The first time I laid eyes on Alex McGuigan was in September 2010. We were moving in to our university halls of residence together. There were four of us moving into a flat, all with en-suite bedrooms to embark on our first year of undergraduate study. Moving-in day was awkward, with various sets of parents running to and fro up the stairs, down the stairs, talking to the accommodation staff, unloading cars and seemingly trying their best to show us all up in front of the others.
I remember coming out of my room, closest to the kitchen and communal living area, and looking down the hallway. Stood there was Alex. She introduced herself and I didn't quite catch her name. Embarrassed to ask for her to repeat it, I explained I was Louise. We made small talk about what courses we were doing and the usual ice breaker material. After a short period of silence, I made my excuses to retreat into my room and begin unpacking.
I used the alone time to ponder my encounter with the girl at the end of the corridor. She was attractive. She had blonde dyed hair, perfect high definition eyebrows, a clear complexion and was fairly petite. It was however, her eyes that captivated me. A mixture of blues and greens, I felt myself being drawn into her mind when I looked at her. But she was clearly straight. She was very well spoken and polite, and judging by the amount of suitcases and boxes she had stacked outside her room, she was something of a hoarder. I smirked to myself; at least I'd sort of made a friend.
We hit it off that night, getting extremely drunk and making friends with others in our halls of residence. I had been fairly anxious about moving to university; I'd always felt myself as being a bit of an outsider, l'etranger, if you will. I'd been a tad overweight in my early teenage years, didn't have much of a fashion sense as I was obsessed with sport, and when I was forced out of the closet I found myself subject to bullying and harassment. I'd fallen into a depressive state, self harming and chasing after any girl who would give me the time of day. My school took the approach that as I'd come out at a young age, it was my mistake and they couldn't do 'much' about the bullying. Coming from a small town, moving schools wasn't an option either. I was forced to adapt myself. From years of being ostracised by my peers, I'd developed intense observational skills. I could analyse most social situations and figure out someone's motives easily. I pride myself in this ability, yet I accept I'm probably not as good as I'd like to think when it comes to reading people.
I was able to plateau in my GCSE years, I had a sound group of friends who accepted me and I became somewhat popular amongst the underdogs. Queen of the Rejects, I excelled in sport and relished in the new attention from my peers. I got involved with a straight girl in the year above me when I entered lower sixth form, which ended in tears. I ignored my schoolwork and inevitably failed my exams. To get onto the course I wanted to do in university, I had no option to repeat the year I had failed. This meant starting over; the happiness and contentment I had worked hard on for so many months was irrelevant. Meaningless. It meant nothing anymore. I had another depressive episode and struggled for a few months trying to make new friends. But by Christmas, with the help of antidepressants, counselling and admittedly, alcohol, I had risen to the top once again. I had a sound group of around seven or eight close friends in the all-girls grammar school. With my one-year-older age advantage, I could drive before the others, which earned me more respect from my peers.
I was reasonably successful in my chosen sports; swimming, hockey and football. I worked part-time as a lifeguard, I played for my town's 1st XI hockey team, I played for my schools 1st XI team and had done since I was fourteen. I enjoyed playing football, had even played for my country's under-16 team, but had to give it up to pursue my hockey career; which ended with a sudden blow when my school coach and I had a blazing argument at the side of the pitch during a cup match.
I'd been involved with my coach; nothing physical had ever happened apart from the innocent brush of hands or a glance too long in either person's direction. It was common knowledge that there was something going on with the coach and myself. Looking back now, I know I was infatuated with her. I looked up to her and wanted to be like her. She'd discovered that I had been getting around the hockey team, and maybe she was attempting to 'groom' me. She'd offer to see me out of school hours, drive me to places if my parents needed the car, give me special treatment over the other girls and allowed my various girlfriends to attend my matches during school-time. My mother grew suspicious, and questioned me on several occasions about my coach. I found it darkly amusing that I was in no danger, rather, my coach was the one I was planning to seduce in due course. Of course, that ended dramatically in true teenage lesbian dramatic fashion when I pushed the boundaries too far that morning on the hockey pitch. I haven't played hockey since.
I had a reason to be big-headed. I usually got what I wanted, even though I considered myself average-looking. I had come out as such a young age that I was accepted by my peers by the time university came around. I looked forward to getting to know the girl at the end of the corridor and my course mates over the first few weeks. Nobody knew my past. I could portray myself in any way I wanted to. I'd moved over 200 miles and knew a few people in the city already, so I could keep my distance yet still have support if I needed it. I'm somewhat of a manipulative bitch, you could say. But I'm far from being a horrible person.
As the months went on, I started going out to gay bars and occasionally bedding someone. I was still raw from a different break-up prior to university, and I missed the consistency of having someone who thought the world of me. I'd quickly sussed out that Alex was not an appropriate candidate to fill this position. I couldn't help it when my feelings for her began to grow, and stayed with her during many hair colour and style changes. She added a few piercings to her collection and would often get drunk and ended up with a tattoo on a few occasions. She was the free spirit I longed to be, or be a part of as I battled with my inner demons.
In May 2011, I'd lost interest (and financial funding) in going out to gay bars and attempting to get off with strangers. So when a troubled younger girl began to express an interest in me online, I swiftly invited her over (despite being terrified) for a date. The date ended rather well, with the 18 year old slipping two fingers inside me sensually. I made a point of flaunting my accomplishment to Alex, who seemed somewhat bemused. She disapproved of my plaything, judging her on her age, low level of intelligence and social background. The girl was a train wreck, in fairness. But with regular sex on the cards, I continued seducing her and we entered a relationship within a fortnight. We were together for eighteen months, a decision I deeply regret. Yes, the sex (when she obeyed) was moderate in quality, she was open to playing with new concepts and whatever pleased me. Alas, I grew bored and it got to a point where sex wasn't a good enough reason to stay with her. I had no feelings for her at all, yet she begged me to stay with her. She would often get angry, we began arguing more often and I found it increasingly difficult to leave. My relationships have never been successful (obviously), and I assumed this was the norm. Alex stood by me every step of the way, supporting me in whatever choices I made. However, she made it clear that she thought I'd be better off without the girl. I got rid of the girl, blocked and deleted her, told her she was no longer welcome at the house I shared with Alex and two others and that was that.
Alex and I had moved into a house after our first year together with two others, who are naturally irrelevant to my world with Alex. Alex and I spent a lot of time together without the other housemates. We'd begun smoking weed (a habit we'd both dabbled in before uni) on the weekends when I'd finished my placement for the week, and during these times I felt intimately close with Alex. My skin would tingle if she accidently touched me, I found myself trying desperately not to be caught 'looking' at her, I laughed at most of her jokes and I took an interest in her life. But I couldn't find the confidence within me to broach the subject of girl-on-girl; a topic I regularly discussed with my other straight friends. Alex had told me about a few boyfriends, I'd overheard her once with a one-night stand with a friend, and she'd confessed to still occasionally sucking the dick of her ex. Naturally, I hated the ex with such unfathomable scorn that Alex would question my dislike of him at any given opportunity.
"So you're going out because Jay's coming up for the weekend?" asked Alex sternly.
