-go. I told Bubs I didn’t want him to go—and figured my new "power" over him would seal the deal.

I drove in with my mom and expected to see Bubs’ truck in its usual spot for morning baseball weight lifting. It wasn’t there. I texted him. No reply. From my seat in first period I could still see his spot was empty. I was livid. That little punk defied me! I texted again: “You better not be at Junior Breakfast.”

This time, he replied: “I am. We’re having a blast! Try to sneak out!”

I did what any reasonably clingy, semi-psychotic, over-attached girlfriend would do: I called his mom.

Bubs’ mom, who was paranoid about teen stats, thanked me profusely and said she’d call him. 30 minutes later, I saw him being escorted by both parents into the front office. I felt so proud. Like, yeah—don’t do what I say? Don’t forget who you belong to, big guy.

At lunch, I found him and told him how disappointed I was. He said it didn’t matter because “someone” had called his parents and narc’ed. I told him that someone was me. He was furious. “Great job,” he said. “Now I’m grounded for the weekend.” I was still high on myself and smugly told him, “Hopefully you learned your lesson.”

Because he couldn't go out, I think he expected me to come over and “watch movies” and sneak out to his parents’ RV so we could hook up. But I was still annoyed—and it just so happened my friend Peyton had invited me to Austin to sneak into some college clubs with her and her older friends. So no, I would not be defiling myself over the convertible table in the RV. I was going to 6th Street.

With my older sister’s well-worn fake ID and dressed like a shameless little club slut, we made up some lies for our parents and headed north. If you were in the Austin bar scene from around 2005 to 2012, you'll know the exact club I'm talking about--they were famous for not really giving a crap about the actual ages of their female patrons.  Technically Texas law allows 18+ with a special wristband showing you couldn’t drink—but the bouncer didn’t even check ID. Gave me a 21+ wristband without even looking at the fake ID. 

I’d say a third of the girls there were underage, and all the guys were the type who frequent clubs that ignore drinking age rules. Guys bought us drinks left and right. In no time, I got white girl wasted. I danced with the girls I came with, I danced alone, I danced with other girls--and great fun shooing away any guy that even attempted to break into our little circle.  My phone buzzed constantly—Bubs texting that he hoped I was having fun. Those texts probably saved me from a lot of uncomfortable situations. Every time a guy hit on me, I’d slur, “I have a boyfriend!” They'd invariably say "so what" or "good boyfriends don't' allow" their girlfriends to go out dressed like I was. And then I’d wave my phone and go, “Look how many times he’s called! He loves me sooooo much!” That always got them to walk away. 

The whole night was probably one step from disaster, but we made it out safe with a sober ride home from Peyton's cousin. Four teenage girls, buzzing with adrenaline and one driver. I got the brilliant idea to call Bubs and tell him how much fun I had—and that I still loved him and he shouldn’t have done Junior Breakfast.

He just so happened he answered right when "Before He Cheats" came on the radio and got to hear us scream singing it--thankfully he didn't hang up. 

“I guess you had fun.” He sad dourly. 

“I’m soooo drunk and I danced all night! It was AMAZING.”

“Are you coming home?”

“I dunno... maybeee!” I said teasing him. 

“I should call your mom and get you grounded!”

“You woonnnn’t. You love me and like sex too much! If I’m grounded, no sex for youuuu!”

From the back seat, Peyton screamed, “Tell him you’ll give him a blowjob!” Which was hilarious because, like, two weeks ago that was on my "maybe, if you’re lucky" list.

“Bubs, did you hear that?” I snickered.

“You are so fucking annoying. I should still call your mom.”

I wasn’t scared—I knew I had him hooked. “If you call my mom, Peyton’s cousin can’t drop me off at your parents RV. Where we could... you know... and I’m drunk!”

“What? Are you serious? When? Like soon??” He'd walked right into the bear trap. 

Poor guy. I vaguely remember falling asleep and many minutes later a vague shadow of him opening the car door expecting me to hop out ready to defile myself for him. But I was a wreck. I think he just asked where I'd told my parents I'd be sleeping. Our sober driver didn’t know, my friends were too drunk to remember our cover story. I remember him shushing me when I kept saying over and over again "I love you!  Like, I really love you. How are you so sweet to me? I don't feel so good. You are so cute and hot and I love you."  I definitely remember him carrying me upstairs like a doll, helping me shower, dressing me in his sweats, laying me in bed, and kissing me on the forehead while he crashed on the floor. 

At some point I woke up freezing so I whispered to him and he crawled in bed and cuddled me. I passed out again.

Later, I heard him outside the door telling his dad he didn’t feel good and shouldn’t have to go to mandatory church. His dad said fine, and he climbed back into bed with me.

We dozed most of the morning. I remember thinking how safe and wonderful it felt, waking up next to him on a Sunday morning. He could have done anything—but he took care of me. I kept thinking, I want every Sunday morning for the rest of my life to feel like this.

When his parents got home, we were able to play it off that I had stopped by early to study. I always wore his clothes anyways so they were none the wiser that I had actually been in bed just down the hall for a good chunk of the morning. 

And yes, I still fantasize about that morning. So no, Bubs—I’m not sorry I told your mom you ditched school.

The end result?
One of my favorite days with you ever