My first love in college was a boy named Stephan. Stephan was (and I’m not over exaggerating here) the single most gorgeous human being I have ever seen. He looked like an eighteen-year-old version of Johnny Depp, dressed vaguely like a pirate and, in my vulnerable and friendless first few weeks at school, he couldn’t have been anything less than my knight in shinning armor . . .with eyeliner. And yes I am aware of the question this begs of Stephan’s sexuality.

But for all intents and purposes, Stephan was hot stuff. And not only in looks, but in his movement. He allowed himself to dance close enough to give off the “I’m-into-you-and-you’re-really-pretty” vibe, but not close enough to give off the “I’m-into-you-and-you’re-a-nice-grope-post” vibe. In this modern society, this is a lost, and valuable art. He danced with a gay man long enough to assert he wasn’t homophobic (important, a good chunk of my friends at home are gay) but short enough to reassure me he was heterosexual (important, I have no desire to date a gay man). He had a confidence and fluidly I had never seen outside of the silver screen and my own fantasies. He put a flower behind my right ear and promised to take me rock climbing. He was sexy and fantastic and that night so was I.

This was the first experience I had that contradicted high school where I was vastly introverted in my sexuality. The only crushes I allowed myself to have (and I never to express) were three boys found in my drama class. One had curly hair, glasses and a scathing wit, one had soft gray eyes and gave off a sense of home and comfort I have found no place else. And there was also Bryson.

This boy had no right to draw my affections for seven years (since 7th grade, till my senior year). He was the pettiest of my infatuations who deserved my attention no more deserved my than an morbidly obese cow. Or at least that’s what I wish. And now tell myself. In reality, I was in love with him as much as any person can be. I remember his details. The way he could never find a proper haircut, how his lips curled upward from smiling. His hands in his pockets. Black blue jeans. A yellow hat. Bright light up blue smiling eyes.

I remember when he stopped smiling. He found a proper hair cut and realized girls liked to run their fingers through his auburn waves. He stopped wearing black blue jeans. He started covering his eyes with sunglasses. He got them from the dollar store. They were very in.

I never said a word. The first honest love of my life was unrequited and unrecognized most likely due to my own cowardice and boys growing up too fast in the wrong direction.

So in college I rejected love. Too sexually awkward to pull of the classic freshman “hook up” I settled for keeping my heart in the realm of lust and desire. If a guy didn’t have a pretty face, I wasn’t rude to him, but I made it clear he wasn’t worth my time. I did everything possible to avoid the unpleasant combination of emotions that English has dubbed “love”.

This was where Stephan came in. He was everything Bryson was not. Where Bryson had blue eyes, Stephan had brown. Where Bryson didn’t have the confidence to hit on a random girl, Stephan spent hours invading my personal space. Where Bryson and I were friends, Stephan and I had only known each other long enough to see each other as potential sex objects. Bryson, despite his flaws, had known me fairly well. Stephan, in spite of his stunning looks, danced with me. Stephan smiled at me. Stephan implied I was beautiful. Stephan didn’t talk about his past or current girlfriends.

Unfortunately where Cinderella got a grand shoe search that spanned the kingdom to confirm her identity, I got a friend request confirmation on facebook. No vast shoe searches, no friendly phone calls, no facebook message, nothing. And now I’m kinda glad he didn’t. After a quarter over mooning over the guy, I moved across campus (for unrelated reasons) and suddenly starting seeing boy- charming (or, as he is more commonly known among my friends, “the boy I didn’t like anyway.”) around. To make a long story short, I didn’t exactly like what I saw off the dance floor.

So the fairy tale ends and turns into a fable not to trust, or rather not to expect things from, prince charming or knights in shinning armor or pretty boys at dances or whatever cliché females have concocted based on Disney movies and too many romantic comedies. I suppose I’ll keep looking, after all life is a series of wake up calls, and fairy tales are often lessons in disguise, but mostly I don’t know much else to do at nineteen but to not give up hope.