I Write Erotic Stories
I was 14 and at my 8th grade graduation party. There was a girl in my class who I liked named Nancy. She was a very cute, brown-eyed brunette. I liked her because she was fun and outgoing, kinda crazy really, but I liked her the most because, unlike the majority of the girls in our class, Nancy had boobs. In fact, very nice ones!
It was your usual 8th grade party. Music, food, drinks, laughing and grab-assing, and dancing. That, of course, was when we boys and girls went to our respective sides of the room and assumed our shy postures. So what you had were girls dancing with girls, while only the occasional confident boy would dare to dance with the opposite sex. But when that kind of social ice was broken, usually via guys daring other guys, you got a few more to venture onto the dance floor. Thank goodness for Bobby. If it were not for him, the party would have been well on the way to becoming an adolescent gay fest. So once I saw Bobby head for Shannon, I took a deep breath and headed across the floor towards Nancy.
It's amazing what a long walk 15 feet can feel like. Time stands still. The first 10 feet are covered by looking everywhere else in the room but at your target. An intense fear grips you. When you look up for those last two or three steps, you see a cackling group of girls, all sitting shoulder to shoulder, as they smile, giggle and whisper about you, wondering who you're coming for. That can be paralyzing. I took another deep breath, summoned my friendliest smile, and asked Nancy to dance.
I was screaming inside with joy when she smiled and said yes. Then, in a gesture that got me major points from her peanut gallery, I held out my hand to help her up and said, "You look lovely tonight!" (thank you, Mom). Nancy smiled and her gallery swooned.
When we got on the floor the music was fast. Lots of popular tunes. I wasn't a great dancer, but I at least had had enough brains to practice in my room for the past week as I watched every dance show I could find, American Bandstand, Soul Train, Hullabaloo, you name it. Nancy, on the other hand, was awesome. She had real rhythm, and like most girls, had logged thousands of hours dancing in front of a mirror in her room and with her girlfriends at parties. Me, I was busy doing fun stuff - playing ball.
She stayed out there with me through four or five songs. We were smiling, laughing, straining to hear each other, and having a genuine good time. I was amazed. Even though I had just spent eight years going to school with this girl, I had rarely talked to her. She was cool!
Well, all those good times suddenly came to a screeching halt when someone decided to change the mood by putting a slow song on. They even turned some lights down, eliciting a chorus of "ooohs" and "aaahhs" - and giggling. I started to walk Nancy back to her roost, when she turned to me and whispered, "Jim, don't you want to dance with me anymore?" I froze, looked her in the eyes, and stammered, "Well, its just that I ... you know ...well, I thought that you might want a little break ... you know, you're all sweaty". As soon as I uttered that word, SWEATY, I wanted to crawl into a hole and die! How did I call this beautiful girl, SWEATY?!! There it was, another one of those "time stood still" moments as she clenched her teeth, looked around the room, wiped a wet (not sweaty) strand of hair from her forehead, and forced a smile saying, "Well, I DON'T want to sit down, so let's dance!" Then she grabbed me by the hand and practically dragged me back out there as she fought off her obvious humiliation. After all, unbeknownst to me, my first slight was to act as if I no longer wanted to enjoy the partnership of this girl with whom I had been having such a good time. And the second insult, was to publicly acknowledge that girls sweat. I learned a couple of real life lessons about women in that terrifying moment. Lesson #1, Never give up a woman who has you in her mood groove. And Lesson #2, Never tell a woman that she looks sweaty - especially in public! Years later I found out that the appropriate term is "radiant". As in, "My, don't you look all radiant as you clean my apartment this afternoon!"
Now I had to try to regain my composure. I had squandered all the equity that those fast dances had afforded me. So I decided to take an offensive approach (here's where I have to confess to my special preparedness for this moment, 60 painfully long minutes of slow dance and etiquette training administered by my Mom in her kitchen (OMG, reluctantly hugging my Mom in a slow dance posture as she snickered!)
I pulled Nancy back towards me, and as she snapped around, I jerked her to me like a yo-yo coming home. She automatically threw her arms around my shoulders (thank you girl instincts) as I wrapped my arms around her waist. I whispered that I was sorry, then, in another defining moment in my budding sex life, said, "I really like you." She looked up at me, smiled, and then whispered back, "I really like you too." And just like that, I had my first girlfriend! I had also unwittingly stumbled upon Lesson #3, Women prefer confident men.
As Nancy snugged up to me, joyous in her new status, I had a new problem. She was so pretty ... she smelled so good ... she felt so warm and soft ... and her boobies were so big, pressed into my chest as they were, that every time I took a breath I could feel her stiff nipples digging a hole in my growing penis. That's right, her nipples were hard-wired to my penis!
What I didn't know that eventful night, as my big boy-**** was pressed into her abdomen, was that Nancy was not at all mortified, as I was. No, in her case, my situation, and her own reaction, had a very different meaning. My raging erection simply confirmed to her that I really did like her. Hence, Lesson #4, Women often confuse lust with love (Although a lady friend says, ”That one goes both ways, buster!”).
After about four slow dances the party began to break up. I guess nobody could have predicted the affect that "cooties" would have upon the braces wearing wallflowers. For the few "dancers" who remained, however, lively games of Twister (always a good socialization stimulator) and Spin-the-Bottle (always good for the secretion of all kinds of bodily fluids) were in order. We were, of course, all nervous as hell, but I was happy to see that we were four matched couples at that point, four boys who had aligned with four girls that night. Competition would not be a problem. Was that karma or what, I thought.
We flew through Twister, our bodies contorted and rubbing on each other, or trying not to. Nervous laughter and blushes, with the occasional suggestive remark, were all around. Just as we were ending that fun and about to transition to the highlight of the evening, however, the big brother and buddies of our hostess classmate, Linda, came rolling in with beer in hand. After we endured some requisite hazing, they invited us, dared us really, to join them in some brewskies. Well, everyone, boy and girl alike, recognized this as one of those opportunities to transition to being cool, or at to least put on the good act, anyway. Pride and testosterone were at stake for us boys, and for the girls, well, I don't know, girls stuff, I guess.
Linda's parents had abandoned us for bed hours earlier. They hit the sack, happy at a successful party for their baby girl and confident in their misplaced trust that their respectful and mature daughter would never do, nor allow her friends to do, anything disreputable and out of character. Unfortunately, they hadn't accounted for that wildcard son of theirs, Brett, and his wayward friends. That factor and peer pressure were all it took for Linda to roll over and play dead. We were all on our way to "drunk town", and it didn't take a lot to get us there. For Brett and his buds, corrupting us virgins was cheap fun.
After our intoxicating intermission, we were all more than ready for the final activity of what Bobby called, "The best ******* party ever, hell ya!", that our now drunken ***** had ever seen. That bottle spun and spun as we kissed and groped our ways to the next sexual level of adolescence. Then, in an ultimate graduation ceremony of sorts, of our own concoction, it was decided that each couple would get 15 minutes of "personal time", to, uhh, cement our relationships before we went our separate ways for the summer and, in some cases, head off to different high schools. Brett and his gang were long gone so Linda chose his room for this activity because, as she put it, "He's so ****** up (potty mouth!) that he won't be back till supper tomorrow", and because, she added, "My parents are used to strange noises coming from his room at night."
First up were Jake and Rhonda. Everybody else danced and ate some more as we struggled with our drunken nervousness. We heard laughing, followed by moaning, followed by yelling. Then the door flew open and out marched a disgusted Rhonda. Jake trailed smiling and giving us the thumbs up. Next were Gary and Linda. They lasted 10 minutes, but Gary could clearly be heard to say, "But I swear I love you!" That was to become his trademark line throughout high school. Bobby and Shannon were next in and they made the limit, emerging disheveled. Bobby was all hickied up so I knew he was a happy camper, and Shannon, well, she was all radiant. Finally, I went in with Nancy.
What ensued was definitely the most amazing 15 minutes of my young life. I was horny as hell and could hardly wait to sprint home to relieve myself. But Nancy was a very giving girl and had other plans for us. After that slow dancing earlier in the night, and our "vows" of "liking" each other, we took every opportunity to rub against each other and cuddle that we could. The accelerated activity of our party games heightened our arousal. And now that we were drunk and with a room of our own, we were ready to go all the way - 8th grade style.
I guess we had both fantasized about an experience like this many times, because we immediately ******** down to our skivvies as we checked each others bodies out, giggling with lust. We rolled around half-naked on Brett's bed (an active culture lab, to be sure) like a couple of mating snakes. We weren't altogether sure of the how-to of sex, but we were enthusiastic. We got kissing, touching and rubbing down quickly. Then Nancy discovered the joys of the male member. I had my own toys to play with so I was doubly happy. Nancy asked, "Can I touch it?" I said, "Yes!" "Can I kiss it?" "Yes!" "Can I lick it?" "Hell yes!" "Can I suck it?" "Oh **** YES! Will you just get on with it already! We only have eight minutes left!" Well, given my elevated sensitivity, I didn't really have to worry about the time factor. As soon as I felt her soft lips and warm, wet mouth envelope my throbbing ****, it took all of two minutes for me to share my "love" with her. I gave way like the Hoover Dam had cracked. My unexpected torrent of boy-cream flooded her surprised mouth. Hell, I was surprised too. Her eyes bugged like a girl who tries to drink from the garden hose, not knowing that her rotten brother has just turned it on full blast. She swallowed, coughed, gagged, and pulled off all at the same time. But still gripping my spewing **** like that blasting garden hose, she took a couple shots to the face before she could redirect it. Then we both watched in wonder as I fountained a few more strong shots before gradually subsiding like a tap being turned off. Nancy just sat there, half in shock and half amazed, as I deflated. Then we both laughed and I asked her how it was. She said, "Bitchen! ... and weird … and not so bad”, as she smiled at me all naughty, licking her fingers. I smiled proudly. Then seeing the time ticking away, we played beat-the-clock, rushing to clean ourselves and Brett’s nasty room and quickly getting dressed. As I sobered and reflected on what had amazingly happened, I became aware of Lesson #5, Women are very cooperative when drunk.
After that monumental night, Nancy and I hung out together all summer. It was a wonderful few months of sexual discovery. She looked incredible in a bikini and I was proud as a peacock. She was curious and adventurous and I was a willing participant. In September, we went to high school together, dating through the end of football season. Then she left me for a junior who had a car and money. That taught me Lesson #6, Women like men with wheels and money. I had neither, but what I did have, was good athleticism. And "jock currency", as I was to find out, had a much higher value in high school.
It was your usual 8th grade party. Music, food, drinks, laughing and grab-assing, and dancing. That, of course, was when we boys and girls went to our respective sides of the room and assumed our shy postures. So what you had were girls dancing with girls, while only the occasional confident boy would dare to dance with the opposite sex. But when that kind of social ice was broken, usually via guys daring other guys, you got a few more to venture onto the dance floor. Thank goodness for Bobby. If it were not for him, the party would have been well on the way to becoming an adolescent gay fest. So once I saw Bobby head for Shannon, I took a deep breath and headed across the floor towards Nancy.
It's amazing what a long walk 15 feet can feel like. Time stands still. The first 10 feet are covered by looking everywhere else in the room but at your target. An intense fear grips you. When you look up for those last two or three steps, you see a cackling group of girls, all sitting shoulder to shoulder, as they smile, giggle and whisper about you, wondering who you're coming for. That can be paralyzing. I took another deep breath, summoned my friendliest smile, and asked Nancy to dance.
I was screaming inside with joy when she smiled and said yes. Then, in a gesture that got me major points from her peanut gallery, I held out my hand to help her up and said, "You look lovely tonight!" (thank you, Mom). Nancy smiled and her gallery swooned.
When we got on the floor the music was fast. Lots of popular tunes. I wasn't a great dancer, but I at least had had enough brains to practice in my room for the past week as I watched every dance show I could find, American Bandstand, Soul Train, Hullabaloo, you name it. Nancy, on the other hand, was awesome. She had real rhythm, and like most girls, had logged thousands of hours dancing in front of a mirror in her room and with her girlfriends at parties. Me, I was busy doing fun stuff - playing ball.
She stayed out there with me through four or five songs. We were smiling, laughing, straining to hear each other, and having a genuine good time. I was amazed. Even though I had just spent eight years going to school with this girl, I had rarely talked to her. She was cool!
Well, all those good times suddenly came to a screeching halt when someone decided to change the mood by putting a slow song on. They even turned some lights down, eliciting a chorus of "ooohs" and "aaahhs" - and giggling. I started to walk Nancy back to her roost, when she turned to me and whispered, "Jim, don't you want to dance with me anymore?" I froze, looked her in the eyes, and stammered, "Well, its just that I ... you know ...well, I thought that you might want a little break ... you know, you're all sweaty". As soon as I uttered that word, SWEATY, I wanted to crawl into a hole and die! How did I call this beautiful girl, SWEATY?!! There it was, another one of those "time stood still" moments as she clenched her teeth, looked around the room, wiped a wet (not sweaty) strand of hair from her forehead, and forced a smile saying, "Well, I DON'T want to sit down, so let's dance!" Then she grabbed me by the hand and practically dragged me back out there as she fought off her obvious humiliation. After all, unbeknownst to me, my first slight was to act as if I no longer wanted to enjoy the partnership of this girl with whom I had been having such a good time. And the second insult, was to publicly acknowledge that girls sweat. I learned a couple of real life lessons about women in that terrifying moment. Lesson #1, Never give up a woman who has you in her mood groove. And Lesson #2, Never tell a woman that she looks sweaty - especially in public! Years later I found out that the appropriate term is "radiant". As in, "My, don't you look all radiant as you clean my apartment this afternoon!"
Now I had to try to regain my composure. I had squandered all the equity that those fast dances had afforded me. So I decided to take an offensive approach (here's where I have to confess to my special preparedness for this moment, 60 painfully long minutes of slow dance and etiquette training administered by my Mom in her kitchen (OMG, reluctantly hugging my Mom in a slow dance posture as she snickered!)
I pulled Nancy back towards me, and as she snapped around, I jerked her to me like a yo-yo coming home. She automatically threw her arms around my shoulders (thank you girl instincts) as I wrapped my arms around her waist. I whispered that I was sorry, then, in another defining moment in my budding sex life, said, "I really like you." She looked up at me, smiled, and then whispered back, "I really like you too." And just like that, I had my first girlfriend! I had also unwittingly stumbled upon Lesson #3, Women prefer confident men.
As Nancy snugged up to me, joyous in her new status, I had a new problem. She was so pretty ... she smelled so good ... she felt so warm and soft ... and her boobies were so big, pressed into my chest as they were, that every time I took a breath I could feel her stiff nipples digging a hole in my growing penis. That's right, her nipples were hard-wired to my penis!
What I didn't know that eventful night, as my big boy-**** was pressed into her abdomen, was that Nancy was not at all mortified, as I was. No, in her case, my situation, and her own reaction, had a very different meaning. My raging erection simply confirmed to her that I really did like her. Hence, Lesson #4, Women often confuse lust with love (Although a lady friend says, ”That one goes both ways, buster!”).
After about four slow dances the party began to break up. I guess nobody could have predicted the affect that "cooties" would have upon the braces wearing wallflowers. For the few "dancers" who remained, however, lively games of Twister (always a good socialization stimulator) and Spin-the-Bottle (always good for the secretion of all kinds of bodily fluids) were in order. We were, of course, all nervous as hell, but I was happy to see that we were four matched couples at that point, four boys who had aligned with four girls that night. Competition would not be a problem. Was that karma or what, I thought.
We flew through Twister, our bodies contorted and rubbing on each other, or trying not to. Nervous laughter and blushes, with the occasional suggestive remark, were all around. Just as we were ending that fun and about to transition to the highlight of the evening, however, the big brother and buddies of our hostess classmate, Linda, came rolling in with beer in hand. After we endured some requisite hazing, they invited us, dared us really, to join them in some brewskies. Well, everyone, boy and girl alike, recognized this as one of those opportunities to transition to being cool, or at to least put on the good act, anyway. Pride and testosterone were at stake for us boys, and for the girls, well, I don't know, girls stuff, I guess.
Linda's parents had abandoned us for bed hours earlier. They hit the sack, happy at a successful party for their baby girl and confident in their misplaced trust that their respectful and mature daughter would never do, nor allow her friends to do, anything disreputable and out of character. Unfortunately, they hadn't accounted for that wildcard son of theirs, Brett, and his wayward friends. That factor and peer pressure were all it took for Linda to roll over and play dead. We were all on our way to "drunk town", and it didn't take a lot to get us there. For Brett and his buds, corrupting us virgins was cheap fun.
After our intoxicating intermission, we were all more than ready for the final activity of what Bobby called, "The best ******* party ever, hell ya!", that our now drunken ***** had ever seen. That bottle spun and spun as we kissed and groped our ways to the next sexual level of adolescence. Then, in an ultimate graduation ceremony of sorts, of our own concoction, it was decided that each couple would get 15 minutes of "personal time", to, uhh, cement our relationships before we went our separate ways for the summer and, in some cases, head off to different high schools. Brett and his gang were long gone so Linda chose his room for this activity because, as she put it, "He's so ****** up (potty mouth!) that he won't be back till supper tomorrow", and because, she added, "My parents are used to strange noises coming from his room at night."
First up were Jake and Rhonda. Everybody else danced and ate some more as we struggled with our drunken nervousness. We heard laughing, followed by moaning, followed by yelling. Then the door flew open and out marched a disgusted Rhonda. Jake trailed smiling and giving us the thumbs up. Next were Gary and Linda. They lasted 10 minutes, but Gary could clearly be heard to say, "But I swear I love you!" That was to become his trademark line throughout high school. Bobby and Shannon were next in and they made the limit, emerging disheveled. Bobby was all hickied up so I knew he was a happy camper, and Shannon, well, she was all radiant. Finally, I went in with Nancy.
What ensued was definitely the most amazing 15 minutes of my young life. I was horny as hell and could hardly wait to sprint home to relieve myself. But Nancy was a very giving girl and had other plans for us. After that slow dancing earlier in the night, and our "vows" of "liking" each other, we took every opportunity to rub against each other and cuddle that we could. The accelerated activity of our party games heightened our arousal. And now that we were drunk and with a room of our own, we were ready to go all the way - 8th grade style.
I guess we had both fantasized about an experience like this many times, because we immediately ******** down to our skivvies as we checked each others bodies out, giggling with lust. We rolled around half-naked on Brett's bed (an active culture lab, to be sure) like a couple of mating snakes. We weren't altogether sure of the how-to of sex, but we were enthusiastic. We got kissing, touching and rubbing down quickly. Then Nancy discovered the joys of the male member. I had my own toys to play with so I was doubly happy. Nancy asked, "Can I touch it?" I said, "Yes!" "Can I kiss it?" "Yes!" "Can I lick it?" "Hell yes!" "Can I suck it?" "Oh **** YES! Will you just get on with it already! We only have eight minutes left!" Well, given my elevated sensitivity, I didn't really have to worry about the time factor. As soon as I felt her soft lips and warm, wet mouth envelope my throbbing ****, it took all of two minutes for me to share my "love" with her. I gave way like the Hoover Dam had cracked. My unexpected torrent of boy-cream flooded her surprised mouth. Hell, I was surprised too. Her eyes bugged like a girl who tries to drink from the garden hose, not knowing that her rotten brother has just turned it on full blast. She swallowed, coughed, gagged, and pulled off all at the same time. But still gripping my spewing **** like that blasting garden hose, she took a couple shots to the face before she could redirect it. Then we both watched in wonder as I fountained a few more strong shots before gradually subsiding like a tap being turned off. Nancy just sat there, half in shock and half amazed, as I deflated. Then we both laughed and I asked her how it was. She said, "Bitchen! ... and weird … and not so bad”, as she smiled at me all naughty, licking her fingers. I smiled proudly. Then seeing the time ticking away, we played beat-the-clock, rushing to clean ourselves and Brett’s nasty room and quickly getting dressed. As I sobered and reflected on what had amazingly happened, I became aware of Lesson #5, Women are very cooperative when drunk.
After that monumental night, Nancy and I hung out together all summer. It was a wonderful few months of sexual discovery. She looked incredible in a bikini and I was proud as a peacock. She was curious and adventurous and I was a willing participant. In September, we went to high school together, dating through the end of football season. Then she left me for a junior who had a car and money. That taught me Lesson #6, Women like men with wheels and money. I had neither, but what I did have, was good athleticism. And "jock currency", as I was to find out, had a much higher value in high school.
By:
habeant
Age:
56-60
,
Male
