A chronicle of past loves: Fedda

Seeing as I’m now on my way to being officially committed to one person for the rest of my life (give or take a few women, I’m guessing), I may as well take a moment to reflect on guys (and girls) gone by. Full disclosure: this series won’t feature all that many posts where the word love is used but I like the way ‘A chronicle of past loves’ sounds. It’s much more dreamy and wistful than ‘People I’ve fucked’.

First off the rank is Fedda, a guy I saw for a few months in Jamaica before I moved back to Sydney to complete my last year of high school. Fedda means feather in Jamaican patois and he was called that because he was short, as in ‘light as a feather’. His real name was Ryan. The idea for this post came to me because I’d randomly thought of him a few times in the last few days and then, out of the blue, I saw on FB that Tuesday was the 8 year anniversary of his death. He died after driving home drunk from a bar one night, the kind of senseless young death everyone feels keenly.

We definitely weren’t seeing each other at this stage, him being in Jamaica and me being in Australia for about six years, but I still remember being shocked and saddened when told of his death. I’d last seen him in 2004 when I went back to visit my mum and sister. He came and saw me a few times and we went out together on my last night in town. I’d kept in fairly close touch with him since I’d left but, when I went back to Sydney for the second time, the distance and years got the better of us.

We met the month before I left for Sydney. We fucked in the back of a car at a party and then spent the night dancing together on New Year’s Eve 2001, although he was quite sick (man-flu – before it was man-flu). We fucked at his house a few more times before I left and that would probably have been the end of it, if I had’ve stayed in Jamaica. Or at least, I think so.

It was never much more than sex and distance, really.  We were separated when things were just starting off and so we both held onto it. I’d buy phone cards and call him from pay phones and later from my room when I got my own phone line. The phone calls lasted 30mins to an hour (depending on how many cards I bought) and I don’t remember ever running out of things to say.

We had phone sex and one time my aunt walked in on me playing with myself. I don’t know if she saw anything (I was under the covers) but we found it hilarious. We talked about what he wanted to do with his life. His parents were wealthy and he was a bit lost. He’d thought about maybe joining the army. He kinda-sorta told me he loved me over the phone (“I like you but it’s not even like. It’s love”). We spoke more after I left than we ever spoke when I was in Jamaica. Usually the way when you’re dealing with awkward teenagers, I suppose. He was a bit younger than me too – I think 15 to my 17, which I found especially amusing (and exciting) although I wasn’t his first.

Even though the distance wore away our connection, I still remember him fondly. I kept in touch with him because I was going to a new country where I didn’t know anyone (aside from family) and he’d been nice to me, affectionate even. Affection was something I’d never really had with the guys I’d been with at that point (at seventeen). Friendship maybe, but not affection. I think he remained infatuated with me because of the distance, because I was unattainable and because I was different – an opinionated, feisty, sexually liberated girl that didn’t really behave like the other girls he knew. But mostly, it was the distance, I think.

He was a nice guy and I’ve always regretted not visiting his grave when I was there in 2007. But that’s a story for another day.

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