The Rise of Sex in a Young Boy

November 23, 2008

My brother and I were introduced to sex – or the idea of sex – at a very young age.  We were introduced to naked girls and women a bit younger.  I remember the three sisters up the street we hung out with.  Their mom babysat me one summer, but quit offering after she found me pissing in their bathtub.  My mom responded with, So what?  It’s just a bathtub

I think my brother and I were seven and six years old.  The girls were our ages, too.  I remember sitting up in their tree house one late-summer day; a full jumper-suit kind of day, I imagine.  All three of them were up there.  It was just me and three inquisitive young girls. 

I had come up the street alone and knocked on the door.  “Is Lisa here?” 

“Yes.  She’s in the tree house playing with her sisters.” 

It was that easy and I remember it was a very giggly situation being up there alone with all three.  There was some poking, and some touching, and some laughing.  All the right ingredients needed for one to finally say, I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.  Of course, I was the one who said it, but the pause it created was memorable to say the least. 

The girls glanced silently, eagerly at each other.  Their mouths were agape (already in training, I gathered), and I was smart enough to know to say nothing further – the deal was almost closed. 

While the trio twisted excitedly in their skid-marked panties – we all had them back then – I felt my penis start to tickle; like going over a quick hill in a car.  It was the first time I’d ever felt that, and it was then I first started paying attention to what was going on down there. 

Years later I was told that I had taken a dump out the entrance hole of the tree house that day. But I don’t think so.  I remember that day pretty well and taking a shit just anywhere has always been a big fear of mine. Perhaps this moment was the catalyst of that fear, the catalyst many of us experience at one time or another; when an unexpected shit sneaks up to the exit gates while its final destination has yet to be assigned.  But I digress. 

 

I remember the day my brother I and first knelt down in front of my dad’s shirt closet and uncovered his stack of Playboys.  It was a god-damn goldmine.  Every month I was screwing a different 18-year old bombshell and looking forward to who it would be next month.  Of course, I had my favorites – everyone has their favorites. 

We were good at first, my brother and I.  We were careful.  For the first couple years we simply looked, real quick, and then put them all back in their proper place.  If Miss September was on top of Miss March and Miss December, then that’s how the magazines went back.  But after the years, many of those favorites found themselves under mine or my brother’s bed.  And every couple months my dad would lean into our rooms and calmly ask, “You don’t happen to have my June issue, do you?” 

 

The first time I kissed a girl, I mean really kissed one, was early spring of my sixth grade year.  You might say I was horrified.  Fucking horrified, really.  Not to kiss her, actually, but horrified of the forum I knew it would take place in. 

This girl and I became acquainted, or started “going out,” because of normal sixth-grade means.  Looking back, it’s really weird I guess.

Her friend came up to me one day and said, Kelly really likes you.  Do you like her?

Not wanting to be rude and realizing that No would quickly detour the path I was very interested in exploring, I said, Yeah, I like her.

Do you like her a lot? her friend asked.

Now I’d like to tell you, as I recall these youthful moments as a mature adult, that I thought about this question a few moments before delivering a very balanced and sincere answer touching on the fact that this girl and I had never spoken, but also qualifying the reality that I had heard her speak before on many occasions to her friends, and that she seemed very nice and I was very much looking forward to getting to know her.  But I’d be lying.

The truth is I never heard her speak to her friends and she really seemed like a dumbass.  But the truth also is that I was interested in anyone who was interested in me.  So my answer was simply, Yes I do.

After that – I soon found out – she and I were a couple.  And in my middle school, once kids found out two people were dating it was “big news” and it was exploited for other kid’s fun and entertainment. 

About two days after we had been “going out” – saying hi in the hall and reading notes written in bubble letters that read:

What’s wrong?  Why don’t you talk to me?  You’re so shy.  That’s really cute, but don’t be shy for too long.  Is Brad Stegalis your best friend?  Do you guys live close to each other?   (A different color pen nowblue.Sorry ‘bout that.  Mr. Phelps just caught me writing this.  I had to stop until now.  Class is almost over.  Borrrring!!!  Do you have practice after school? Let me know.  (Heart) K.

            I kept the notes, but I didn’t send many myself.  And when I saw her in the hall I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.  And after a while her girlfriends began observing this and telling her, I don’t think he likes you.  He doesn’t even come up to you and say “hi.”  So after about a week I found out from Greg Ramos that the stage was set.  He was older and he liked me, but he used his size well. 

“You’re going to kiss Kelly after school today,” he told me.

            I winced.

            “Don’t worry,” he said, slapping me hard on my back as we walked down the hall.  “You’ll like it.  She’s hot and your miserable ass will finally get some action.  And the whole school will be there to watch,” he said, just before he pushed me through my classroom door.  “So you better not ditch on this.”

             I think there were one or two couples that went before us, I’m not sure.  I do know that nearly all the students were there, in front the school, standing around the flagpole.  They were talking, and laughing and watching.  I had a couple of my boys behind me and Kelly, standing across the crowd, had a couple of her girls standing around her.  The tension was building beyond control.  I looked at her and her friends and she looked at me and my friends, and it was now our turn.  For a few moments we both held our ground.  We laughed off the pushing from behind until the pushing grew too much and we both found ourselves in the center of this chirping circle of kids.  She looked at me again and I looked at her, and we knew we couldn’t hesitate any longer.  The circle grew tighter and tighter around us and the heckling became louder and louder, and so we just shrugged our shoulders, closed our eyes, and fucking went at each other’s mouths.  Like fish, we slopped and slapped our tongues and ground and mashed our teeth. Our mouths writhed in pure inexperienced furry like two baby coyotes trying to swallow the other’s head.

About ten seconds into it we began to slow down.  We could tell there was pattern beginning to develop and we stuck with it.  It was a comforting motion.  And we knew we had to make it a good kiss.  If we came off too early we’d get booed and pushed back into each other, and we’d have to do it all over again.  And that just wasn’t going to happen. 

At the 20 second mark, it became a bit tiresome and I started to really smell what this girl was all about.  I could smell the soap on her skin and laundry detergent she used.  I could smell the mattress she slept on and the couch on which she sat and watched TV.  I could smell her mom’s toy puddle and perhaps her real-life emptiness of being a single mother.  I could smell both the need and the hatred of the male figure.  And I could smell the pain.  I didn’t know what it was then, but I could smell it.  

I remember the breathing I had to maintain in order to keep from snotting on her cheek.  I knew that would be a game changer, a game ender.  30 or 40 seconds had gone by.  The kids were all quiet now.  Everyone was quiet, just watching us work our mouths together – in sync; fucking snorkeling each other, fucking trying to chew each other’s tongue like cud.  Then began a twitter from my nose.      

I heard someone yell, Holy shit, do you hear that whistle? 

People laughed but we didn’t stop, we couldn’t stop.  50 seconds now lapsed.  We were in a zone, we were on a mission.  For some reason it felt easier to continue then to stop and face what was next.  And I heard and felt the twitter grow louder.  Would it go away, I thought, or would something pop out on this poor girl’s cheek? 

At around a minute we mutually agreed to step away, and a string of saliva bridged our release as we stared back at one another.  Someone said Eww, but most everyone was quiet.  I looked up.  The kids were all staring at us.  They were staring like, Are you guys fucking serious? I didn’t give it much thought after that.  I just turned and went home with my boys.

 

I was introduced to pure fucking beauty when I was nine by a lady in red.  She was a tall, high-heeled brunette who walked past my house every afternoon, always wearing red clothing of sorts – dress, blouse, hat, scarf, whatever.  She looked great in red and she knew it.  You could tell by her walk.  She had bounce and flavor and a smirk that said something dirty. She walked like she was ready to fuck, and I always wished I’d have stood in her way.   

I’d stand on the sidewalk and she’d walk toward me, really hard.  She’d lower her head a bit and squint, just slightly.  Her smirk would tighten and her legs would just kick and cross one another; a couple of hump pistons moving toward me.  And when she got to me she’d lift her dress over my head and engulf me underneath. 

I’d have been the perfect height.     

Sometimes I’d be lucky enough to be outside when she walked by, but most times I’d spy her from the dinning room, living room and bathroom windows – in unison, just like that.  She’d come from the south and leave to the north, and I’d walk room to room just to get a good look.  It was great to watch her come and go, and I sometimes think she knew I was watching.  And when I could no longer see her I’d close the door to the bathroom and dream about her. 

 

The first time I recall masturbating was this age too – eight or nine.  I remember it was summer and school was out.  I’d been used to waking up early I guess and on this morning there was a nice cool breeze blowing through my bedroom window and right over my ass.  It was the perfect setting.  I was on the verge of waking and and doing the whole morning stretch, but then I felt it, and it felt very good.  I wasn’t sure why it felt so good.  Had I been dreaming?  I don’t know.  What I did know was that I was about to take advantage of a good thing; I wasn’t going anywhere just yet. 

I must have given my mattress a half-hour of pelvic crunches before I quit.  I remember trying to stick it out for whatever the ROI was going to be, but I just couldn’t.  I had literally felt the sun come up on my back, listened to the birds wake, and my mom, and the grocery store across the street, smelled the eggs and bacon, and heard my dad shit his head off in the bathroom.  I’d been fucking my mattress for nearly forty-five minutes I guessed, and my dick was getting sore.  I tried to imagine doing it with the lady in red, perhaps the lady across the street – while she’s weeding her front yard, with her loose t-shirt on – but my shit was too raw at this point.  I got up, put my slippers on and walked downstairs.  My blistered pecker screamed at each step.     

It only took a couple months to become really good at jerking off.  This was vital because had I not learned how to do it so quickly, and, sometimes covertly, once or twice a day, I would’ve carried around a tiny, annoying hard-on for many long, long fucking hours.  Sometimes I’d perform the duty fully clothed, with people around.  If an ill-timed erection popped, which at nine years of age was usually the case, all I’d have to do is flex my butt muscles.  The result would be a wonderful stroke to the underside of my pecker from my cotton briefs, and the movement was so subtle that no one was the wiser.  I was even able to pull it off in a car ride down to Florida.  It was a long fucking trip and I got bored quickly, so I got to fucking.  The blessing at this age was that the job was clean-up free.

 

My first and only babysitter came to us from six houses up the street.  She was a sandy blonde hippie, and she was sexy as hell.  I’d guess she was about sixteen, and I took an immediate liking to her.  I remember hugging her one night and really meaning it.  She had admired my new Superman pajamas and I couldn’t wait to lay a big one on her.  When I did, my boner popped right through the pee hole.  I quickly covered up and she pretended she hadn’t seen it.  She was the first person I had ever portrayed sexuality to. 

She wasn’t with us long – maybe the boner thing freaked her out – but she introduced my brother and me to some interesting shit.  She let us watch the movie Caveman staring Ringo Starr and Denis Quaid and explained what was happening the whole way through; she showed us what a marijuana pipe looked like and how to use it; and she explained what the plastic, white vibrating thing was in my mom’s dresser drawer.  But she hesitated to handle it the way my brother and I did. 

The last time I saw her she was kissing a guy outside her parent’s house.  I watched from the sidewalk with a friend.  I could tell they were French kissing and they really got into it.  He looked like a rock star with his ripped jeans and long hair, and he had her pinned against the tree on the devil’s strip.  His head moved in deep, horizontally, and I remember feeling betrayed and jealous.

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One Response to “The Rise of Sex in a Young Boy”

  1. hhansen88 Says:

    This was definitely an interesting story to read, and funny well for me because I have no idea what it’s like hitting puberty when you’re a boy. Your descriptions were amazing and very detailed, so detailed in fact that I couldn’t help laughing because it seemed so over-the-top. It was great to read. I don’t think it’s that graphic at all, I mean compared to some of the romance novels I’ve read this is nothing. Awesome job.


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