Teen First Time Sucking Cock

Teen First Time Sucking Cock
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08/03/2017 02:59pm GMT | Updated March 9, 2017
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Engagement Editor, HuffPost South Africa
Please note, this article contains graphic depictions of sexual assault.
I was about five years old when I first touched a penis. I didn't want to, but I did. He was a family member in his teens. We were watching television at my grandmother's house when he motioned for me to come sit on his lap. Slowly, he moved his hands up my skirt and touched my vulva. Then he moved my hand towards his crotch and had me feel him up. I didn't want to, but I did.
I was about 10 years old when I first saw a penis. I didn't want to, but I did. He was a random man on the street. I was on my way to buy bread at the local Spar. I had just turned the corner from our street when a man sat down on the ramp leading up to the building on my left. His sudden movement caught my attention so I looked in his direction and there it was, his penis peeking through the shorts he was wearing, against his thigh. I thought it was a mistake but then the same man, a number of times after that, did the same thing. I recognised him after that and so each time I saw him, I crossed the street. I didn't want to see it, but I did.
When I was 13, I was sitting in my Grade 7 English class when one of the boys whispered my name. When I turned around there it was, his penis in his hands. I was shocked and turned around without a word. We were sitting right at the back of the class so the teacher had no idea what was going on. Some of the other kids giggled -- boys and girls. I was embarrassed. He then said: "I showed you mine, now you show me yours." I didn't, but no matter what I did, I could not unsee his.
When I was 25 I was at a party with my friends. We had been drinking and celebrating a birthday. At some point I got tired but there was no space on the couch. I decided to put my legs on the laps of everyone on the couch while the rest of my body leaned onto an ottoman next to it. There was a blanket over my legs. Suddenly, I felt a hand reach over and touch my crotch. I froze for a few seconds, shocked and unsure of what was happening to me. I then moved the man's hand from my crotch hoping that he would stop. The more I pushed his hand away the more he pushed back, now trying to unbutton my jeans. I moved, put two ottomans together and uncomfortably lay on them until I could fall asleep. As soon as the sun came up, I drove home with my best friend. I didn't want that man to touch me, but he did.
Every single one of the men in the above scenarios committed a crime. It is a crime to expose yourself to someone without their consent. It is a crime to force someone to touch your genitals. It is a crime to touch someone's genitals without consent. The Criminal Law (S exual Offences and Related Matters) Amendment Act 32 of 2007, explicitly lays this out. These and other similar acts are defined as sexual assault. I didn't know then, and I can bet good money that many people do not know either now. These acts are not just harassment -- they are explicit violations.
But even if I knew, I just did not have the courage to say it out loud. In each instance, my voice crawled deep into a dark room within my larynx and closed the door shut. When it finally unlocked the door, my voice came out weak, and I felt like the time to speak had come and gone.
I also wondered about what would happen if I did speak up. What would I say? If our society fails to take rape seriously, then what happens when "all" someone did was touch me inappropriately or show me his penis. There's a minimisation of these kinds of violations and assaults. If it is not violent in the age-restricted definition, then it didn't happen or it is not that big a deal. We're seeing this play out in the way the Okmalumkoolkat defense force argues : it wasn't rape, he just made a mistake. It was the alcohol that made him walk into a woman's room, fondle her and tell her to keep quiet. It was his brokenness that made him do it .
Rape culture is rife. Not only in South Africa, but in the world. It continues to thrive, cushioned by a comfortable denialism from various sects of our society. Just the other day, Phumzile Mlambo-Ngcuka highlighted the fact that violence plagues women more than any other thing in the world. And what rape culture does is shame us and teach us to be silent about it.
Rape culture teaches us that when men catcall us, when they call us names for not wanting to speak to them, when they grab our arms as we walk past them, when they flash their penises at us, when they kiss us without our permission, add pills to our drinks, give us alcohol to help us "loosen up", they are just being men. It's what they do and our protesting is us being difficult, it's us trying to "change the rules of the game". At what point does a 13-year-old boy learn that if he shows a girl his penis then she must show him her vulva? At what point does a teenage boy decide that it is OK for him touch all his toddler girl cousins? What makes them do that is rape culture. It is not a myth -- it is women's reality.
On Wednesday night, I had the honour of attending the first ever Women's Assembly at the University of the Witwatersrand, my alma mater. The event was entitled: The Fear Factory, a term coined in Prof Pumla Gqola's book "Rape". Gqola herself was the main speaker, and student activists performed and spoke about the importance of feminist activism in all spaces. The fear factory is about the manufactured feeling of fear that allows for rape and its culture to thrive in our society. You can read an explanation of it from her book in this extract.
The manufacturing of fear is about power. In the conversation on Wednesday, Gqola spoke about disrupting the status quo and refusing to remain silent even though society dictates we should be. She said feminists needed to stop seeing fear as a dirty concept, and confront it. While our desire is to overcome and claim our place as survivors we should not be afraid to be victims too because patriarchy and violence victimise us. We should own our fear, this way we can confront it. Fear does not make us weak.
Each time I did not say anything about what happened to me I was afraid I was afraid of what my family would say, what my friends would think or what my teacher would say, and then I was afraid of what I would do to the career of a young man who has a future ahead of him. I couldn't just speak. What I didn't realise what that all this fear came from me wanting to protect others and neglect myself. Rape culture forces us to neglect ourselves because you cannot air our dirty laundry for others to see. These conversations are not for the world, they are secret and shameful.
Often we are told not to be angry, not to fight back, not to rage but rather to behave, remain in line and forgive. On Wednesday night, activist and filmmaker Beverley Palesa Ditsie said she did not understand why women were not fighting harder, why we were not defending ourselves.
"If women were a country under siege, then we would long have called a state of emergency," she said.
A war is being waged against our bodies and we should not be afraid to fight back.
I didn't ask to touch a penis that first time. I didn't ask to see a penis that first time, or the second time. I didn't ask for a man to try and force hands down my pants at a party. I am not the one who did anything wrong, they are. It's their shame to carry. Not mine.
Engagement Editor, HuffPost South Africa

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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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Published March 5, 2017 12:30AM (EST)

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The first time I used a men’s room, I was 17 years old. I looked about 14, probably, with my hair freshly cut short, my head still feeling light and buoyant after getting rid of the ponytail I’d carried through most of high school.
That bathroom was nothing special. In fact, I didn’t see most of it as I walked in, head down and turned slightly away from the line of urinals. I made a beeline for the stalls, which were the same as the stalls in every women’s room I’d ever used in my first 17 years of life.
I peed. I can’t remember if I washed my hands or not. Probably not.
I do remember that there were other men in the room. Two of them. Both at the urinals, and so their backs were toward me when I entered. And maybe they were washing their hands when I was leaving, and that’s why I’m thinking I probably didn’t wash my hands.
The first time I used a men’s room with friends — friends who’d known me from before, friends who’d known me my whole life — I was a few weeks shy of my eighteenth birthday. I’d been living as a guy for about a year. Home for the summer from boarding school, that awkward and potent summer between high school and college, I was working as a dishwasher. I’d been back in my hometown for a week or so, and a bunch of us decided to go to the movies together.
Such trips were always a challenge. First, because we all worked odd jobs with odd hours. Second, because none of us owned a car and the nearest movie theater was 40 minutes from our rural Maine town. And, for me, because though I had known these boys since preschool, I had gone away every September for the last four years to a prep school. And also because now at 17 I was, for the first time in my life, a boy.
We went to the movies, five of us crammed into someone’s mom’s sedan. Afterwards, debating Denny’s versus Friendly’s, we veered down the hallway toward the movie theater’s bathrooms. My short hair hadn’t been mentioned — I’d had it short third grade through seventh grade, after all, only growing it out at my mom’s insistence. They’d been calling me Al for years, so I didn’t have to tell them that I’d changed my name from Alice to Alex. And I wore the same t-shirts and jeans and flannel shirts and sneakers that I always wore.
Down that hallway, I thought, which one? Easy enough to just go in the women’s room, give people a dirty look when they scowled at me. It was the mid-’90s. Grunge and androgyny were reasonably widespread, even in the sticks of Maine. But I hated using the women’s room and not just because of being a boy. I hated it because of what was said to me: G et out! Was the nicest version. Other variations included dyke, queer, butch, bitch, creep , once (oddly) faggot and other, unprintable, words.
So I said to my friends, "Do you mind if I use the men’s room with you? Or would that be weird?"
And my best friend Bryan said, "Of course not. It would only be weird if you used the urinal."
I didn’t. In subsequent years, I would think about that — using the urinal. Devices were sold, tricks bandied about in trans groups I went to. Medicine spoons and surgical tubing. The plastic lid to a coffee can (clear plastic is best), trimmed of its edges, could be stowed in the back pocket, lifted out in one’s palm, curled into a funnel and used with care at a urinal. So long as you peed slowly and no one peeked. I practiced a few of these tricks. I got more than one pair of jeans thoroughly piss-soaked. I gave up practicing.
Lately, the news has me thinking back to that first men’s room, 21 years ago , and what drove me to go inside. I never would have entered if I thought I would have been detected, confronted, kicked out.
In fact, I’ll tell you what stands out to me even more than that first men’s room: It's the last time I went into a women’s room. I had come out as transgender to my parents just a few days before. It had gone somewhere in the range of “not a total disaster but not great.” We were out for a meal at my parents’ favorite seafood restaurant. It had not gone well already — the waitress had asked me, “What can I get you, young man?” and an argument had ensued when my parents tried to correct her and I tried to get them to shut up.
Needing to pee, or perhaps just wanting to escape the table, I went over the restrooms. I imagined what would happen if my father happened to also feel the urge at this moment, and what sort of scene might follow if he found me in the men’s room. So I went into the women’s room. At the sinks stood an older woman, who looked at me in the mirror as I entered, her eyebrows shooting up. “This is the ladies!” she said, thoroughly scandalized.
I thought about saying, “I know,” which had been my usual response during those years when I had short hair and people thought I was a boy. But this time, for the last time, I said, “I’m sorry. I guess I’m in the wrong place.”
Alex Myers lives in New Hampshire with his wife and two cats. He is a teacher who speaks often at schools across the country about transgender identity. He is also a writer; "Revolutionary," was published by Simon & Schuster in January 2014. It tells the story of his ancestor, Deborah Samson, who in 1782 ran away from home, disguised herself as a man, and fought in the Revolutionary War.

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