Horny Teen Girl Stories

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Horny Teen Girl Stories
10 New "Why Me" embarrassing stories for May 23, 2008 By Audrey Fine PUBLISHED: May 23, 2008
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"For winter break, I went up north to learn how to snowboard, and it turned out that my instructor was a major cutie, so I was even more excited! But just when I started to do well, I fell on my butt in the middle of the snow. I started crying because it hurt so bad, but to make everything worse, the cute instructor came up right behind me and smiled at me in a 'You're pathetic' kind of way."
"I was in the drugstore with my best friend buying tampons, and we were debating on which ones we liked better. Right as my crush walked by we crouched down, thinking he didn't see us, but then he turned the corner and came up to us and said, 'Wow, I only thought girls were like this when they were shopping for shoes!' It was so embarrassing!"
"One day I was outside playing with my twin brother in our swimming pool. He was chasing me around, and so I got out and ran over to the front yard. Finally, he caught me and he reached out to grab me by my pants, but he accidentally pulled them off and I tripped into the mud with NO pants on. As my brother was walking over to say sorry, I noticed one of the cute guys from my school taking a picture of me with his phone. He ended up showing the picture to everyone at school! I was mortified!"
"It was that time of the month and I had forgotten my pads at home. My friends told me it would be better if I went to the nurse and got a pad there, so I did, and then went into the bathroom to put on the pad. However, she went into a long ramble about pads, tampons, periods, etc., and was talking superloud. I was so embarrassed when I walked out of her office and saw that my crush was right there, listening to everything."
"I'm a cheerleader and I'm at the top of the pyramid. I didn't realize I had my period, and as I stood at the top, I heard someone holler, 'Hey, Maria. Did you sit on some ketchup or something?' I was so embarrassed, but luckily only three people noticed and they were pretty close friends, so they didn't tell anyone."
"I'm the captain of the varsity cheerleading squad, and at one of our games my friend Maria told me that part of my cheer uniform skirt was stuck in my spanky pants! I quickly pulled it out and looked around to make sure nobody saw it, but the entire football team was laughing hysterically!"
"Last winter I was over at my friend's house and we were bored, so we decided to go in her hot tub. We went skinny-dipping since it was so cold outside and the hot tub was superhot. Afterward, we decided to go jump in the snow outside. Well, what we didn't know was that my crush lived on her street and was out taking a walk. So, when we ran to the front yard and jumped in the snow, he totally saw us! I was so embarrassed!"
"One night I was staying at my friend's house and I had my period. A little later, during dinner, my friend's brother came screaming down the stairs, yelling, 'Who has their period?' It turns out that the dog had gotten my tampon out of the trash and chewed it up on her brother's floor! I was so embarrassed!"
"So, I was sleeping over at my friend Emily's house, and when we were eating breakfast, I excused myself to use the bathroom. I had to go pretty badly, and I walked right into the bathroom as Emily's older sister was just getting out of the shower! She just stared at me, and then I ran out. I was so embarrassed!"
"My best friend, Britney, and I were at this clothing store trying on bras when my former best friend came in. She works for the school paper and she secretly took pictures of us trying on embarrassing stuff! The next day, the school paper had me on the front page! So embarrassing!"
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Editor’s Note: They were neighbors and childhood friends, but the writer of this 2015 essay, our latest Magazine Classic, would come to realize that the distance that separated them was “a very significant eight feet” encompassing a vast gap in opportunity.
I observed the girl at my door cautiously. It was the summer of 1999; I was 7 years old and in need of a friend. Although my three older brothers let me join in on their games, I could only endure so many defeats in pingpong, basketball and Super Smash Bros. before I was ready to quit. So when my 5-year-old neighbor showed up at our door, I thought that maybe she — dark hair springing, T-shirt stained — could be the sister I’d always wished for.
Emmy told me she lived next door with her uncle Mike and brother Kyle. A sociologist could have predicted our outcomes from a handful of statistics, but as a child, I assumed there was little difference between her life and mine. Later I would learn terms like “race,” “socioeconomic status,” “welfare,” “white privilege” and “structural violence.” Later I would learn that Emmy’s white mother died of a heart attack a few years after Emmy was born and her black father was in jail for drug-related crimes. These things, I would later learn, mattered.
I knew none of this when I invited Emmy into our house for a Popsicle that humid day. But children are like prisoners and sorority sisters: They’re quick to establish hierarchies. When Emmy and I played School, I always got to be the teacher. When we played Barbies, I took the newer Barbie with the better clothes and gave her the one with the missing foot. My Barbie dated the Ken with real hair while Emmy’s Barbie was stuck with the cheaper, creepier Ken.
Looking back, I wasn’t exactly mean to Emmy, but I sensed that I had something she did not. I was two years older, yes, and we played on my territory with my toys, yes — but there was something else. A nebulous factor that slipped into my subconscious and surfaced in my autocratic attitude. A factor I wouldn’t begin to articulate until I understood the true distance between our homes: a very significant eight feet.
Even though we saw each other almost every day that summer, I only visited Emmy’s house three times. Her uncle worked odd hours and her older brother made himself scarce, which left 5-year-old Emmy alone most of the time, wandering the neighborhood and microwaving her meals.
“How do you know when to go to bed?” my alarmed mother once asked her.
“After my favorite TV show is done,” she answered.
Inside Emmy’s house, stuffing splayed from couch seams. A strong odor of dogs and cigarettes clung to the furniture. Black hair coated the carpet. A mound of trash clustered in the kitchen. The walls were unadorned; no photographs, no paintings. Outside, the yard was wild; tangled grass grazed my thighs, saplings sprouted from a makeshift deck. Everything — including the house’s 5-year-old tenant — appeared neglected. One day, Emmy told me her uncle kept a gun under her bed. I made the mistake of relaying this information to my mother, who subsequently banned next-door visits.
Even so, in the spirit of Catholic inclusion, my family embraced Emmy as a second daughter — my mother especially. Over the years, Emmy started calling her “Mom.”
“When’s your birthday?” my mother asked Emmy one evening before dinner. Emmy loved setting the table — another difference between us that I neither understood nor bothered to question.
Emmy thought for a moment. “I don’t have one.”
“ Everyone has a birthday,” I corrected. At home with my three brilliant brothers, I rarely had the chance to correct anyone.
“Don’t you do anything to celebrate your birthday?” pressed my mother.
Emmy scratched her head, bit her lip and said nothing.
My mother soon understood and offered a gentle smile. “Why don’t you ask your uncle when your birthday is the next time you see him?” she suggested.
The next morning, Emmy knocked on our door. “August 5th,” she said.
To this day, my mother bakes Emmy a double chocolate cake and takes her shopping every August 5th.
My friendship with Emmy was punctuated by tiny revelations, moments where the contrast between our lives glared.
Like the time she fled to our house, 10 years old, bawling because her brother Kyle had been put in jail. “Drugs,” she sobbed into my mother’s sweater. “Something about drugs.”
We grew apart the way childhood friends often do: for no singular reason, just an intensifying awareness of our differences. I started to spend my summers at the country club pools of Catholic school friends. We played ghost-in-the-graveyard on sprawling emerald acres, went on bike rides in manicured suburbs, rode horses, made silly music videos. During the school year, I was too busy with soccer practice, homework, art projects and flute lessons to spend time with Emmy. By the time I was in middle school, Emmy stopped knocking on our door.
In high school, I grew ashamed of my neighborhood. By global standards, I lived in luxury — but perception of affluence is relative. Ours was the corner house. The turning point between highbrow professors and blue-collar workers struggling to obtain a GED . By the time I was 15, we had been robbed three times. It wasn’t uncommon to hear of drug deals, muggings and shootings within a three-block radius. I inhabited two contrasting environments: at home, surrounded by the underprivileged, I felt privileged. At school, surrounded by the privileged, I felt underprivileged. A theory of relativity.
My high school friends lived in gated communities where a lawn one-inch overgrown was cause for a fine. Thanks to their (parents’) generosity, I spent four summers riding jet skis at lake houses, swimming in backyard pools and attending complimentary music festivals in Chicago. But the charm and shimmer came at a cost, a shame that flared up like hives when I least expected it. My friends sometimes joked that I lived in “the ghetto”; I would laugh along, hoping no one saw me blush.
When I was 17, I conducted a neighborhood food drive and asked one of my best friends from school to help. She told me her mother wouldn’t allow it because my neighborhood was “shady.”
So this was what eight feet of separation looked like from the other porch.
As I transitioned from high school to college, my interactions with Emmy became scarcer and scarcer. Occasionally, I stopped by to offer her a trash bag of hand-me-downs. Sometimes I passed her as I was leaving for a rehearsal or a party.
Despite our waning friendship, my mother kept an eye on Emmy, updating me when I came home on breaks. Kyle’s girlfriend had a miscarriage. Emmy’s friends robbed Mike. Emmy was kicked out of the house for associating with the wrong people and skipping school. For a few months, she was placed in foster care. When Emmy turned 16, she dropped out of high school.
My mother told me she found Emmy one night on the porch of Mike’s house, crying. “What’s wrong?” she asked. Emmy reluctantly explained that a male friend had hit her because she wouldn’t have sex with him. She was 17.
As my mother recounted the conversation, I thought of a friend from Notre Dame whose boyfriend had recently broken up with her for the same reason. I realized that some conflicts are universal, and no amount of privilege guarantees exemption. The difference was that Emmy had no one to turn to.
The summer before my senior year at Notre Dame, my mother and I sat in the kitchen sipping coffee and discussing the glittery turmoil of my life: studying for the GRE , deciding what to include in my personal statement, selecting graduate schools. We chatted about how much I missed the friend who left for a doctorate at Cambridge, how much I missed France. I wasn’t looking forward to living at home senior year while my friends’ parents paid for their expensive, gleaming apartments, but I had to fund my own room and board and couldn’t justify another $10,000 loan.
As our conversation trailed off, my mother finished her coffee and placed her mug in the sink. “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” she said, looking out the window. “Emmy’s pregnant.”
I’ve received many benefits from my education, and I was fortunate to attend a university that stands for social justice. But after 19 years of Catholic school, the inevitable occurred: a lifetime of private American education distorted my sense of reality.
It’s no surprise that a university with a costly tuition might attract a disproportionately wealthy student body. To reside in such a population for four years can easily blind students to their own advantages — I know it blinded me.
Sometimes campus felt like a sea of designer rain boots, generous monthly stipends, graduation trips to Europe and $400 sweaters. A place where the young elite gathered to secure postgraduate suburban mansions, purebred Samoyeds and beachfront villas. On campus, “comfort” and “stability” were usually euphemisms for six- or seven-figure salaries. Dining hall dinners were spent swapping “how I got my first brand-new car” stories. “Just because my family is in the top 1 percent doesn’t mean I don’t deserve scholarship money,” a friend complained to me freshman year.
Not everyone I knew at Notre Dame was like this, of course; many of my closest friends came from very little fortune and opportunity. Some of my peers — first-generation college students, undocumented immigrants and refugees — had faced adversity beyond my grasp. And when I grow cynical about my classmates’ tendency to use estimated income as the main criterion for selecting majors, internships and careers, I remember other classmates. I think of the co-worker who was offered a high-paying, prestigious consulting position but instead chose to teach through ACE . I think of the friend who was offered a dream job on the campaign team of his favorite presidential candidate, but turned it down when he learned he would have to lobby for nuclear weapons. Instead, he chose to work for a small nonprofit, accepting a salary below the poverty line. These are students who forfeit comfort in favor of core values — values articulated in the Notre Dame mission statement. “The aim,” it says, “is to create a sense of human solidarity and concern for the common good that will bear fruit as learning becomes service to justice.”
Still. Despite the exceptions I encountered on campus, it was difficult to ignore the rule: for the most part, the student body was far removed from poverty, injustice and oppression. Exposure to such realities was readily available for those who sought it out, but internalizing those realities is difficult — especially when affluence is the norm.
The extent to which my environment had normalized opulence became clear to me last spring when a large portion of my senior class booked week-long tropical getaways. The prospect of staying in slushy South Bend while most of my college friends sipped cocktails on a beach made me depressed. It didn’t help that I was nursing a recent breakup and had nothing but an unfinished thesis for company. Why couldn’t I afford to drop $2,000? Why couldn’t my parents? I felt unfortunate. Disadvantaged.
When I relayed my juvenile chagrin to my mother, she gave me a firm but compassionate look. “There will always be people who have more than you and people who have less than you,” she said. “Look at Emmy. She would love to have the life you lead.”
And there it was: a childhood friend reduced to a reference point. A reality check.
This past May, I arrived home from commencement, spirits high. I had made it: magna cum laude, a perfect summer job and the best fellowship at my dream graduate school. Behind me, my brother carried a tray of coffee to compensate for the 8 a.m. ceremony. I noticed Emmy on her porch, sitting in one of the old wicker chairs my mother had given Mike. She waved to us.
Suddenly, everything I had learned in my Poverty Studies courses, Black Skin White Masks class, Poverty and Politics seminar — all the manifestos, lectures, books, articles, statistics and theories — converged into this one image. This poignant manifestation of the unjust and tyrannical power of chance.
There was my brother, holding a carrier of pricey cappuccinos and iced lattes. There I was, holding a $216,466 Notre Dame diploma. And eight feet away: Emmy. A single, low-income, biracial, high school dropout holding her baby daughter.
One summer day after my graduation, 15 years after I first met Emmy, I arrived home from work to a familiar scene: Emmy on her porch with the baby, staring into the street.
My hand was on the door knob, about to turn. But I stopped. “Your baby’s adorable,” I said. “What’s her name?”
A beat. I shifted my weight. “How — how old is she?”
“She just turned a year yesterday,” Emmy replied. She beamed, and for the first time I realized how happy she looked. Perhaps I had been too busy pitying her to realize how unwarranted that pity was.
“Wow,” I said. “A year.” I stood on the porch for a moment longer, then remembered I would be late to rehearsal if I didn’t grab my script and dash. But I lingered, watching Emmy cradle her little lilac bundle, thinking about the 15 years, countless opportunities and eight feet between us.
Wondering what it might take to cross the distance.
The author is using a pen name to protect the identities of the people in the article. A 2015 Notre Dame alumna, she attends graduate school on the East Coast.
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Why Me?! Totally Embarrassing Stories from girls like YOU! By Audrey Fine PUBLISHED: Jun 6, 2008
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"One time I went roller-skating with my best friend and I was wearing these really tight pants. I saw this hot guy, and I got nervous and fell on my face. When I got up, my best friend and the really hot guy were laughing at me because the bottom of my pants split open and you could see the pink polka-dot underwear I was wearing. I was so embarrassed that I screamed and ran out of the rink! No more skating for me!"
"I was at the park with my best friend, and there were a bunch of cute guys from the track team practicing. I had my bike with me and I wanted to impress them by going into the water on my bike (there was a ramp that led into the water). As I went in, my bike slipped and I fell in and got completely soaked. When I got out of the water, they all looked over and started laughing at me. I was so embarrassed!"
"I was on a date with my boyfriend and we were talking about what we were going to order at this restaurant. While we were talking, I dropped my napkin and didn't want to pick it up while he was talking to me, so I just left it there. When the waiter came, he slipped on the napkin and spilled water all over me. I sat there, soaked, while my boyfriend just laughed in my face."
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