BOYS #3

Name: Victor

Age: 18

Location: Las Vegas

Status: Neighbor

Boundary Crossed: Oral Sex

It wasn’t until freshman year of high school that I was finally ready to kiss a boy. However, I was such an awkward adolescent that anyone I had a crush on either ignored me or made fun of me, in particular a cute surfer by the name of Bobby Wysaki. The only kid in school willing to go out with me was Aaron Pierro. We made out all the time, but he’d try so hard to get his hands under my shirt or down my pants that it usually degenerated into a wrestling match. Eventually, he broke up with me because I wouldn’t have sex with him.

Not long afterward, I was tanning on the side of the swimming pool of our apartment complex with my friend Amy when an older boy who had just moved next door started talking to me. He asked how old I was, and I told him the truth: fourteen. He was Italian with long dark-blond hair, a muscular body, and a motorcycle helmet under his arms; I was small even for my age, had a baby face, and a small swelling of the chest that only a career biologist would call breasts. I couldn’t believe he had picked me to talk to over my friend Amy, who was ten times hotter than I was. No guy had ever singled me out like that before. Looking back on it, I can’t help wondering if he was some kind of perv. Either way, my hormones were raging, and snagging an eighteen-year-old guy was a very cool coup for a fourteen-year-old.

After we talked, I went home. Every night he’d throw rocks at my window to get my attention and leave notes for me underneath a tree. He lived with his mother, but she worked nights. So one night I snuck over there and made out with him. I yearned to be kissed, to be desired, to taste a man in my mouth. When our tongues met, my knees melted and my heart soared. I was in love. I wanted to be needed. I needed to be wanted.

But this time, my dad caught me. “I am going to go over there and kill that boy,” he raged. I burst into tears, called him every curse word I knew, and stomped up to my room. It felt like I’d been waiting my whole life to be swept off my feet, and now my dad was threatening to ruin it. He marched to Victor’s house, threw him against the wall, and told him to stay away from me. The next day Victor told me we had to stop seeing each other.

Fortunately, Victor’s fear was short-lived. Soon, he was pelting my window with rocks again. And so we started dating. At least, that’s what I thought it was. All that really happened was I would go over to his house after school, while my dad slept all day, and Victor would feed me alcohol and pot and see how far he could get with me. His room was the ultimate teenage pad. It was plastered with posters of girls; a Dixie flag was draped across the ceiling; his bed was on the floor; and his windows were covered with tinfoil, so that the room was always dark and black-lit. I had never been so obsessed with a boy and his world before.

I wasn’t fully developed yet, and I was very embarrassed by my boobs. They appeared so strained and misshapen, and one was bigger than the other. Their worst features were the nipples, because the areolas were so puffy they looked diseased. I refused to let even my girlfriends see them. But Victor worked and worked at it, employing every persuasive device in the arsenal of the male species, until he wore me down and I let him put his hands under my shirt.

“Oh my God!” he exclaimed. “You have the most amazing boobs I’ve ever felt —in my entire life! You are going to have really big natural boobs when you’re older.”

“How can you tell?” I asked. They were just one step above mosquito bites.

“I can just tell,” he said, with the knowing air of an expert, which he probably was. For the following ten minutes, he praised them to the heavens until, finally, I whipped my shirt off. If he thought they were so great, he might as well see them.

Every time I saw Victor, we would make out until it felt like my lips were going to fall off. He’d shower me with compliments about how beautiful I was, which allowed me to slowly develop confidence in myself and my body. I would get so turned on by the way he talked about me that I’d leave a wet spot on his bed, right through my underwear and pants. The whole time his body was pressed against mine, he was so hard I imagined it leaving telltale bruises on my skin.

It took him several nights of constant pressure to talk me into putting my hand down his pants. I was so shocked to feel something like that. It was huge. I kept thinking, “Tree! Tree!” It took several days more before I had the courage to actually look at it.

After that, he talked me into licking just the end of it. And so, step by step, he begged and sweet-talked me into rubbing it for a minute and then licking it for ten seconds. The poor guy must have had such a painful case of blue balls every night.

Eventually, he had me licking and rubbing it at the same time. And then, one day, it happened. He came. I was freaked out. I wasn’t sure if that meant we had just had sex or what. He felt so bad about it. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he kept apologizing. “I was trying to hold off. I couldn’t stop myself.”

But it didn’t gross me out at all: nothing Victor could have done would have grossed me out.

However, no matter how hot I got, I refused to have sex with him. I wanted to do it so badly, but I just couldn’t. And the main reason was because his penis was the size of a tree trunk. It was huge, even in comparison to the professional cocksmen I’ve been with since. I was afraid it was going to hurt me. The other problem was that I hadn’t had my period yet, and for some reason I had the idea fixed in my head that I couldn’t have sex until I was actually menstruating.

Eventually, he laid it on the line. “Listen,” he told me, “I’m eighteen years old and I have to have sex. You have your chance now: If you want to start having sex, then we can stay together. If you don’t, well…”

With my face red and streaked with tears, I told him I was sorry. I just couldn’t.

I was so distraught afterward that I didn’t go to school for two weeks. In a cruel twist of fate, my period started a month later. But by then, Victor was dating somebody else —a girl who probably put out. In my eyes, it was an innocent puppy-love experience, though I’m sure in his eyes he probably just wanted to pound me.

Three years later, I was in a bar and saw Victor across the room. He was on leave from the army. As soon as he said hi, a locked box inside my heart opened and the long-gone feelings I had for him flooded back through me. We turned into kids again, scrambling for a room to finish what we had started. But this time I was ready, or so I thought. It still hurt. I couldn’t walk normally for days afterward.

That was the last time I ever saw him.