My Very First

[michaeldavid]

I was fourteen. Blossoming sexually, as expected. Developing a whopping case of acne, most disappointing. Finding myself involved with and loving performing, not so perfect for closeted muscle worship. Starting high school and unsure about myself, status-quo.

I was in a very small farming community. Farming is great for, in addition to feeding us, the creation hyper-masculine boys. Boys that worked all summer in the sun. Boys that could actually throw a bale of hay. Boys whose hands and forearms were strong enough to milk a cow twice a dayI didn't even recognize as I roamed the halls at school that it was always the boys that made me look twice. I seemed drawn to the boys who were becoming men. I envied and desired the facial hair, the chests that protruded even the smallest bit out rather than caving in, the deepening voices. Nothing seemed more powerful to me than a hairy, corded forearm. I wanted to be them. I thought.

I was cast in a community theater production that was going to require me kissing a girl. Not just any girl, but in fact, the head cheerleader of my school. She was two years older than me. She didn't know I existed. Luckily, it wasn't a big deal to me if she really liked me, I just didn't want her to dislike me. She, on the other hand, was completely enamored with a man from a rival high school. I say man, because he was a senior and he was everything she wanted. He was tall. With dirty blonde hair that stood up effortlessly in a big wave atop his head. He needed to shave and did it daily. But the fact she could see he had to shave made her like him more. He wasn't disheveled. He was well-dressed. He ran track and played football. He wasn't huge, but his muscles were seriously evident. He loved to wear solid colored T-shirts that he tucked in and he rolled the sleeves just a little. His arms were thick and his skin was smooth and golden. He had the kind of white, straight teeth one sees on every other person today, but this was the days before anyone could bleach their teeth in 20 minutes at home. (Obviously, what I've just described is the late 80s, early 90s.)

He played the bad boy onstage, and the just bad enough boy offstage. He rode a motorcycle to rehearsals. Seriously. He rode a motorcycle. He wore a leather jacket. He never wore a helmet. He seemed to be blessed by the Gods with every perfect manly feature a late teen could hope for. He even had a sidekick. She wanted him. It showed.

What I didn't know is that I wanted him. I wanted to be the sidekick. I wanted to be his Robin. I understand that today, but I didn't even fathom it then.

I tried everything I could to be near him. He treated me well enough, gave me just enough attention that I craved it. I loved the smell of the gel on his hair and would nearly faint when he uncovered that torso in the dressing room. He was actually a little shy about showing his body, so he'd change quickly. I think more eyes than mine tried to see what it is they wanted to be.

Or what it is they wanted.

To be precise - what I wanted.

One evening during this grand period, I was in my room listening to my music, as brooding teens tend to do, and was lying beside my bed. I had a pillow under my head and was kind of playing with one between my knees. A Depeche Mode song came began to play. Talk about music that is created to be sexual! I couldn't define the feeling, nor did I even really recognize what happened, but I found myself rubbing the pillow between my legs to the beat.

Quickly, I was thrusting a bit into that pillow. I knew what sex was and I suddenly wanted this hard cock I had no control over to penetrate. It was overwhelming. It was purely animal. I flipped over and started humping that pillow. I didn't know what it should feel like, but I knew instinctually I needed the other pillow there, too. I kind of grabbed the carpet and started really punishing that cotton filling when an image came to my head. It was him. He was pulling his shirt off. He was looking at me the way he looked at her. He was telling me to touch his arms. He flexed. A thousand images flew through my mind. I was on the motorcycle holding on to him. I was wearing his leather jacket. He was kissing me. I was taking off his shirt. I looked like him. I was him fucking her. I wanted it.

And I had it. It was my very first. I had dry humped those pillows like I'd been doing it for years. The song wasn't even over and I was lying on my back, panting, unsure what happened next. He did it to me. I'd never be the same again.

I didn't want to be the same, again.

[Omiganda]

This is just great

[Mdlftr]

Great start!

[arpeejay]

http://www.facebook.com/arpeejay