I was tiny, a child, maybe 3 or 4 years old. I don’t know.
His name was Johnny. He was not a child. He was a grown man, the son of one of my parents friends. I have no idea how old he was, but he wasn’t an ‘older boy’, he was a proper grown up.
He was a in the navy, I must have seen in him in his uniform at least once. I remember it clearly. He was tall and slim and ever so handsome in his whites (photos bear this out, I had good taste even then).
I have no recollection what was so great about him, but oh, I had such a crush on him.
At that age, I imagine a crush was all about trying to get his attention and approval. Probably being shy one minute and showing off the next, “Look, Johnny, LOOK AT ME!!”
I was insanely jealous when he would pay attention to my sister, but I knew, really, that I was the favourite (I have no idea if that was true, but I still thought it).
There is an old photo of us at a pool. He is holding me in the crook of his arm, my face level with his. We are both smiling at the camera, I have one hand wrapped around his neck, the other is up in the air in triumph. If I was going to caption it, I’d put “Fuck yeah!!” *laugh*.
It’s adorable, and I look pleased as punch. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I looked kind of smug.