The only crush I ever had in high school was on a girl one year older than me. Her name was Ivy, and she was, frankly, the prettiest girl I had ever seen.
Ivy was short, about 5’5″, and my 6′ self towered over her. Other than some red lipstick, she never wore any makeup; her natural freckles and red cheeks gave her a natural, cute beauty. She had brown hair that flowed down to her shoulders, although she often kept it in a bun. Her torso looked like a “V” thanks to years of cheerleading, but her hips were wide and made for childbirthing. This juxtaposition gave her a pear shape from the back, although, if you were looking at her backside, you were probably looking down a bit. Her wardrobe of tight jeans and booty shorts complemented her ass, which was so thick that it jiggled when she walked. Her thighs, too, were erotically big and soft – all I’ve ever wanted be is between them. Her breasts, conversely, were small: unless she was wearing a particularly tight shirt, you would probably miss them.