The Teenage Years

Author’s Note: Straight porn star and autobiographer, Tyler Knight, said it best in the forward of his memoir “Burn My Shadow” that anyone endeavoring to write their own narrative is, by definition, an unreliable narrator. In short, he is saying we can only give our perspective to the best of our recollections. And, if I’m to add my personal take, those remembrances that often shine the best light on us. I recently found this to be an absolute. 

For months now, as I’ve uploaded my old stories to make way for the new, there was a story by the person I dedicate this part of the series to that dredged up some old memories of my real first time. If asked previously, I began the story of losing my virginity to a girl in my neighborhood before redirecting the story over to the first boy I ever let penetrate me and the throng that followed within these formative years. I guess, in my mind, since both accounts were salacious enough, given the unusual tender age I began my sexual journey, for years, I politely erased my initial encounter and the chapters that followed since it was later tarred publicly due to no fault of either party involved. Rather than gloss over any parts of my sexual history, I’ve chosen to tell it like it was from beginning to end (in the teenage years), faults, nescience, and all.

The greatest change to this story is I’ve changed the name of all parties involved and the places they took place. 

for Randy Rogue

 

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My very first time was uneventful. Uneventful isn’t the right word. There were just a lot of moving parts for the bizarre spectacle it blooming-onioned into, and yet none of it lent itself to the fine ingredients of a moving story much less an erotic one worth jacking off to in the days and years to come, especially when it came to the endless fuckfest that molded my adolescence.

There was no moon, no stars, no aligned planets of Jupiter rising and Mercury in retrograde, or bated breath buildup that orgasmed into the daddy-fucker of all loads meant to cream some fleshy canvas or to showcase a lake of cum across a panting abdomen. To be frank, there was no pressing memory outside of a Russian-Dutch boy a couple of months my junior on his back begging me to jam my erect penis into his slot.

Slot was neighborhood slang for “pussy.” It was an old head word recycled anew for our generation. Apparently, it was well known for the strange new white boy to use it organically and the word could also be swapped out for asshole, too, because that was what was on full display right in front of me when he said it, right underneath his pair of body-hugging nads.

It was sort of fitting. Unlike the beautiful, puckered abysses I’d come to love in the years to come, throughout adulthood, his was just that—a slot, a nearly invisible gash akin to a bald cunt without the folds.

How was all this going to fit into that? I pondered glancing down at my fuming erection.

I wasn’t being facetious. I understood the assignment, even if this was virgin territory for a virgin like me. I was a smart kid. Straight A student without the need to stay in the books like Poindexter. Still, though, I was just a kid, green to the carnal nature absent of soap operas where sex consisted of long make out sessions that landed in bed before the scene ended and came back to after the deed was done.

I was a born overthinker, woefully naïve about my rounded poker slicing through his poor slit. If I’d thought about it like peeking through a curtain (to see what was on the other side), I would’ve been fine. Of course, I leapt straight into the deep end, worried it was going to slice into him like painful shards.

I should’ve just pulled my pants back up and walked out. It was a lot already, and I couldn’t have been more than three minutes in. The very least of which this boy initially started off as a girl when I first laid eyes on him, and he was asking me to do this to him in this hoarder’s den where one false move could bury us in an avalanche of periodicals and metal frames.

Born and bred in a stable, working-class, all-black neighborhood, seeing a white girl in our neck of the woods was like accidentally stumbling upon an extinct species out in the wild much less one my age and whistling at me from the front door with a mountain full of hair on her head.

As homogenized groups usually share wild stories about other groups of people they know nothing about as a whole, we were no different in our little enclave. One of the stories I heard often from other boys from around the way were that white girls were easy for cool black guys as long as a corny white boy didn’t find out. I was a cool kid, but still a kid no less. I had no clue what they were talking about. All I knew I was on my bike heading up to the candy lady after watching one of my superhero shows, and with a puffed chest I was ready to jump into action and save the day. And perhaps get some on-air news coverage for helping a lost white girl find her way back home.

I guided my bike halfway into the yard of the house and abandoned it on my way up to the stoop, facing it back towards the street. It was my grand escape plan, if need be, as the girl disappeared from the door but left it ajar. I didn’t worry much about following her inside. In hindsight, the dead giveaway that this wasn’t a rescue mission was there were eyewitnesses all the way around. Many I’ve seen all my life, even if I didn’t know their names. Plus, I felt like I was too big and too strong for my age to be snatched up without a good fight.

I stepped in the house looking for the girl. The first thing to catch my attention was that the mountain of hair previously on her head was on the small patch of visible floor in the narrowed maze. Most people would’ve taken the cue to bolt, seeing that the homeowner was clearly a hoarder with stacks and stacks of old newspaper and magazines all around. My line of thinking was to do my parents proud once I got in front of the news crew. I knew the white girl was in trouble when I saw her hair on the floor. And with my uncle being a junkman with a junky house and the floorplan of the home being similar to my best friend’s, I knew without a shadow of a doubt I was familiar with all the exits and weak points.

I just so happen to turn the corner just in time to find a pair of bare legs roll up in the air leveled to the table. Correction: A scaffolding plank in the dining room that doubled as a table with a boy instead of a girl ass-naked on top of it as his spread bare feet braced the guardrail above him.

The blatancies should’ve flooded in. The kid in me though immediately thought this was just plain nasty. People ate at that table, evident of the mounds of discarded food wrappers and containers left atop of it. The diamond-cutting erection breaking through my pants was like, “you know what to fucking do here” as his bare ass was presented like a grand prize.

“Why are you naked?” My big head prevailed in taking the lead.

“I can go for another cock right now. Shove it in my slot.” He spoke in this harsh Boris-sounding accent.

I had to do a doubletake. I heard what he said through his accent clearly. I understood exactly what he meant, even though I never heard of a “cock” before outside of “cock of the walk,” and that was another old head term rarely used anymore by anyone. Instinctively, I knew what it meant. Instinctively, I knew I had one to give. I was just a little miffed because his voice sounded otherworldly from the skinny white boy I was looking at, to where I had to second guess if it was him doing the talking or not, as it was easier to believe there was some mysterious older man from around the corner that was throwing his voice or either I was looking at an adult passing for the size of the average kid my age.

“Huh?”

“Drop your pants. I feel like making your black cock go happy-go-lucky with just my slot. Turn a stiffy into a softie, a chocolate soft serve.”

Remember: He was a couple of months my junior, and we were both in the early spring of adolescence.

I only dropped my pants because he was completely naked, and I wanted to be a badass, too. If I wasn’t going to make the news saving a white girl, at least I could let my dick breathe without stuffing it away into obscurity. Hard-ons have always been easy for me to erect, even long before the raging hormones of puberty consumed me, and this was no exception, particularly at this moment. Though, this was the first time I ever felt unfettered enough to spring it free for anyone else to admire. And I was sold to do whatever he wanted to do with it since he was the first to touch it and skillfully caress all the sensitive parts in a way I was not as he lined the head with his slot.

I pushed in some out of novelty. I got nowhere after wedging the tip of my tip in. I feared the resistance, fearing it was going to hurt him worse than a hard dry shit. He kept egging me on, telling me to push it in further. He could take it. His slot was built for it. I did. He looked like he was about to shit a brick over the first full inch, so I stopped. I got a little freaked out realizing my dick was rubbing in his asshole, an asshole I was sure also pooped shit just like mine.

As I adjudicated both sides of this internal strife, I felt the vortex of his slot suck me in deeper along with whoever previously lubed him up.

He seemed more excited than I was that I was inside of him with his whimpers and pleading brown eyes. Years later, I learned how good ass could envelop dick, but then, at that moment, I was stunned and confused that his insides felt the way it felt. Absent of his guts feeling surprisingly slick, leaving me paranoid at the source of the lubricant, his entry was tight, but barely an inch or two deep, it flared open—wide open! I remember thinking about the story of Snow White and the seven dwarves and the roominess of their cottage. Like it felt bigger than he was, like stepping into a large empty room despite him being a twig of a boy.

His joy was short-lived.

He was frustrated I didn’t burst out the gate fucking him like a pro, using him like he was a two-bit fuck toy meant for my amusement. He carried on and on that black guys were natural God-given fucks, though, he later admitted, I was his first black guy.

“But you’re just a kid,” he spat in disgust through his thick Russian accent, as if we weren’t obviously the same age.

Any other time, this would’ve broken me. I was terribly self-conscious about being a stocky kid always afraid of being picked on for outsizing many of my fellow peers. I wasn’t big to where losing weight would’ve solved my problems. I was big and strong for my age, to where I could move those old heavy stationary refrigerators and deep freezers by myself while someone’s husband might’ve needed an extra set of hands. Add to that, not meeting an expectation of some sort that my religious upbringing taught me to always excel beyond. Strangely, however, “being just a kid” brought a wave of relief over me, especially since he was skinny and naked without a care in the world letting me do this wonderful thing to him as I chose to keep my shirt on to hide my big puffy silver dollar nipples.

He took the lead in directing me since he apparently had all the experience in the world.

He kept on telling me to churn it like butter. Again, I was a city boy that never visited a farm, so I had no real clue what the hell he was talking about. The closest I’d ever seen to butter being made was in cartoons, and even then, I could only remember two hands going up and down on something that looked like a broom handle before the exhausted character gave out.

If I had jagged off or understood the mechanics of dogs and cats fucking, I might’ve gotten the hang of it sooner. After all, he was hanging off the edge of a makeshift table for a tall, big boy like myself to have perfect alignment, and if I had any clue then what I was doing it would’ve made for the first great fuck of my life!

My learning curve wasn’t steep. Once I got that hip-thrusts wasn’t just a part of a nasty dance, I connected the dots. I became no stud by any means in that instant. Though, I knew enough to slow down and hold back from cumming. I didn’t know what that stirring feeling was yet. I was just deathly afraid I was going to piss in his ass. It didn’t help he kept calling himself a “dirty little cock whore” and a “dirty little slut” and a “worthless little bitch” and wanted me to follow along in doing the same, so I did, as I misheard “cum dump” for “dumb cunt” that electrified a light in his eyes begging me to fuck him harder.

Once he caught that my hesitation to unload wasn’t a courtesy, he instructed me to rip loose in him, so I did, roaring out the dirtiest cuss phrase I could think of as I came. Not because of the sensation around my dick, but in the name of total badassery. “Fuck you!”

What was that? Did I pee in his ass? It didn’t feel like pee. Maybe because I did it in his ass it felt differently? Yeah, the front part of his hole was squeezing the back of my dick! Yeah, that’s why it felt different!

I stayed in him for a few moments while we caught our breaths. Every time I felt I wanted to pull it out I felt like I wanted to “pee” again. After a very slow withdrawal, I finally yanked it all the way out. And after I pulled out, he had absolutely no use for me anymore, escorting me on my way out the door like I took up enough of his valuable time.

In the days that followed, I rode by that house every single day. Day or night. I was looking for him (or her) to stick their head out of the door and invite me back in.

It took a while for lightening to strike twice. But before it did, the two of us crossed paths in the cereal aisle at the store. He didn’t say anything. He just got up in my face and eyed me like a retard. Like if I knew what a blowjob was back then, he probably would’ve been game to give me one right there in the middle of the grocery store if I knew enough to ask.

His concentration was only broken when I brought his attention to the booming voice of this large, grinning, scruff beard-looking man gazing at us at the end of the aisle.

“Vadim,” I repeated after the man.

“How do you know my name?”

I pushed his cheek towards the man calling for him. Vadim came to, reached behind me to grab a bright green cereal box, and darted off towards the man I later learned to be his uncle by way of his mother. Before disappearing behind the shelf, I distinctly heard the man ask, “Who’s your cute little black friend?”