Sex Stories About Teens

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Sex Stories About Teens




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At least at home, I know they won’t run out of condoms or be put in a situation where they don’t feel like they can say no.
Like most parents, I try to avoid thinking about my kids having sex. Having been a teenager myself once upon a time, I knew it was likely they’d decide to have sex before adulthood. But it never occurred to me that when my teens did choose to have sex, they’d do it in my house.
Talking openly about sex is one thing. But dealing with my kids actually having sex is another thing entirely. In theory, it’s important not to stigmatize my kids’ sex lives or create shame around it that can last a lifetime. In practice, when I began to suspect that one of my teens was having sex, it was tempting to forbid him from spending time alone with his girlfriend.
My teens aren’t the first ones in their friend group to have sex. They were shocked when their friends began having sex as freshmen—at 13 or 14 years old—and I’ll admit that I was shocked too. The most surprising aspect of their friends’ newfound sex lives was that it was the kids whose parents were the strictest who had sex the youngest. If I was looking for proof that trying to control my kids’ sex lives would be effective, I didn’t find it.
As their friends become sexually active, my kids had questions. Sometimes, those questions were about working through their own feelings about sex, but other times they were far more logistical in nature: Where could their friends get free birth control? What type of birth control was the most effective? And when all else failed, where could they go for an abortion? More than once, they even brought their friends to me to talk about their relationships and birth control options.
I’ve talked to my kids about safe sex many times, but those awkward conversations didn’t prepare them for all of the nuances of having safe sex in practice. It was only when my teens came to me to talk about their concerns about one of their siblings having sex that I realized how many things I still had left to say. I’d told my son to use a condom, of course, but had I emphasized the importance of using two methods of protection to prevent pregnancy? Did my son know that he could always come to me to ask me to buy more condoms if our supply ran out?
But most importantly, would my son still practice safe sex if I made it harder for him to have sex at home? At least at home, I know they won’t run out of condoms or be put in a situation where they don’t feel like they can say no. Switching to an open-door policy began to seem ill-advised rather than sensible.
That doesn’t mean it’s not uncomfortable for me—or my other teens. They’ve asked me to “do something” about their brother’s sex life when they discovered sex toys in his bedroom. But as I reminded them, they probably shouldn’t barge into his bedroom to “borrow” his stuff if they don’t want to see things that make them uncomfortable.
Sex is a natural part of life, and part of me is glad that my son feels comfortable enough to experiment now. Many people don’t feel that confident in their sexuality until well into adulthood. Another part of me is still pretty horrified, but I’m not sure I’ll feel any less horrified by the thought of my kids having sex even when they’re 50.
The reality is that my kids are going to have sex. And so are yours. The average American has sex for the first time at 17 years old . As tempting as it is to hope that preaching abstinence will prevent kids from having sex, we know abstinence-only sex education doesn’t work . Like it or not, your child is probably still going to be living at home when they have sex for the first time.
If given the choice between my kids’ first sexual experience happening in a safe place or at a party, in the backseat of a car or god knows where else, I have to believe that allowing them to have sex at home makes sense. I’m just thankful that I had the good sense to put my teenagers’ bedrooms downstairs.
Jody Allard is a former techie-turned-freelance-writer living in Seattle. She can be reached through her website , on Twitter or via her Facebook page .

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November 5, 2013 / 11:31 PM
/ CBS Los Angeles

LOS ANGELES (CBSLA.com) — The victims of human trafficking, a problem that has a presence in Southern California, are younger than you may think.
Known as "The Game" to insiders of the $32-billion industry, human trafficking is a modern-day equivalent of slavery — but in this case, young girls are taken and sold for sex.
Two former teen prostitutes shared their stories with CBS2/KCAL9's Melanie Woodrow, revealing some of the dismal details that embody the reality of sex trafficking.
One girl, calling herself Kim, ran away from an abusive home at the age of 15. Another girl on the street approached her and convinced her that she could make money through dancing. Instead, the girl left Kim in a stranger's house.
"It just so happened that the guy ended up to be a pimp," Kim said.
Through the beating the pimp gave her, Kim was initiated into the sex trade.
Another girl, going by the name of Amber, was victimized at the age of 13, when a 16-year-old acquaintance dropped her off at his uncle's home, where she was sold for drugs.
"Basically, [he] kind of sold me to him for marijuana," Amber said.
The teen, whose mother worked as a prostitute for her father, says she understood the situation immediately.
"It's all I've ever known," Amber said.
After both girls were initiated into The Game, there appeared to be no way out, as the pimps maintained control over them with threats that they were being watched.
"He told me that if I left, he had people watching me," Kim said. "And then, like, as the other girls started to leave, he was like, 'Oh yeah, well, you know she's dead.'"
While sex trafficking is commonly believed to be a tragedy confined to other parts of the world, a couple of undercover rides with Compton sheriff's station detectives revealed a large number of suspected prostitutes along Compton Boulevard and Long Beach Boulevard.
"These streets? Flooded," an undercover agent said. "Flooded all day, all night."
During the undercover ride, which resulted in more suspected prostitutes walking "the track" during the day than at night, girls were seen getting into cars and going to nearby side streets.
While Kim and Amber say they never walked "the track," they say their pimps preferred to sell them online, on websites including Backpage and My Redbook.
The ads on these sites are clear, but legal.
While the ads feature pictures, prices and phone numbers, the explicit detail of 'sex for sale' is absent, along with the girls' ages.
"If they're juveniles, they're not going to put they're juveniles on here," the detective said. "They're going to refer to them being young, energetic."
Meanwhile, Kim and Amber were forced to produce large profits on a regular basis, keeping none of it for themselves.
"Every night, he'd expect me to come back with at least $2,000," Kim said. "If that didn't happen, then 'OK, well the other girls are going to go get their nails and hair done, but you can't — you can't get any new clothes', you know, stuff like that."
Undercover detectives from the Compton Sheriff's station suggest that the pimps are often also members of gangs, and that the profit made off selling girls for sex brings in more money than selling guns or drugs.
"Because there's a lot of money involved, they get away with it," an undercover detective said. "They know it's hard for us to detect, it's hard for us to put everything together, it's hard for the courts to convict them."
The abundant evidence necessary for detectives and prosecutors to win a conviction on sex trafficking charges becomes even more challenging to acquire when a girl finds herself emotionally attached to her pimp. Amber considered her most recent pimp, who is currently awaiting trial and may face up to 15 years, to be her boyfriend.
The customers of the sex trade, meanwhile, include a surprisingly wide range of clientele.
"Doctors, some lawyers," Kim suggested. "People that just worked in corner stores."
Kim and Amber were able to escape with the help of undercover detectives, and they began a new life through Van Nuys' Children of the Night, a privately funded nonprofit organization through which the director, Lois Lee, has been rescuing children from prostitution since 1979.
"We've helped over 10,000 children for sure, and we stopped counting eight, 10 years ago," Lee said.
Lee, whose shelter houses victims as young as 11 years old, believes it is the duty of social services to intervene on behalf of abused or neglected children before predators have the opportunity to strike.
"We've turned our back on these children," Lee suggested. "We've created the problem."
For Kim and Amber, it was not too late to be able to continue their lives and look forward to their futures.
"I definitely feel like I got a lot of my childhood back," Kim said. "It's like, no one controls me but me. You're not going to tell me what to do, unless it's something that's going to better my life."
The undercover detectives from the Compton sheriff's station just recorded their first conviction for human trafficking in Compton. The pimp was convicted on a human trafficking violent felony and has been sentenced to eight years; he will be required to register as a sex offender.
More information on the Children of the Night organization can be found at its website. The group can also be reached via a 24-hour hotline at (800) 551-1300.

First published on November 5, 2013 / 11:31 PM


© 2013 CBS Broadcasting Inc. All Rights Reserved.

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Nearly every day at 4 p.m., for years, he would summon me to bed. His acts were unthinkable, but now I'm ready to talk.
In Michelle Stevens' powerful, just-published memoir, Scared Selfless , she shares how she overcame horrendous child sexual abuse and mental illness to lead a satisfying and happy life as a successful psychologist, wife and mother. Here, an excerpt from the book:
Since birth, I had been Michelle Brechbill. Daughter of Judy. Granddaughter of Evelyn and Glenn. Now, with the flick of a pen, I was Mooch (a nickname) Lundquist, daughter of Gary, new student at his out-of-state school. In 1976 no one seemed to question any of this. No one seemed to care that my school records displayed a different name or that Gary was not my legal guardian. We weren't even related. He was just my mother's boyfriend. But social norms dictate that we do not insert ourselves into other people's personal lives. Being polite means keeping one's mouth shut.
And so I, the newly minted Mooch Lundquist, became a third grader at Delaware Township School. My classroom was on the first floor of the elementary building — just a staircase away from Gary. Every day at 3 p.m., as soon as the bell rang, I was expected to climb those stairs and report to Gary's desk. Inevitably, a few of his favored 10-year-old students would still be hanging around — joking with him or sitting on his lap.
Some days Gary would oversee an after-school activity. The gifted and talented club was invitation only — Gary's invitation, that is. Trouble was: Gary had no real training or authority to be administering IQ tests. Instead, he gave kids a short multiple-choice test, the Mickey Mouse kind sold in bookstores. Then, based on his findings, he labeled certain kids — the kids he liked and wanted to spend more time with — as "gifted."
I was gifted, according to Gary. This was a real convenience, as he demanded I join his, and only his, after-school clubs. He signed me up for his drama club too and encouraged me to sing in the school talent contest. On the night of the show, various kids performed their acts, and the winner was chosen based on audience response. Gary was among the judges who awarded me first prize. After that, I was given the lead in all the school plays that he directed.
To the other parents, I suppose it seemed that Gary was harmlessly lauding his new daughter. In a certain way, he was. Not because he actually thought I was gifted or talented. Gary was a narcissist, and narcissists view their families as extensions of themselves, as trophies. Gary believed he was superior, so it was imperative that the world see his daughter as superior too.
Behind closed doors it was a different story. Gary treated me with a dizzying blend of over-involvement, neglect, overindulgence and cruelty. With Svengali-like skill, he quickly took over every aspect of my life, dictating what I wore, to whom I talked, even what toys I used.
Gary dictated what I wore, to whom I talked, even what toys I used.
He also strove to monopolize my time — an easy accomplishment since my mother left for work before I awoke and didn't return until evening. During the school year, this meant Gary had me all to himself for an hour each morning and at least three hours every afternoon. Once summer came, he had me all day, every day, all to himself.
Summer was the time when Gary could really play out his S/M (sadomasochism) fantasies and treat me like a full-time sex slave. This meant being subjected to daily "training sessions" — intense periods when I was explicitly instructed on how to behave and think like a slave. Much like a dog must be trained to sit, to stay, to heel, practitioners of sadomasochism believe a sex slave must be trained in how to speak, sit, serve. In short, like a dog, she must be taught total obedience.
Gary's dungeon was in the basement. Because he had to avoid my mother's prying eyes, though, he could not leave it permanently set up like other S/M enthusiasts. Instead, he left a series of nails and hooks attached to the ceiling beams, which could quickly and easily hold a harness, a rope or some other type of bondage device. While much of Gary's paraphernalia had to be kept hidden, I could tell he also had some fun in displaying a few tools of his trade. The dog cage, for instance, was left in plain sight — folded up in a cluttered corner where it appeared to be waiting for the next garage sale. He also kept a wooden paddle hanging on the wall of his home office, which he jokingly told guests was for "errant children." Little did they realize it was no joke. Nor did most people realize that he kept a set of metal handcuffs in his desk drawer, right next to a stun gun and his handgun.
I can't remember being threatened with the gun — although it may have happened. (Due to amnesia, as well as the normal forgetfulness of memory, there are many details about my abuse I can't recall. I know this because, over the years, eyewitnesses have told stories about my abuse that I cannot personally remember.) I do, however, remember Gary threatening me with the stun gun repeatedly. He even used it on me once. Once was all it took. For after experiencing the excruciating, utterly indescribable pain it inflicted, I never, ever wanted to experience it again.
When he wasn't hurting me, he lavished me with parental attention. On the long drives to and from school, he would initiate conversations about history, politics and art. We ate nearly every meal together while he instructed me on things like table manners and ethnic cuisine. He gave me my first typewriter and influenced my decisions to become both a writer and psychologist. He took the time to open up the world for me. He was my first and most significant mentor.
Under my mother's care, I'd been neglected and deprived. She was constantly at work, leaving me alone and lonely. Gary preyed on that loneliness. Like any skilled pedophile, he identified what I needed, and he gave it to me. He made me feel special, talented, smart.
Even sexually, staying on Gary's good side had its advantages. For once he felt I had become sufficiently trained and submissive, most of the torture tapered off. Afternoons in the basement were replaced by the bedroom. And his fervor to cause me pain was replaced with a passion to bring me pleasure. I suspect it made him feel powerful — like more of a man.
Nearly every day at 4 p.m., for years, he would summon me to bed for what can only be described as a lovers' tryst. The weird part, of course, was that his "lover" was just under four feet tall and weighed less than 60 pounds.
Nearly every day at 4 p.m., he would summon me to bed.
There was also the inconvenient fact that his official lover, my mother, refused to vanish. Unable to ditch her physically, he did it emotionally instead. Every evening, he locked himself in his home office. Every weekend, he went to his store. As I was expected to work for him, I followed wherever he went. Very early on, my mother began to notice this pattern, and she didn't like it. Not one bit. Being immature, she didn't handle the situation with grace. She felt excluded, which she was. So she began to yell a lot, mostly at me.
One particular Saturday morning (we had probably been living with Gary for about six weeks), I was in the bathroom getting dressed for the flea market, just as I did every weekend. But my mother wasn't happy, so she stood in the doorway, whining. "What're you gettin' dressed to go there for? Huh? You oughta be staying home with me."
Just then, Gary came into the hall. My mother cornered him. "I want Shell to stay home with me," she demanded. "She's down at that flea market with you way too much!"
Gary, as always, remained calm during my mother's onslaught. Nonchalantly, he remarked, "Why don't you let Mooch decide what she wants to do today? She's perfectly capable of choosing."
With one quick remark, he had abdicated all responsibility for the situation. Instead, all blame was now placed squarely on me. At 8 years old, I was being asked to choose between my mother and Gary. It was not a real decision, of course. Gary knew this. If I chose Gary, he would immediately whisk me away from my mother's ranting — and probably offer some kind of reward. But if I chose my mother, there would be no one to protect me from Gary. Crossing him would mean paying for my sins
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