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When I was a child, my parents managed a retirement home. It wasn’t a luxurious lifestyle, but the job came with a place to live (just down the street) and I don’t think my mother fed us a single meal that wasn’t prepared by the kitchen staff. Every employee, much like the residents, loved my siblings and me so we could always count on there being sweets and candy available whenever we dropped by.

School was within walking distance and there were quite a few kids to play with around the neighbourhood, but I rarely had the opportunity to do so because I was always babysitting my (stupid) sisters. In the summer though, adults would come to visit their parents or grandparents at the home and drag their unwilling children along with them. I always loved those times because it meant I got to play with someone my own age without leaving the building.

That was how Marki and I met. My mother was caring for seven-month-old twins and completely out of commission when it came to child supervision, which meant I was stuck with two girls following me around all day long. We often played hide-and-seek through the hallways, having residents assist us in finding the best hiding spots. When it was my turn to hide, I raced down the hall, skidding along the linoleum floor before dashing into the room of an elderly woman named Herta. She always helped me hide from my (stupid) sisters and would deny ever having seen me if they ventured this way.

My quest to beat the countdown happening at the end of the hall was cut short when my lanky body (skinny arms and legs moving faster than I could control) went barreling face first into the back of a tall man who was blocking the entrance into the room.

“Whoa there, careful son!”

I can vividly recall the rush of heat into my cheeks as my tan skin turned cherry red in a flash. It wasn’t out of embarrassment for crashing into a stranger, that happened somewhat regularly. The blush was the result of a pair of brown eyes peering back at me around her father’s legs.

“What are you doing?” she smiled mischievously and cocked her head so far to the side that her high ponytail arched like a waterfall of thick, dark hair.

“I’m hiding,” I explained, looking back toward the door in panic upon hearing my (stupid) sister’s giggles echo down the hall. “She’s coming!”

“Quick,” she grabbed my arm and yanked me in the direction of the wardrobe, not thinking twice before shoving me inside. It smelled like old people in there, a familiar scent of mothballs and disinfectant but I stayed silent until the door opened once again. I was only eight-years-old, I wasn’t suppose to care about girls but I already knew that this girl with the round, doe-like eyes, porcelain skin and perfect, heart-shaped lips was the girl I was going to play tag with as long as she’d let me.

“She’s gone,” she said while freeing me from the smelly wardrobe. “I’m Marcia but everyone calls me Marki.”

“My name’s Nick,” I replied, confidently sticking out my hand as my father had taught me to do when I met someone new. She laughed and I felt that heat in my cheeks again as I awkwardly stuck the hand back in my pocket. There was a single moment of silence as the adults in the room watched us with amused smiles but it passed just as quickly as I looked up and said, “Wanna play?”

That part of the story was one that my friends were more than familiar with. Marki and I became best friends that summer and when she returned to her home in Tennessee we wrote letters and sent postcards almost weekly. Every time she came to Florida to visit her Great-grandmother it was a sure thing that we would be inseparable for the full length of the visit. Soon our mothers became friends and after Herta passed away they would still make the annual trip to Tampa, this time to visit the Carters.

She was the first person I called when I was offered a spot in the Backstreet Boys, putting me in a position of having to choose between the Mickey Mouse Club and an opportunity that might flop. Even at only 10 and 11 years old we talked through the pros and cons like professionals, with her finally pushing me to take the chance. In the end, MMC got cancelled and BSB took off so as a thank-you, I bought her a necklace, a cheap (but expensive to me, at the time) sterling silver chain with a pear-shaped, cubic zirconia drop pendant. The chain broke years ago but I knew I would find the pendant still hanging from the charm bracelet Marki wore every day on her slender wrist.

My parents had brought her out to visit me a couple of times on our smaller, van tours of the southern states when all we did was hit up high schools and amusement parks. My bandmates had met her and took an instant liking to her, feeling the same need to protect her that I did. She was never allowed to stay long because it was close quarters and there wasn’t money for guests.

Years later, when schools and parks became stadiums and amphitheatres, that changed and she got to come out to Europe a couple of times, but we never let on that somewhere just past puberty our relationship had made a smooth transition into a romantic one. There was never a Hollywood movie moment when we had awkward sexual tension and finally broke it with an uncomfortable kiss which forever changed our friendship. Quite the contrary, in fact. It was as if we’d been together our whole lives but were now just at the point where we could make the decision to show our love for each other physically. We kept it secret because we were afraid that if adults knew what we were doing behind closed doors, they’d never let us be alone again.

My first everything could trace back to Marki. She was the first girl I kissed, first girl I french kissed, first breasts I’d ever put my mouth on (I was bottle fed), the source of my first erection and subsequent first wet dream, first hand-job, blowjob and of course the first notch on my bedpost. More importantly though, Marki was my first, and some might say only, true love. She was the first girl to make my heart flutter just by walking into a room, the first girl I slow danced with on the beach under the stars and the first girl I cried over.