Ever since I was a little girl, all I wanted was to come to America; the movies, books and music filled my head with fantasies and I envisioned my own American Dream so clearly. Especially if I had the perfect American boy coming home to me every night. I hadn’t realized that even American girls hadn’t found this dream boy and yet all I wanted was to come to university here and find him. Though, when they broke this harsh truth to me, I became obsessed with the fact that perhaps he would want me instead. A sexy, belly-dancing, exotic Arab girl who had a mysterious culture. The night before orientation, I could barely sleep. I was so jittery from the prospect of making lots of new ‘American’ friends, not to mention potential boyfriends. I could barely contain my excitement, like Augustus Gloop when he first saw the chocolate river, with such high expectations. And may I say, indeed those expectations did get fulfilled. I wasn’t knocked off my feet by all the delicious hombres surrounding me; I was body slammed and to this day, still feel slightly dizzy.
My American girlfriends held me back, warning me that they are not all they seem to be. That there was specific rules here that I have yet to know about; but I paid no heed to them – I was hooked onto them as if it were my crack cocaine. Now before you judge me for being ‘too boy-crazy,’ let me just tell you about my lame history. If you hadn’t realized, ‘Arab’ means I’m from the Middle East, so I grew up with a stricter society, meaning I couldn’t wear leggings, show my shoulders, wear short dresses, etc. The rule for dating boys though was different; it was a straight up no. I went to a unisex British school so when everyone had gotten their first kisses, then fondlings began, then eventually sex, I was still the all-ruling virgin of my year.
It eventually got to the point when I was 18, where in the bathroom stalls, I could hear 12-year-olds discussing their sex lives. I had my first kiss to a boy in my year, with the maturity of a 50-year-old man, at my friend’s gathering. We continued our secret illicit affair for a while but the fear of getting caught by my parents drove me to insomnia and potent paranoia, which eventually made it come to an abrupt end.
Before I continue on for the next weeks, on each crazy endeavor (and I swear to you, all of them actually happened, Bridget Jones: step aside), I need to give you whatever background knowledge I have on the other sex. I know the rules of dating British boys like I know the back of my hand, which by the way, I think I deserve a prize for and probably should start a minor in it. It’s hard stuff dating a Brit, though usually the results are worth it. If they ‘like like you’ as we said back then, then be very prepared to be ignored for about two years and watch him flirt with every other girl. But just remember, this is all to ‘woo’ you. So imagine my shock when I first landed here and this boy, literally came up to me and was like, “Hey, I think you are very pretty, can I have your number?” With that type of outright attention, I became convinced that the boy was in love with me.
I was surprised with quite a number of shockers during the weeks that passed since with every party I would go to, my wisdom with boys would grow a subsequent amount. I wish somebody had told me before that hardly anyone wants to date during freshman, sophomore and occasionally middle year. That made me reassess my strategies on how I’m going to have to ‘trap’ my dream boy; though that didn’t happen till week 10 of school. I also cruelly found out that boys who lavish you with kisses and compliments through the night change back into remorseless pumpkins the next day.
– Sara Al Mehairi can be reached at [email protected].
