My Sweetest Downfall: Lust List 1996-Present

'You are my sweetest downfall. I loved you first'

In 1996 I asked a boy named Rory Horsington to be my boyfriend. Everyday. For the entire school term. I was 8 years old, and had won the part of Mary in the school nativity play (with a comedy script written by an optimistic drama teacher, intent on 'jazzing up' the otherwise hugely dull story of the birth of Christ). My co-star, Hayden Allen, the rosy cheeked class-clown elected for the part of D.I.Y. pioneer and all-round bloody nice bloke, Joseph, was perfectly attractive. My 8 year old mind was indifferent to his package-holiday tan and impressive comic timing. I only had eyes for freckle-faced Rory, whose idea of humour stretched only to a peculiar baby voice, with which he frequently adressed our exasperated student teacher, Miss Farnham (who was, incidentally, widely feared as being a witch, although it was an accusation fabricated by a 9 year old and never proved. And anyway, that's another story.)

My admiration for Rory endured some years, until I left Primary School, although the infatuation briefly faded to accomodate my brewing crush on James Orton, who I have vague memories of defending against the nickname 'Concrete Head' on account of excessive use of hair gel.

Richard Alexander Swinbourne, a history teacher at my secondary school, Fife Hill Girls Grammar, was (although not the next chronologically) another very important feature in my romantic past. I would gaze for hours at his bespectacled hazel eyes and rugged, stubbled jaw, listening to his gravel tones and praying that one day i might be the lucky subject of the mumbled carpet-burn-staff-room-stationary-cupboard rumours that so frequently circulated the corridors at Fife Hill. It never happened, although Swinbourne was eventually asked to leave the school for reasons never fully explained, and I managed an A* at GCSE History, putting it all down to my devotion to learning about Hitler, as inspired by my handsome professor. At A-Level, I got a D. My teacher that year, Mrs Angela Casey, was short, and fat, and - crucially - female.

Skip forward several years. I started University. Droopy was there. The rest is history.

My crush in this instance was developped without any actual physical contact. I was in love with Droopy. I knew his middle name, his favourite food, his inside leg measurements. I knew that he was the one for me and that we were one day to have 4 children and own a boxer dog named Rosy. I had not however, mentioned any of this to Droopy. In fact, I had never met him at all.

For this slight idiosyncracy in the details of our romance, I blame three people: Mark Zuckerberg, Dustin Moscovitz and Chris Hughes. The inventors of (the miracle which is) Facebook. Facebook is to blame for all my lusting. Facebook is to blame for the fact that at one point, a collage of Droopy's face (my favourite pictures of his saggy-eyed deliciousness) was plastered, shrine-like as my desktop background. (DTB BABY ;)

I didn't go so far as to print anything out. Although that was mostly due to the fact that I had run out of student loan & couldn't stretch to coloured ink cartridges.

The happy ending of my several-month-long terrifying staking period, was that I eventually met Droopy, (through another object of - considerably less of- my affections actually, whose name was Ollie). The night I 'first ever met' him, having actually known of his existence for rather longer than I cared to let on, including the fact that we lived on the same road (PURE coincidence, I promise!) Droopy and I made out more than a bit, he walked me home and I delighted in refusing him entrance to my bedroom. I considered it a miracle. Weeks later, Droopy and I had what can only be described as a very cheeky romp, with certain events taking place that I had never even heard of, let alone taken part in.

After that I heard little of Droopy again, and with time, the lust I had so heartfeltly harboured for him faded away. My night of.. err.. passion? was a one-off. Something he promptly forgot about and obviously didn't want to remember. I care not. To me, the tiniest details of the night stay crisply clear in my mind, I do not feel used, but proud. Really Fucking Proud. I was literally shagged within an inch of my life by the person I've lusted after the most in my entire life.

TE HE.

and as i blurrily remember once saying to his best mate in the back of a brighton taxi: 'he shagged me, and I was the crazed stalker, so gutted at his life really.'