High School Sex Stories
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High School Sex Stories
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It feels like going home for holidays and breaks has become some sort of game. The objective: How many of my previously platonic friends can I fool around with now that I won’t have to face them in the hallways of high school?
There is clearly something about the thrill of doing it in your mom’s basement or the enticing challenge of backseat hook-ups. Maybe it’s the pure nostalgia or maybe it’s that exciting anticipation as you weigh the odds of whether mom is going to come down and do the laundry mid-hook-up-sesh. Whatever it is, my friends from home just can’t seem to keep their hands and private parts to themselves in the less-than-a-week-long breaks we’ve had so far.
Over fall break, I went to visit my friends at the state school they go to. I’d say it was a joyous reunion, as hugs and anecdotes were shared. Little did I know, the game had begun. When it came time for the pregame, shots were taken to the #highschoolmemories, and everyone was feeling flirty and bold.
It wasn’t long after we started dancing at a frat party that I felt someone behind me trying to dance. After a few minutes of dancing I turned around to find it wasn’t just a frat boy — it was one of my boys, an old friend from high school. After the initial shock I was able to compose myself and hit him with the eye roll and “really dude?” The first player of the game had been successfully removed.
When morning came, another friend decided to catch a ride back to the city with me. During the ride, he managed to invite himself to my family breakfast. So there we were 30 minutes later in my basement, patiently awaiting breakfast burritos. My guard was down, and I was weak, tired from the night before and hungry for some hangover food — the perfect time for this player to make his move. You guessed it, a quick nap before breakfast turned into a quickie before breakfast.
Flash forward to Thanksgiving break. The one friend I didn’t get to see over fall break now had four days to play catch-up. He and I had messed around before, but let’s be clear, there never was an “us.”
I had told him I wasn’t trying to hook-up with him over break, that the past was fun and all, but there was no need to relive it. But then we’re watching “The Office” in the basement when he turns to me with pouty eyes and says, “I miss this. I miss us. Can we at least kiss?” If by “us” he meant meaningless daytime sex in the summer I guess there was an “us.” Anyway, needless to say, what started out as a kiss escalated a bit. The third player was making ground.
At this point, over the course of only one week total, there had been some sort of sexual encounter with nearly every boy in our close-knit high school group.
None of them even had respectable moves. All were merely last-ditch efforts to get it on with a girl that would actually talk to them. Maybe they aren’t getting any at school, or maybe my basement is cursed with some sort of love drug, because breaks have become hook-up marathons. Our friend group has successfully gone from a normal group of friends to an orgy of friendcest.
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People from /r/AskReddit tell their sex stories between teachers and students. Puberty, hormones, and high school... a dangerous combination.
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I was thinking of a wide, low tree, that they could be "inside" the branches but still on the ground. My high school dug up a couple dozen of them because we were hiding in them to get high.
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Eve Peyser
Eve Peyser is a writer from New York City whose work has been featured in The New York Times, VICE, Rolling Stone, and New York Magazine.
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1. The prolonged makeout sessions. You'd make out until your mouth hurt, and then you'd make out some more. TBH, I miss this.
2. Over-the-pants hand jobs. In class. In the backseat of a car. At parties. On the bus. Anywhere. Everywhere. Always. Forever.
3. Speaking of which, you'd make out in the weirdest places. In the stairway at school. Behind the bleachers. In your friend's parents' bedroom. In the bathroom at a party.
4. But the best makeout spot was in the back of movie theaters. That is, unless the usher caught you.
5. When you'd make out at a party, somebody would always take a picture. Or point and laugh. Or both.
6. And when you saw your weekend hookup at school on Monday, you'd both pretend nothing happened. Why acknowledge that you made out when you could just make uncomfortable small talk? Or better yet, say nothing at all!
7. How guys were so bad at taking off your bra. And for some reason, the idea of you taking it off was inconceivable.
8. When a guy would give up on taking off your bra, but still try to feel you up. His hand would always get caught in the underwire, and it was soooo awkward.
9. That feeling when you know a guy wants to hook up with you — because he told your friend who told you — but he hasn't made a move . Or given any indication IRL. Or ever held a conversation with you.
10. Grinding at school dances. Feelin' all those boners!
11. Having to make small talk with your hookup's mom before you guys went upstairs to "watch a movie." So awkward!
12. And then getting home and having your mom ask, "How was the movie?" It was, uh, fine. Let's talk about something else. Anything else. Please.
13. The terrible fingering. PSA to any teenage boys reading this: Don't just shove your fingers up a girl's vagina. Instead, focus on this thing called the clitoris .
14. Tolerating the smell of Axe while you're going at it. Really kills the mood!
15. All the dry-humping. So, so much of it.
Sometimes I feel like I could just dry hump forever
Follow Eve on Twitter and Instagram .
By Adrienne West
Updated April 30, 2018
By Adrienne West
Updated April 30, 2018
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“Blood, sex, and death.” Those were the three things Mr. Fitzpatrick taught us were part of every gothic horror novel. He was the high school english teacher I hopelessly crushed on, and I couldn’t help but notice that his eyes lingered on me when he said the second word. Sex.
I was a senior then, about to graduate. Glued to my seat even in the late, late spring when my classmates were terminally zoned out, focused on graduation, the summer ahead of them, college. But I still had unfinished business here, and today he was wearing a black tie over a light blue button-up and jeans that were just snug enough to drive my imagination wild. When he perched on the edge of his desk reading from The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde , I let my eyes wander up and down his body, imaging a new use for each part.
He was the new cute teacher this year, the one the girls whispered about between classes. Mr. Fitzpatrick is looking good today. I’d tried to pretend I wasn’t one of them before, it’s not interesting to have the same crush as everyone else. But his charm was undeniable, who else could make the classics so sexy? Every day when he taught his inflection would bounce up and down with passion as he taught us about Bram Stoker and Shirley Jackson.
When he taught Dracula he became brooding and obsessive, delving into each character. Even in the clinical, fluorescent-lit classroom it was sexual. I spend the 50 minute class period imagining his lips — his teeth — on my neck, finding me in secret, lusting after my “life force” as Stoker says. The week he spent on, The Haunting of Hill House , was one of the most oddly erotic of my life. The text was thrilling, I was in a constant state of suspense and I held myself to not reading ahead, and being completely present in class when he talked about the role adrenaline plays in our bodies physiological state as we read. I didn’t ask, but I was sure my increased interest in him was one of those byproducts he was talking about.
When graduation was only a few weeks away, I felt bolder. Surely I should make a move, if the consequences of being rebuffed were so low? What could they do? I was almost gone. And so I became consumed with the idea of hooking up with Mr. Fitzpatrick.
At first, I thought I could be subtle. Mr. Fitzpatrick certainly noticed when I wore something low-cut or a little more form-fitting. Once I entered his classroom in a dress that particularly accentuated my curves and I could have sworn I heard him groan. But understandably, he never did anything more than cast a lingering glance my way.
He’d get in too much trouble , I reasoned. I’m going to have to be the one to do something . So I put my mind into creating the perfect plan: I’d just have to present him with an opportunity he couldn’t say no to.
The senior end-of-year dance was coming up, and I inserted myself into the planning committee long enough to serve as an official liaison and ask Mr. Fitzpatrick if he would be a chaperone, apparently we were in desperate need of one (I didn’t ask anyone else). A light flickered in his eyes as I carefully enunciated the word desperate . Hopefully that was a look of comprehending my agenda. He agreed to the task.
I bought new lingerie, black and red and lacy. I wore it under a loose-fitting white sundress, pure and virginal like a gothic heroine, but dark and carnal underneath.
At the dance, I added a note to the clipboard waiting for him as a chaperone. It was the regular list of rules to enforce and emergency contacts. My note was underneath, it was a line from Dracula along with his room number:
“No man knows till he experiences it, what it is like to feel his own life-blood drawn away into the woman he loves.” CLC 345.
I never went to the dance. Instead I made my way through the dark and empty corridors of the school until I let myself into his classroom. I brought with me one candle to break up the darkness without relying on the fluorescents. Lighting it and setting it on a desk in the front row I climbed into Mr. Fitzpatrick’s seat behind his desk, pulled the straps of my dress down so the top of my lacy bra was revealed, and crossed my legs with my heels resting on the edge of his desk, waiting.
It was a long wait. He didn’t find my note right away, but it became pleasurably agonizing, every tiny sound I heard in the hallway seemed like it could be him approaching. I got excited and then mellowed again when I realized it was my imagination. When he did come, I didn’t even hear him approach.
It was a guess he made as he entered the classroom, it was too dim to see my face but I had made sure the glow illuminated my nearly bare legs. I was glad he was expecting it to be me.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick.” I acknowledged him and removed my legs from his desk, slowly crossing them in front of me.
“This note… what are you doing here? We shouldn’t be here.”
He was saying the words, but even to someone who wasn’t engaging in wishful thinking they sounded unconvincing. He didn’t want them to be true. I stood up and leaned against the edge of his desk, facing him, opening my legs a bit so he could imagine himself between them.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick, I’m sorry if you’re misunderstanding. I just wanted to discuss Dracula more.”
When he was close enough that I could touch him, I grabbed his tie and pulled his body into mine. I could feel he was already hard as he pressed against the loose fabric separating us. The situation excited him as much as it excited me. “You’ve always been my favorite student, Adrienne, but I could get in a lot of trouble for being here right now.”
Pulling harder on his tie, my mouth found his neck. “I’ll just have to make it worth your while then.”
He groaned and his hands found the undersides of my thighs, pulling me closer to him and moving us both back so I was resting on his desk. I slide back farther and wrapped my legs around him.
“I just wanted to experience this before graduation,” I told him, “I’ve been trying not to make a move all year.”
Even in the low light, I could see the smile that spread across his face. He says he loves the way I look lying on his desk. I respond by feeling the bulge in his pants, attempting to grip him through the fabric and feeling him grow.
“We need to make this quick. They’ll look for me if I don’t come back.”
“Perfect.” With the suspense building as long as it had, I wouldn’t last long in his arms anyway.
I heard him unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants but I didn’t look away from his face. Even in the dark he looked handsome, brooding. I wanted him to tell me more about sex and blood and death but I also just wanted to experience it with him — all the parts of being human, all the things worth writing about.
I was happy there, to be a willing participant in a fantasy I was sure he had. Happy when he slid the lace panties I’d brought for the occasion off, happy when he didn’t bother to remove my bra but instead pulled my breasts free from it, and especially happy when his body met mine.
While forging a path with his mouth from my neck, down to my collarbone, and then landing on my breasts he pulled me closer to him and entered me. The speed with which he poured himself into me belied his eagerness. I knew he wanted me as much as I wanted him to. As much as I’d fantasized about him wanting me.
Lowering himself so his face was next to mine he whispered, “Adrienne, if you want to be a great student you’re going to have to finish me off with your mouth.”
Kneeling before him I skipped the niceties and began blowing him full on right away, working my hand around his shaft in tandem with my mouth. His hands worked their way through my hair, separating it into two ponytails he held firmly as he used them to guide my head onto his cock, increasing in rhythm until I felt him tense up, his hands clenching my hair. Pulling my head down on him, he held me there and emptied himself into the back of my mouth. I could taste the saltiness as I removed myself from him, licking my lips.
It was the perfect end to my senior
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