Boy First Time Stories
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Boy First Time Stories
How did you feel when you saw a boy’s penis accidentally for the first time?
What is the biggest dick you've ever seen as a teen?
What's the first thing a woman thinks about when she sees an erect penis?
As a man, how does it feel like when you put your penis inside the vagina for the first time?
Women: How old were you when you touched a penis for the first time?
Women, have you ever seen a man's penis without him knowing?
What is the biggest dick you've ever seen as a teen?
What's the first thing a woman thinks about when she sees an erect penis?
As a man, how does it feel like when you put your penis inside the vagina for the first time?
Women: How old were you when you touched a penis for the first time?
Women, have you ever seen a man's penis without him knowing?
As a teen girl, what penis size do you prefer in teen boys?
Ladies, how would you feel if a young teen boy got an erection because of you?
Do women enjoy seeing a man with an erection?
When was the first time you watched a penis?
As a woman, have you ever seen a teenager’s huge dick? If yes, did it turn you on?
Have any women looked at a teen or young boy’s dick/penis?
When is a teenage girl old enough to see a penis?
How does it feels when a guy flashes his dick to you?
What does it feel like to sit on a guy's penis?
Has a girl ever accidentally seen your dick?
What is the biggest dick you've ever seen as a teen?
What's the first thing a woman thinks about when she sees an erect penis?
As a man, how does it feel like when you put your penis inside the vagina for the first time?
Women: How old were you when you touched a penis for the first time?
Women, have you ever seen a man's penis without him knowing?
As a teen girl, what penis size do you prefer in teen boys?
Ladies, how would you feel if a young teen boy got an erection because of you?
Do women enjoy seeing a man with an erection?
When was the first time you watched a penis?
As a woman, have you ever seen a teenager’s huge dick? If yes, did it turn you on?
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When I was 10, my older half brother was visiting my family over the holidays. He was 22. He slept in my bedroom and i slept with my older sister in her room. She was 12. It was a Sunday morning when I saw a penis for the first time . I had to get clothes for church so I quietly went into my room while he was asleep to get them. I always figured people wear pajamas when they sleep but be wasnt. He was naked and the sheets were off of him. I froze for a minute and just stared. His penis and testicles were huge. It was just laying there flopped over his leg. I was a bit embarassed at seeing this
When I was 10, my older half brother was visiting my family over the holidays. He was 22. He slept in my bedroom and i slept with my older sister in her room. She was 12. It was a Sunday morning when I saw a penis for the first time . I had to get clothes for church so I quietly went into my room while he was asleep to get them. I always figured people wear pajamas when they sleep but be wasnt. He was naked and the sheets were off of him. I froze for a minute and just stared. His penis and testicles were huge. It was just laying there flopped over his leg. I was a bit embarassed at seeing this but not ashamed. I was kinda fascinated and turned on. What i found odd was that he had no hair down there. I learned later in life that some guys shave themselves there. I got my clothes and went back to my sisters room. I got dressed and told her what I saw. She wanted to see for herself so we snuck back into my room to have a peek. He was still asleep but his penis was different. It was streached out and twice as long and sticking up. Neither of us were scared of it. We were really curious. My sister went to get her camara and took a bunch of pictures of it and then we left for church. I admit that seeing a soft penis and an erection for the first time by accident was not a bad experience. It was a good one even though I was just 10. I looked at the pictures my sister took a lot after that and even let my friends see them.
I was 11 and my cousin was 22. I was at his house playing with his sister who was 14. I had to use the bathroom so I went running down stairs. His room was right next to the bathroom and he came walking out in a towel I turned the corner and BAM head first into his crotch. His towel fell off and I hit the ground. He was clean shaven and he just stood there laughing and said are you ok? I was speechless and he acted like no big deal grabbed his towel helped me up and I never said anything.
true stories
high school
coming out
identity
gay
boys who like boys
I was 14, just starting high school at an all-boys public school in the Bronx, when I began to feel a strong physical attraction to other boys. I was quiet and observant, and I didn’t yet know if I should, or could, act on those emotions.
My high school locker room completely bewildered me—a small space full of sweaty boys, constantly fighting, and pulling each other’s pants down. Curious, I couldn’t help but glance at some of them while they changed. And I can tell you; I was not the only one looking. Off to the side or in the background, I often overheard boys say things like “nice dick” and “you got a hairy ass.” At one point, I saw a boy playfully touch a classmate. In the corner of the locker room, and still in the closet, I felt a moment of joy: What if I wasn’t alone? What if there were other boys that felt the same way I did?
That moment was short-lived. In actuality, the same boy that touched the boy in the locker room, later called him a “faggot” in the hallway. It happened daily. I would see guys touch each other’s private parts and call them “faggots.” I was alone and horribly confused. I wondered if I could share my desires with some of them, but the fear of being called a “faggot” stopped me. At my school, the very place that I first observed queer curiosity, I was scared to come out, fearing my own physical and emotional safety.
It wasn’t just the school locker room where I heard homophobic remarks. In church, the pastor would say, “I know you love your sons. But you also have to spread the word of God and tell them the truth. Gay people are an abomination and are going to Hell if they don’t get right with God.” These statements led to countless hours of reflection, and a terrifying fear that God might strike me down at any moment. But even at 14, I knew I didn’t totally believe him. How could I be condemned to Hell for loving the wrong way?
I was raised in a strict Christian household and lived with my grandmother and mother. My father was not in the picture, although I would see him sporadically from the age of two, when he left my mother, to the year I turned 16. When I was little, I preferred the company of girls during my trips to the park, and I would sometimes play with dolls, showing little interest in sports. My father would say, “Stop acting like a little bitch.”
Years later he warned: “If you turn out gay, I’ll fuck you up.” But by then I had already lost respect for him. It was a good thing I didn’t see my father often.
Imagine me, a young black gay Christian male, trying to reconcile my sexuality with school, home, and church life. What happens to a black gay Christian who lives in a household that hates him; who really believed that he was going to Hell. Who would ask God for forgiveness every time he fantasized about another boy?
I eventually became comfortable enough to admit I like guys. Two years after curiosity flared in the locker room, I came out. I first told my close, straight friend, then classmates, then anyone who asked, then my grandmother, and, finally, my mother. Perhaps it was the support of friends, aunts, and those around me that made me not want to feel ashamed about myself anymore, even if that meant God damning me to Hell.
By the beginning of senior year, I went from “I’m gay” to whoever asked, to “Can you stop saying faggot please?” every time I heard the word. I was ready to be wholly true to myself and my sexuality. I began to imagine life in college, and envisioned a more inclusive post-high school existence.
Looking to strengthen my resume, I decided to participate in a school-based mentorship program, which was dedicated to developing strong black mentor-mentee relationships in the workplace with black professionals. One day, for a lesson on proper dining etiquette, the program took us to a Spanish restaurant. The room was well-lit and the atmosphere emanated a fancy air that was almost palpable. Unlike some of my classmates, I had experienced restaurants like this before, so I wasn’t nervous at all. I gazed around, admiring the patrons: strong, muscular men in suits. Just before the fish tacos and appetizers arrived, a mentor cautioned: “One piece of advice, if you want to be a successful man, do not mess around with those pregnant girls. Find yourself a good woman!” he said, smirking.
Everyone but me chuckled, laughs ricocheting across the table.
“Well, I like guys, so I don’t have to worry about that,” I said, trying to end the conversation.
“Oh, okay,” he said, staring at me and clenching his jaw. I could see he was trying to contain his anger and disgust.
The whole table—fifteen students, three mentors—looked at me, then at him. I cowered in my chair, embarrassed and uncomfortable. I suddenly felt isolated, a great distance growing between me and the group. Only after he released me from the lock of his eyes, did he continue the conversation about the sort of “good women” we should seek.
A month later, I decided to no longer participate in the mentorship program, and every time I was asked why, I made excuses about being too busy.
In time, I retreated into my fantasy world, where I was not sixteen and gay in a homophobic environment, but a world where I was older, in in the future, when I would arrive to a beautiful home from a long day at work, and be welcomed by a husband who loves me and bears my burdens on his shoulders. In this fantasy world, I am loved, desired, accepted.
After that night, I was desperate to be in a different environment. I explored several outlets and, with the help of an organization called Urban Word, learned that I could use spoken word poetry as not only a place to recite my story, but as a platform to advocate for social justice. Over the course of the past year, I have been trying to figure out just how I might go about that. In the process, I lived two secret lives: I became this other person, scared to be open up about my sexuality in my poems, and, even worse, I was hiding my poetry from my family. Maybe that’s why I never quite got over my nervousness during performances. Still, I always managed to channel my anxiety, and never worried about what others might think when I discussed coming out on stage, even though I couldn’t speak freely with my family about it.
It was in this new world that I found my real mentor, Timothy DuWhite, a 24-year old black queer poet who embraced me with open arms. I first met Tim at the Urban Word Poetry Slam semifinals a year before I became an active member. We connected and discovered that we both had been through similar issues involving our sexual identities. It was a moment that I had been searching for: to find a kindred community who accepted and nurtured all parts of my identity.
A month ago, I graduated from high school. Before I addressed our class in my valedictorian speech, I scanned the crowd, a sea of people before me. I saw the boys from the locker room, my mother, my grandmother, my teachers, and my best friend—and I understood them all, each in their own ways. I was thrilled to be leaving and moving on, but I could see that many of my fellow graduates were facing similar hurdles, ones that I had encountered, and had only masked their truth with homophobia. The culture we live in, though it has made strides in the last decade, still makes so many of us—the boys who like boys, boys like me—feel unwanted, feel like outsiders. But I no longer choose to stand on the outside.
James Fisher grew up in the Bronx, New York. He is as an incoming freshman at the University of Pennsylvania, where he will be a senior writer at Abernathy Magazine . During his time as a member of the UrbanWord Slam Team, James performed at the Apollo Theater, Nuyorican Poets Cafe, and Lincoln Center.
Maarten
Smit and Andrew Kelley
in For A Lost Soldier
I don't remember when I first saw Adam. When I
started sixth grade in Mrs.Tronik's class, I was so busy trying to get used to
my desk and my new school and my new class that I wasn't really paying much
attention to anybody, and I was for sure not in the market for a friend. My Mom
and I had moved to Lakeland, Florida from Towson, Maryland just one week before
school started, right after Dad left. I didn't even know where we were going
until after we got in the car. I had spent the two weeks prior staying with Dad
in his little apartment he had moved into while my Mom was institutionalized
after a nervous breakdown in which she tried to kill herself. Apparently after
my Dad told her about his girlfriend he had been seeing and that he was leaving
us for her, she broke one of his liquor bottles and attacked him with it. She
just barely missed his stomach and groin, and then she tried to slash her wrists
with it. I heard all the melee upstairs in my room and hid under my covers. I
heard the police show up and then the ambulance to take her away. That very day
he had moved completely out of the house into a one bedroom apartment. He
explained to me that "sometimes grown ups drift apart" and "it is for the best
because neither of us are happy" and that I had nothing to do with it and blah
blah blah. All I knew was that he totally changed my entire world in one day. I
never even knew they were having problems. Two weeks later Mom showed up told me
to pack my things, told Dad to go fuck himself, and we were on the road.
A little about myself. My
name is Byron Welleham, I am eleven years old, 5 feet tall, skinny but muscular,
and tow headed with full lips and deep set hazel eyes. I was once told by a
talent agent my eyes had a "gazing intensity". I was a very good looking boy and
Mom had tried to get me cast in commercials and what not a year before, but
nothing ever came of it, especially after it turned out I wouldn't be able to
play baseball if I got work. As much as I liked baseball and athletics, I wasn't
feeling very motivated to participate in either at my new home. I was very quiet
in my new class and was not very responsive to attempts by others to befriend
me. I was also seething with anger and hostility, which apparently the other
kids could sense. I was also quite strong, and had done twenty pull-ups in PE
one day, so everyone pretty much left me alone. One day this girl Jenny
whispered something in this other girls ear while looking at me. I gave her such
a nasty stare that I could see a flash of fear over her face and she turned
away. I was definitely not one to be fucked with and I was waiting for any
excuse to punch someone out. I would eat lunch by myself and during recess I
would sit to the side in the 90 plus degree heat and 100 % humidity and read a
book and just try to be left alone.
One day I was reading and a
shadow suddenly loomed over me, I looked up and saw Adam Fitzgerald, one of my
classmates, standing there and holding a soccer ball.
"Do you want to play soccer
with us?" He asked in his high pitched voice and articulate speech. "We need
another person to have two complete teams."
I wanted to be left alone and
I was about to let him know it in uncertain terms. However, as I looked at his
face, he seemed almost concerned, as if he was reading my very soul and seeing
the heartbreak and turmoil within. "No thanks, Adam. I'm just going to sit here
for a while." I said.
He shrugged, bounced the
soccer ball off his right knee three times and caught it, smiled at me, and
turned around to go back to the game. I watched as he walked away. He was
shorter than me by a couple of inches, and had a stubby sort of build. He was
medium blond with a bowl cut that went down to just over his ears. Something I
had noticed earlier, and had noticed again now, was that he had the bluest eyes
I had ever seen on anybody. He also had really red lips too. I went back to my
book. After about a minute, the shadow returned. I looked up and Adam had come
back to where I was sitting, this time without the soccer ball. He sat down next
to me on the hill.
"Why aren't you playing
soccer?” I asked.
"We had an extra person since
you didn't want to play with us so I volunteered to sit out." He said. "It's ok,
I play soccer professionally so it doesn't really matter."
"What do you mean
professionally?" I asked.
Adam laughed. "I guess not
professionally, I meant I play on a team in a league."
"Professional means you get
paid." I said.
"Well I get a juice box after
the game." He said. I laughed at that and he smiled.
"Maybe they should pay all
athletes with juice boxes. Can you imagine them giving Ray Lewis or Chad
Ochocinco a juice box? " I said.
"It wouldn't make the
Dolphins any worse if they did." He said with a laugh.
"I like the Dolphins, the
Hurricanes, the Heat, and the Marlins." He said.
"I thought everybody around
here liked the Tampa and Orlando teams." I said.
"They do. I like the Dolphins
and the Hurricanes because of the colors. I guess I just started liking all the
other Miami teams after that." He paused for a bit. "Green and orange." He then
said.
"Green and orange. Those are
the colors I like. That's why I like the Hurricanes and the Dolphins. I like the
way those two colors work together. It looks like the sun rising over the
ocean." He began to get a dreamy look. "That's what I like best about going to
the beach. Watching the sunrise over the water, feeling the breeze, hearing the
waves, the salty smell. I love that." He then looked down to the ground, and I
thought that he certainly didn't sound like any kid my age I had ever talked to.
"That's kind of like a
turquoise thing. Those colors, it's like the sea." I said.
Adam turned to me. "When I
grow up I'm going to be a painter. Not houses but a real painter on a canvas.
Everything I paint is going to be in those colors." He turned away and looked
towards the sky. "They'll be the most beautiful paintings ever." He then turned
back to me and I found myself gazing into those big blue eyes. I was starting to
get a gooey feeling inside of me that I wasn't expecting, like I was getting a
crush on this kid. That's the last thing I need.
"Well it's hard to make a
living off of painting." I said as I looked away.
"If they're beautiful people
will have to buy them. They'll have no choice. They'll come around to my gallery
and see them, and they'll be so beautiful that they'll spend anything on them.
They'll have to have them. People can't turn do
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