On teenage crushes

I'd like to think I was a normal teenager. I have to admit, however, that I think I had far too many fantasies about girls I knew, girls I didn't know, girls I'd seen on TV, and in one instance, a girl I dreamt about, but never actually met. The problem is that delightful thing called testosterone.
Testosterone makes boys turn from ZX Spectrum playing nerds into raging sex machines with permanent woodies and nipples like tent pegs. You would find yourself one minute, discussing the intricacies of a test tube of borax glue, the next minute thinking "I wonder if the glue would... *boing*" and walk out the classroom with a limp (or not so limp, as the case normally was).
To make matters worse, I would have a steady supply of fresh meat around me as a spotty youth with 8 inches of hardened salami like a loaded gun waiting to go off. This meant that rationality, and even taste would go right out the window as anything even slightly alluring would get my undivided attention.
Time to name and shame some of my poor victims, knowing full well that they're unlikely to read this.
As mentioned before, it really started off early, in junior school. I guess the first crush was a girl called Lucy Hancock. The funny thing was I'd blush every time I was near her, so I might as well have a sign above my 9 year old head saying "pick on me, because I fancy a girl." This meant, of course, people did. Especially my sister, who would take great delight in winding me up about it, as big sisters should.
I went on to get a bit of a thing for Tracys. Tracy Smith, then Tracy Froud, and finally Tracy Pritchard all seemed to get my unwanted attentions. This even carried over to secondary where my first year, and previously mentioned real heavy duty crush was on Tracey Joseph, the girl of South African descent with almost ebony hair and succulent glossy lips.
By the end of the first year, I'd progressed through another Tracey, her twin Toni, their best mate Trish and another Tracey (staggering, isn't it!). By the second year, I was running out of Traceys and moved my attention to a buxom girl in my class called Caroline. This was around the time of 'Allo 'Allo, and she'd become known as the 'fallen madonna with ze big boobies.' And boy, did she have big boobies. Even my form tutor happened to comment upon them (something along the lines of "I hope she has a licence for them").
Moving from one victim to another, by the third year I fell for someone who even today I'm still not sure of her name. Karen (or Sharon) was a year below me, had nothing in common with me, I didn't hang around with her peers, and she didn't hang around in the same circle as my friends. She was once again blonde, and fairly chunky up top, and by the end of the year I'd given her my phone number in the (vain) hope she'd phone me over the summer holidays. Returning to school the following September, and the first couple of days I wanted to see her, and then someone new came to my attention.
Stephanie Williams. All 6 foot, blonde, leggy, friendly, local, and new to the area. She'd actually hang around with me, willingly, without blackmail, and would sit and join in with our small niche group of artists (a group of nerds who'd hang out in the Art Block every lunchtime, doodling, cartooning, and generally messing about). I saw her a couple of years after I'd left school. She was in some middle aged bloke's convertible BMW, being whisked around town. I knew I had taste, but being reclusive and shy, I just never got to use it. Around the same time the stirrings in my loins weren't helped by my neighbour, Sarah, who was a year younger then me, with red hair and soft mummy bumps. And her next door neighbour, Rachel, my sister's age, with dark brown perm and bigger mummy bumps. It was a wonder I didn't spontaneously combust in an explosion of semen there and then.
My final year of secondary was spent lusting over Nicola, a previously mentioned Page 3 Maria Whittaker lookalike. She didn't have mummy bumps. She had her own small mountain range, and would take great delight in winding up anybody who she felt needed winding up. Shy that I was I found myself smitten, and the desire was so much I even asked her out. She turned me down.
By the time I left school, the tide of testosterone was going out, leaving nothing more then a few sticky patches on the beach.