First Sex Young Boy
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First Sex Young Boy
In intimate detail, one woman describes the first time she *almost* had sex during her freshman year at NYU.
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and I knew that I wasn't ready to have one-night stand,
but I was also really horny all the time
and honestly, I would've slept with anyone
My sober self knew that I wasn't ready,
I wore a decidedly puritanical outfit
Like, just the like the ugliest bra you could think of.
We go to the party and I get drunk.
There was like, beer pong and people were shotgunning
and mixing all sorts of flavored vodkas.
I sort of loved it and hated it at the same time.
And I see this guy who's wearing a frat shirt,
and I was like, You, you're perfect.
I don't think we exchanged any words.
And at one point, he was like, Wait, pause,
on my friend Shula's dorm room wall.
to go back to his dorm room and hook up.
I do remember sort of panicking on the way there,
knowing that his expectations and mine were different
He took off my shirt, and the first thing he said
At this point I'm sobering up a little bit,
and I think, Am I gonna go through with this?
But I wanted to be polite, I didn't wanna offend him.
So I was just going with the strategy of distracting him.
So I was like, What kind of books do you like?
And he was like, I don't really read,
and kept pulling at my skirt, trying to get it off.
And I was like, Okay, but if you had to pick
just one book that you've read that you really liked.
And he was like, Okay, who's the guy
and certified academic asshole, was aghast.
and he kept kissing my neck and just littering my body
with all these horrible teenage-y hickeys,
And so I just went with the first thing
that popped in my head, I'm on my period,
It was like, Can you at least do anything?
And my closing line was, Not if you like Michael Crichton.
As I'm walking home, I have my shoes in my hand
and don't feel bad about offending a bro at a party
because you don't owe them anything.
Learn how to say no in whatever way you know how.
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HIT series Sex Education is back with a bang – and a lot more besides – in what is already Netflix’s most X-rated show.
And in a warning to young fans excitedly awaiting series two — cheekily billed “the second coming” — its star Gillian Anderson says: “Don’t watch it with your parents.”
The first episode of the new season, shown at the world premiere in London on Wednesday, features FIFTEEN scenes of solo sex acts in the opening three minutes.
Mother-of-three Gillian, 51 , said: “I have a 25-year-old daughter and I have never watched it with her, although she has watched it herself.
“We talk about the sex bits. But that’s a lot different than sitting next to your child and watching it together.
“I am not sure any parents would want to watch this with their teenagers in the same room.
“People say they sit and watch it at the same time but in separate rooms.”
The first series was a global hit, having been watched by 40million people in the first four weeks.
It saw former X-Files star Gillian as sex therapist Dr Jean Milburn, mother to main character Otis, played by rising British star Asa Butterfield, 22 .
Otis uses his mum’s expertise to start his own lucrative sex clinic at school, helping a band of hapless teens going through puberty.
Filmed across Wales in Newport, Cardiff and the Wye Valley, the series mixes English and US culture, which helps explain its wide appeal.
Money is in sterling and the actors have British accents, but they play American football and attend an American-type school.
Gillian said of the decision: “The rules are shifting all the time in terms of how an audience receives shows, what they’re willing to accept and what worlds they’re willing to step into.
“I think Netflix feels quite strongly that they’ve hit on something with this amalgamation.”
Although mainly focused on the trials of teen sex, Gillian strips off for a racy scene of her own in the second series opener, romping with on-screen lover Jakob.
BRIT star Asa’s sexually frustrated character Otis pleasures himself 15 times in the first 180 seconds of the season opener – despite being in a number of public places.
The frenzy, which was filmed over six days, is sparked by him finally learning how to become aroused.
But a side effect means he is now turned on by almost anything, including a slice of Brie and wearing corduroy trousers.
Asa, who played the lead role of little boy Bruno in 2008 film The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas, says: “The w***ing montage will follow me around for the rest of my career.
“When I first read it and when they first pitched it to me they said it was going to be a lot of fun. And it was.”
The actor also reveals the cast had to watch animals having sex as part of their homework for the second series.
The idea came from the show’s “intimacy co-ordinator” Ita O’Brien, who believed it would help make sex a less taboo subject.
Asa explains: “We were given a document the night before which was just animals having sex. We all had to read it. It was like homework.
“Then before filming we had a workshop where we wore loose trousers and watched snails having sex for eight hours.”
The role has rocketed child star Asa to grown-up stardom. And while he admits the part was initially a risk, it has certainly paid off.
He says: “When I first signed up, I knew it would be risky, that the scripts were treading new ground.
“I guess I hoped the show would be talked about a bit. But I didn’t expect it to connect so overwhelmingly. It hit at the right time.”
Despite finding it “hellish”, she says she was keen to be a part of the series as it makes her feel young again.
She added: “The show is actually gentle and compassionate. There are a lot of very emotional topics, a lot of difficult topics that are addressed, aside from the sex.
“Abortion, STIs , it looks at the responsibility of the choices youngsters make when they start having sex.
“I would say what draws people in is that everyone is accepted.
“Whoever you are, whatever you look like, whatever your beliefs are, you are not by yourself.
“There is an energy about this show that makes people watching it feel they are OK, however they are.
“That is miraculous. It almost feels like we are carving out another realm of it entirely because the show has taken things into such a different world.
“It feels like it is almost making its own path for that generation.
“I feel a bit more part of the young generation. Plus this role has racked up the most laughs for me.
"When I first read the script I found it really funny.
“And I haven’t had the chance to do much comedy in my career so far.”
The first series finale saw a sexually frustrated Otis finally manage to achieve his goal of pleasuring himself — in front of a crowd of school friends.
EMMA MACKEY, who plays Maeve, says the show has made her more confident talking about sex – and thinks it helps other youngsters do the same.
She says: “Just because we’ve done a show about sex doesn’t suddenly make us sex experts.
But I love it when mums come up to me in the street and say, ‘Thank you for helping me talk about sex to my kids’. I wish this show existed when I was at school. This is why it works so well.”
In the series, Maeve navigates a difficult relationship with her addict mum, played by Anne-Marie Duff, 49.
She says: “Anne-Marie is an actual living legend. All I do is react off her, that’s all I had to do. I soaked it all up.”
But with his new girlfriend Ola unaware of his unrequited love for bad girl Maeve, played by Emma Mackey, 24 , fans were left desperate to find out what happens next.
Series two kicks off where the first ended, with Otis seen constantly enjoying solo sex.
Then as an outbreak of chlamydia sweeps the school, his mum is called in to help educate the kids.
As embarrassing as that is for Otis, his new love interest turns out to be the daughter of his mother’s lover, leading to more awkward questions around the dinner table.
The second series becomes available next Friday and writer Laurie Nunn is already bursting with ideas for a longer run.
She reveals: “There are so many things we could try. I maybe won’t take the characters to university.
“I feel like that’s when it gets really wrong because you end with up 40-year-old actors in this role. But we still have loads more to cover.”
SHOW creator Laurie Nunn, who was born in London but raised in Australia, decided on an ambiguous setting in terms of location as she wanted people to focus more on the characters and less on their surroundings.
She explains: “My writing and the hook of the show have got a heightened element to them and they needed an elevated world to match that premise.
“I like to think about it as teenagers in their own utopia.” American actress Gillian adds: “The aim and the hope is that Americans will not notice.
“For instance, the Brits may notice they are throwing American footballs, whereas the Americans won’t notice that that might be strange for people speaking with British accents.”
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This article is more than 7 years old
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It’s long past time to shine a light on what too many children endure. Photograph: Jens Meyer/AP
Thu 29 Jan 2015 13.20 GMT Last modified on Tue 8 Aug 2017 20.04 BST
Original reporting and incisive analysis, direct from the Guardian every morning
© 2022 Guardian News & Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. (modern)
I never felt like a victim, but long after I grew up, every sexual experience brought me back to that winter night I didn’t understand
T here’s a reason why, when a woman whispers her story of sexual abuse, when she writes about it , when she Tweets about it or carries a mattress around on her back, calls the police or a rape crisis line, I believe her.
The reason is because it happened to me. And you didn’t know, because I didn’t tell you. I didn’t tell anyone.
Uncle “Doug” was an old friend of my parents; he visited our family often and occasionally joined us for holidays. One evening, when I was six, he offered to babysit me and my older sister at his house.
Before bedtime, Uncle Doug told us both a bedtime story about a werewolf who howled at the moon in the bitter cold of winter on top of a snowy hill, just like the hill outside the window over the sink in Uncle Doug’s kitchen. He could do these pitch-perfect character voices, and in that way, he was charismatic and appealing to children. The werewolf would howl, he said, his thirst for the blood of children relentless, until one night he came charging through a window of a house trying to catch the little girl inside. The broken glass pierced his throat, and then he was dead, his head hanging over the sill, blood dripping down the wall to the floor.
And then my sister went to bed, and I sat in his small, dimly lit kitchen, on his lap, as he nuzzled my hair and then my ear and neck, and squeezed me hard and soft at the same time. I remember staring fixedly at the window in his kitchen, into the dark snowy night, through a pane of cold glass, the moon casting shadows, a dark tree, listening for the howl of the werewolf, trying not to pay attention to what was actually happening.
What was actually happening is that he was kissing me, whispering in my ear things I didn’t understand, and rubbing the tops of my 6-year-old thighs, right where my underwear started, while I sat on his lap.
Afterwards, he took to calling me his “wifey” and signed notes to me: “Love, your hubby”. There was never another physical encounter like the one at his house, but when he visited ours, he would request “private” viewings of me practicing my ballet and leer at me longingly in my leotard and tights; he looked for any opportunity to touch me – my hand, my shoulder, the small of my back. After a couple of years, when I started to understand how inappropriate his behavior was, I refused to have anything to do with him.
I never told my parents anything. My only act of acknowledgement that he did something bad was when I crossed out with a ballpoint pen the “Love, your hubby” at the bottom of a poem he had written in my autograph book when I was eight or nine. The poem: “Tulips in the garden, tulips in the park/But the best place for tulips, is tulips in the dark”.
Uncle Doug did not hurt me physically, but he laid the groundwork for who and what I would become with men throughout my adolescence and into my early adulthood – a wreckage of fondled girlhood looking out a dark window whenever a man was on top of me. His adult hand edging up my six-year-old thigh made it seem natural to me when much older men showed interest or pursued me as a teenager. Or perfectly normal for me to try to seduce a 35-year-old when I was 15.
I never felt like a victim – and I might even still argue that I wasn’t victimized enough to claim that label, and instead call myself a product of a premature sexual experience. But for years, every time a man touched me – especially if he was older, even if I pursued him and told myself and him that it was ok – I’d catch myself looking through a non-existent dark window waiting for it to be over. Relationships came and went but never lasted, and I thought both that didn’t have anything to tell, and no one to tell it to.
Eventually, I told someone: after about eight months of dating my now-husband, who was curious and emotionally invested in “us” in a way I’d never experienced, I proudly called myself promiscuous. He looked at me with compassion and confusion and said, “Really?”. I confessed: “Not promiscuous in the way you would think.” And then I told him the truth.
And then I told someone else. And someone else after that. I chose to narrate my own story, rather than let the one Doug told persist any longer in my own mind.
Doug, like most abusers, relied on me not telling. They all rely on us not telling – to save their reputations, avoid consequences, and keep on abusing. Those of us who do tell, who let go of the shame we know we’re supposed to feel, are in such a minority that it enables the rest of you to disbelieve both those that tell and the existence of those who can’t yet. It’s hard for you to imagine being in a group of five women and knowing that one was sexually assaulted. It’s hard for me to believe that we can just go unheard – our experiences unknown – without consequence.
But all of that is why it’s so important for women, for abuse survivors, to tell our stories: because the more of us who do, the more we chip away at the ability to ignore or to choose not to believe. I believe – and I believe that you can choose to as well.
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