11 Year Sex

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my 11 yr old sister went up to my mom yesterday and and said she was hearing rumors that an 11 yr old and 12 yr old had sex wit each other. I think this is sort of strange. She also said she heard that a 12 yr old gave head. Even though i like sex and getting head, i think they are kinda young.
Discuss.
Yes that's too young, but hey, it happens.
too young...way too young to have sex, i mean a friend of mine gave her fist lowjob at that age more or les..but it's just too young..i mean...sickening yyoung, like babies having sex!
it did happen in troy, NY a while ago. A 12 yr old boy raped an 11 yr old girl
An 11 year old girl got pregnant in my town a bit back.
its completely unbearable how children are doing bad stuff earlier and earlier into their life. i saw a 10 year old that look like a slut the other day. how fucked up is this world gonna be?
Worst part is you get 11 and 12 year old parents now... It's sick at their age I was still more into barbie then penis.
Unless they are very early bloomers I don't see that being possible.
its just sex... if 11 and 12 year olds want to do it, then who are we to stop them?
So fucked up it'll make the NG users seem cool. That includes me as well unfotunately.
How could two 11 or two 12 year olds have sex?
First of all the guys penis would be like 7 centimetres long and the girls twat would only consist of an opening.
If you're 16 then I'm the fucking queen of Switzerland.
Its not as creepy as it is when you see a picture of a kid that age and bring the fact that
they can have sex into the equation
i live near troy and remember that event i say kudos to young ppl doing it cuz hey thats when the bio clock starts ticking and your body gets into gear
i guess im sorry but i have to give the children who dare to explore early a
You oppressing these young people? You don't think paedophiles have the right to watch these children perform sexual acts of deprivation for their mere amusement?
These seems to be more of a political issue, unless you created this topic out of complete ignorance of the Political section of the forums. This thread should be moved there.
Twelve is the age most kids lose their virginity here in my town. It's sad really.
... I wouldn't be suprised if it was true. Ontario is just a bunch of redneck farmers who probably fuck anything they can including 12 year olds.
Lolyeah that sounds pretty accurate. Especially the "Ontario is just a bunch of redneck farmers" part.
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I had to play "catch up" with my coming out, but my daughter uses words like “bi,” “pan,” “ace,” and “demi”— and I couldn’t be happier.
Earlier this year, my 11-year-old came home from school and told me that one of her sixth grade friends had come out to her. “She doesn’t know what she is, but she assumes she is at least not straight,” my daughter reported. “She has a crush on this kid who was born a girl but who is now a boy, so she assumes she is …” she paused, searching for the right descriptor. “At least bi.” I practiced active listening. Then I asked, Do you have any crushes? “Not really. I don’t think I’m gay, but I’m not sure if I’m straight. I think I just don’t like anyone at my school.”
I laughed. Hashtag middle school, amIrite? But I also teared up a little. “Wow, it must feel great for your friend to have someone to confide in about this,” I told her. “I might be a totally different person today if I’d had a friend to talk with openly about my sexuality and desires at your age.” My daughter rolled her eyes at that point, because A) as an 11-year-old, she’s required to do so, and B) tweens don’t like when you emote or express sentiments that might embarrass them — aka, talk.
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I came out as a lesbian my junior year of college, when I was nearly a decade older than my daughter is now. At her age, I didn’t identify as at-least-bi, or maybe-straight. I didn’t “identify” at all, much less question my sexuality or my gender. It never occurred to me. I was busy being a sixth grader with too-big glasses, trying to avoid being the least popular kid in the room.
In part, I wasn’t developmentally there — I didn’t yet harbor any sexual feelings. I wasn’t one of those kids who knows with certainty at age four that they’re different. But growing up in the mid-’80s suburbs of Dallas, and then San Diego, I also didn’t have a template for such conversations.
We didn’t talk about being gay in my family, but then, we also didn’t talk about being straight. My parents divorced when I was a baby. Afterward, my dad remarried and stayed in Texas. When I was 11, my mom and I moved to California. Over the next ten years, Mom worked and had a boyfriend or two, but we weren’t one of those touchy-feely progressive-talky households. This was the Reagan ‘80s: Being gay wasn’t something one felt comfortable openly aspiring to, but in my house at least, it wasn’t something to be reviled or feared, either. It was mostly a void. I’d never met a gay person, that I knew of anyway, except my mother’s hairdresser (everyone’s hairdresser in the ‘80s was gay, right?) and one of her female bosses, which wouldn’t be revealed to me until I was older. Gay identity for me was a complete unknown, sort of like the coast of Italy, the magic and mystery of which I would not discover until years later when I had a passport.
It took years to admit I didn’t want to be a cheerleader, I wanted to be with a cheerleader.
When I started to develop feelings for girls — well into my late teens — I had no language for what I was experiencing. But my daughter, in just her first decade in this world, has acquired a litany of terminology. She returned from sleepaway camp last summer and announced, “Everyone in my bunk is bi, pan, ace, or demi.” I had to google some of this verbiage. (“Demisexuals,” for the record, do not experience sexual attraction unless they form an emotional connection.) “You’re in fifth grade,” I sputtered. “How can there be so many designations?!”
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In high school, outside of my regular crew of friends, I was drawn to cool, confident girls. Leaders. I thought of myself as their opposite, but I wanted their approval. I wanted them to notice me, to be interested in what I had to say. (Also, in a way I couldn’t quite put my finger on, I wanted them to not want boyfriends.) Freshman year, I had a crush on a sophomore cheerleader, and tried out for the squad to be closer to her. This was one of my sillier decisions: Seeing as I could barely do a cartwheel, I didn’t even make it past the first round of cuts. It took years to admit I didn’t want to be a cheerleader — I wanted to be with a cheerleader.
I couldn’t explain these girl crushes to my friends. Why did I get excited when I saw the editor of the school newspaper walk by? Why did I want to sit by that girl in chemistry that I wasn’t even friends with? They wondered, and I wondered too — but not too much. Those feelings lived in a latent place, deeply buried. I was lucky: My friends were able to accept me without labeling me, in an era in which that was not the norm.
When I got to college at Northwestern in 1989, the love that dare not speak its name wasn’t even whispering to me yet. I didn’t learn the term “compulsory heterosexuality” until I took a women’s studies class junior year, and realized that that was exactly the mode I’d been operating under: The assumption of heterosexuality as one’s natural state — and that anything else is unfavorable. When my lightbulb moment arrived a few months later, it was embarrassing in its naiveté. At the Women’s Center, I’d met an older student: An outspoken, radically queer punk, who wore John Lennon glasses, a secondhand leopard-print coat, and combat boots. One day while volunteering at the center, I looked up from my dog-eared copy of Adrienne Rich essays — heaping cliché upon cliché, I know —and said something ludicrous to her, which I roughly remember as: “I would totally be a lesbian if I could have sex with women.” She scoffed, no doubt thinking, Get a life, you sorority dumb fuck. But what she actually said was, “You CAN have sex with women! I do it all the time.”
That acquaintance — who would go on to become one of my (non-demi) lovers and close friends — gave me the permission to finally see my desire. To give it a name, to utter it aloud, and then to shout it, literally, in the streets (for me, coming out was synonymous with queer activism — marching, protesting, chanting, kissing in public). Letting that desire out into the world, giving it air and nourishment, validated it. It showed me, for the first time, that who I was and what I wanted were not only OK, they were positive and healthy. That’s what coming out is: A declaration that living your life as authentically as possible is a worthwhile goal, one that everyone deserves to pursue.
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Coming out is a declaration that living your life as authentically as possible is a worthwhile goal
It’s difficult to explain what coming out feels like to someone who hasn’t experienced it, but an apt metaphor for me is that I had been living in darkness, sometimes in fear and secrecy — until a magnificent sun emerged and illuminated my reality. It’s not that my life before coming out, in adolescence and college, were oppressive or torturous. But after coming to terms with my identity, I lived my days — my relationships, my work, my leisure, all of it — much more fully and truthfully. I’d spent the first two years of college blowing off academics, trying to connect with other people while navigating an uncertain identity, and my grades and accomplishments reflected that. After coming out, I appreciated all of my opportunities that much more, and by comparison, thrived academically and socially.
In the two decades since that friend showed me, by example, what was possible as a lesbian, our country has witnessed lifetimes’ worth of possibility and progress. And so has my daughter. Progressive brownstone Brooklyn is her baseline. She’s grown up with two moms, among friends who have both queer and non-queer parents, and in her short lifetime has already observed the quickly-evolving trans movement. Yes, her friends identify as bi or pan or demi, some more traditionally gay — some even straight! Some transitioned to a different gender identity even before entering sixth grade. In the same way that seeing a woman run for President allows girls to visualize the route to the White House as a potential life trajectory, my daughter’s idea of what is possible, what is “normal,” is based on experiences and conversations that have permeated her upbringing. And by what she sees modeled by older children in our community.
Our next-door-neighbor’s daughter, now at college, used to babysit our daughter and our son, who is now 9. When the babysitter was about 15, she mentioned to our children that she was seeing a girl at school. The next year, she may have been dating a boy. Or not. She could have been a lesbian, or not — it didn’t really matter either way to our children. Their takeaway was that a teenage girl’s identity could exist on a spectrum. Our kids’ current babysitter, another daughter of another neighbor, is a high school junior who wears a rainbow button on her khaki military-style jacket. I haven’t asked if she identifies as LGBTQ. I’m not sure how my friend’s son identifies either. But he wears a T-shirt with a trendy LGBTQ-rights slogan on it, because in his eighth grade world it’s cool to encourage people to live their lives openly and with pride. Our children possess the tools to engage in more sophisticated conversations about identity than I did until well into my 20s.
My life has turned out just fine — better than fine, most days. But I sometimes wonder if it might’ve been different had I come to terms with my identity earlier in life. Maybe I’d have been more experimental in high school. Maybe I’d have applied to smaller, more progressive universities, or women’s colleges. Maybe I wouldn’t have pledged a sorority; maybe I’d have jump-started my New York City life earlier. Or maybe nothing at all would be different. It’s impossible to know. But I do know that growing up in an environment in which I believed that whomever I experimented with or loved or partnered with was a normal and natural part of my journey, would have been comforting to me as a tween, or a teen, and even as woman in my 20s, playing catch-up to figure it all out.
My daughter doesn’t identify as anything yet, except maybe musical-theater-nerd and Kelly Clarkson superfan — also important blocks in identity building. But a place of comfort is one I am proud my children are growing up in, even when it leads to conversations that are developmentally premature, or makes me a little uneasy.
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11 Year Sex