My True Anecdotes: Part 1 conclusion

[teenadmirer]

Hey hey... sorry it's been awhile. Honestly I've been dreading writing the next tale a bit, mainly because I suspect folks will not think it's true, and therefore will lose trust in me and imagine further tales are not true. It's not an ego thing. I don't care if you appreciate my integrity or not. It's just that I assume you will enjoy this biography less if you think it's a lie. That would be a shame. REGARDLESS... my keyboard has been screwed for a few days now. For instance, every letter "c" you see has been cut and pasted! I can't write like this! But my new keyboard is supposed to arrive tomorrow as per Walmart/Fedex promise... and god knows Walmart or Fedex would never lie.

Other good news... I remembered something from a year prior to the Kevin chapter, so I get to jump backward and tell that tale first and then I'll try to use that momentum to take the plunge into My Dreaded Tale of the Hot Mess that Was the Awkward End of My Cherry... Sorry for this verbose collection of hard-fought words here, which have done nothing to turn you on. Back real soon...

[TeenFan]

It's not an ego thing. I don't care if you appreciate my integrity or not. It's just that I assume you will enjoy this biography less if you think it's a lie.

Other good news... I remembered something from a year prior to the Kevin chapter, so I get to jump backward and tell that tale first and then I'll try to use that momentum to take the plunge into My Dreaded Tale of the Hot Mess that Was the Awkward End of My Cherry... Sorry for this verbose collection of hard-fought words here, which have done nothing to turn you on. Back real soon...

I'm getting my popcorn ready, hot and greasy, messy popcorn.

[teenadmirer]

I'm getting my popcorn ready, hot and greasy, messy popcorn.

Perfect. Don't forget the cherry on top!

[teenadmirer]

Cling Film

So... I'm going to have to give up a detail which I really didn't want to, for reasons I wish not to explain, It more concerns later chapters but now is the time: The sport that Kevin and I played together was lacrosse. Box lacrosse. The indoor game in arenas where the ice is removed in summer.

The year before the Kevin chapter, the city house league was struggling for player registration and in order to launch four teams, we rep players had to participate in the house league AS WELL, in order to qualify for the rep program. The house league provided every team different sweaters of course, but we all got the same white shorts.

I have never in my life, before or after, seen clothing material like this. It was extremely airy but at the same time seemed thick, and perfectly opaque. They were not soft at all, but a bit rough. A very course weave I suppose, and very artificial. Some kind of nylon or rayon maybe. Immediate observations: Very cool in wretchedly hot summer arenas. They basically refused to hold moisture. Dried in no time flat after laundering or being sweated to death in, and when abandoned in a teen boy's terminally-stink-ridden lacrosse bag, was very reluctant to pick up smell. If only that were true of our very bulky and practically unwashable upper-body protective gear, similar to that of hockey.

I got to wearing these shorts to tennis lessons for their whiteness and airiness.

I missed a lesson one day when I felt not in the mood, not realizing it was our last session of the summer. When I returned for the next tennis day, I realized what happened as no one else arrived.

This faculty involved a semi-private golf course, racket club and swimming pool and a public swim had started. I figured I could take a swim while I was here and my lacrosse shorts would quickly dry afterward! I could ride my bike standing up and the breeze would air them out in a jiffy. I paid the fee, hit the change room, stripped and slipped back into the shorts sans tighty-whities, which I knew would NOT be in a hurry to dry otherwise, and I scurried out to the outdoor pad.

It was quite busy for a morning swim so the dive board was sealed off for safety. I stepped into the deep end, submarined around, surfaced, treaded water and looked around at what skimpy-attired young scenery was available, and there was plenty. I noticed a threesome of girls my age sitting together against the fence on their spread towels who were cycling though glances my way. One was definitely cute. Was I of interest to them? They were very near the spot where I had entered the pool. I swam that way, not casually but with the most proper technique I could muster and then heaved myself out of the water in front of them, not by crawling or scrambling but by the most athletic manner possible: kind of fast push-up style swinging one knee high and planting a foot on the edge and powering to a standing position. It went well. I had only packed my hand towel in my tennis bag, no beach towel, so I'd left that little thing, along with clothes, etc, with the Male Basket Checker (official job title BTW).

I gave my head a brisk doggie shake to cast off some water, then fanned my fingers through my hair to dislodge more and to give myself what I hoped was a cuter spikier look than a matted head. Quick glance to see if I had an audience and.... oh yeah. Audience was an understatement. All three were STARING.

My head shot down to see what was up, and was greeted with an impossible scene. I was not naked but yet naked at the same time. There was my dick. Plain as day. there's the shaft. There's the head. There's that Nazi-helmet ridge. I was flaccid by the way, and the shorts, wet wet wet... were not simply see-through, they in fact looked perfectly opaque in certain places, yet functionally invisible wherever they touched skin. And they were touching almost all of the skin WHAT SHOULD NOT BE SEEN. I was shocked, light headed, and utterly desperate to somehow retain dignity. I looked back up and pretended I had not glimpsed any problem, and stemming the urge to reach down for coverage and risk drawing more attention, I swiveled right and marched at 1.5x speed to the dressing room, pretty sure my ass was entirely on display. I re-dressed and rode home with gitch now installed between my junk and the shorts that were destined for the garbage can in about ten minutes.

Whatever pervert pederasts (no offense!) ran that house league program... we had to participate again the next year and they gave us another pair of magical vanishing shorts. I gave mine away to my cutest teammate. Just kidding! I just left them behind.

[TeenFan]

Being the perverted person that I am, I did go to apartment swimming pools (before regulations caused them all to put up fences with
coded gates) and I wore thin material shorts that were as "Clingy" as possible. These shorts were not see through, but did not do much to
hide any parts that push outward. At a couple apartment pools I even wore a Speedo, which is almost unheard of for normal swim attire.

Once I removed the front inner lining of an old Speedo swimsuit. This did make the suit show off things much more than it normally did.

[NudeBaG]

Cling Film

So... I'm going to have to give up a detail which I really didn't want to, for reasons I wish not to explain, It more concerns later chapters but now is the time: The sport that Kevin and I played together was lacrosse. Box lacrosse. The indoor game in arenas where the ice is removed in summer.

The year before the Kevin chapter, the city house league was struggling for player registration and in order to launch four teams, we rep players had to participate in the house league AS WELL, in order to qualify for the rep program. The house league provided every team different sweaters of course, but we all got the same white shorts.

I have never in my life, before or after, seen clothing material like this. It was extremely airy but at the same time seemed thick, and perfectly opaque. They were not soft at all, but a bit rough. A very course weave I suppose, and very artificial. Some kind of nylon or rayon maybe. Immediate observations: Very cool in wretchedly hot summer arenas. They basically refused to hold moisture. Dried in no time flat after laundering or being sweated to death in, and when abandoned in a teen boy's terminally-stink-ridden lacrosse bag, was very reluctant to pick up smell. If only that were true of our very bulky and practically unwashable upper-body protective gear, similar to that of hockey.

I got to wearing these shorts to tennis lessons for their whiteness and airiness.

I missed a lesson one day when I felt not in the mood, not realizing it was our last session of the summer. When I returned for the next tennis day, I realized what happened as no one else arrived.

This faculty involved a semi-private golf course, racket club and swimming pool and a public swim had started. I figured I could take a swim while I was here and my lacrosse shorts would quickly dry afterward! I could ride my bike standing up and the breeze would air them out in a jiffy. I paid the fee, hit the change room, stripped and slipped back into the shorts sans tighty-whities, which I knew would NOT be in a hurry to dry otherwise, and I scurried out to the outdoor pad.

It was quite busy for a morning swim so the dive board was sealed off for safety. I stepped into the deep end, submarined around, surfaced, treaded water and looked around at what skimpy-attired young scenery was available, and there was plenty. I noticed a threesome of girls my age sitting together against the fence on their spread towels who were cycling though glances my way. One was definitely cute. Was I of interest to them? They were very near the spot where I had entered the pool. I swam that way, not casually but with the most proper technique I could muster and then heaved myself out of the water in front of them, not by crawling or scrambling but by the most athletic manner possible: kind of fast push-up style swinging one knee high and planting a foot on the edge and powering to a standing position. It went well. I had only packed my hand towel in my tennis bag, no beach towel, so I'd left that little thing, along with clothes, etc, with the Male Basket Checker (official job title BTW).

I gave my head a brisk doggie shake to cast off some water, then fanned my fingers through my hair to dislodge more and to give myself what I hoped was a cuter spikier look than a matted head. Quick glance to see if I had an audience and.... oh yeah. Audience was an understatement. All three were STARING.

My head shot down to see what was up, and was greeted with an impossible scene. I was not naked but yet naked at the same time. There was my dick. Plain as day. there's the shaft. There's the head. There's that Nazi-helmet ridge. I was flaccid by the way, and the shorts, wet wet wet... were not simply see-through, they in fact looked perfectly opaque in certain places, yet functionally invisible wherever they touched skin. And they were touching almost all of the skin WHAT SHOULD NOT BE SEEN. I was shocked, light headed, and utterly desperate to somehow retain dignity. I looked back up and pretended I had not glimpsed any problem, and stemming the urge to reach down for coverage and risk drawing more attention, I swiveled right and marched at 1.5x speed to the dressing room, pretty sure my ass was entirely on display. I re-dressed and rode home with gitch now installed between my junk and the shorts that were destined for the garbage can in about ten minutes.

Whatever pervert pederasts (no offense!) ran that house league program... we had to participate again the next year and they gave us another pair of magical vanishing shorts. I gave mine away to my cutest teammate. Just kidding! I just left them behind.

How old were you, and how old were the girls?

[teenadmirer]

How old were you, and how old were the girls?

Sorry I was definitely 13 at the time - and I'd sprouted by then, with a good tuft and all the plumbing. The girls, best guess between 13 and 14.

[NudeBaG]

How old were you, and how old were the girls?

Sorry I was definitely 13 at the time - and I'd sprouted by then, with a good tuft and all the plumbing. The girls, best guess between 13 and 14.

Very exciting!
Embarrassing, but exciting!

[teenadmirer]

OLD MACDONALD HAD A FARM... GOD HELP US ALL

As usual: some of the dialogue here is dead-true, while most of it is "true" in that it fits perfectly into the authentic essence of these memories. It's the dialogue that surely must have been said.

Third year of High School: I'm taking a photography course for an easy credit. School day ends. Instead of biking home right away, I am in the yard shooting trees. This is selective work. There is no digital yet. Film is finite and must be developed and enlarged so there is pressure to make every shot count.

I migrate around the parking lot corner to the public park area. A pickup truck is waiting there at the outskirts all alone and a woman is heading (from the school) straight for it. It's the eighties. Women don't drive pick-ups. She has sizable breasts and dark hair, pony-tailed. Pleasant enough looks. Wild guess: 32-35 years old. I've seen her in the halls and heard her being called Mrs. MacDonald. She seems to be smiling at me as if she knows me. I pause and watch her approaching (the truck, or me? We're in-line).

She says hello, what am I shooting, and how's my brother doing. Me: Hello, trees that refuse to reveal their inner treeness, and how do you know my brother, and Oh, you taught him? At St. Luke's? What? Here? But he's only six. No, no, I don't even have an older brother.

She laughs at her mistake, smiles too much, deposits her giant handbag in the cab, wanders toward me, asks about trees and why am I shooting them if they're so stubborn?

"Because they're here?"

"What would you rather be shooting?"

"Animals or sports."

"Ah. too bad we're not closer to my place. I have two sons and they love their pets and sports!" She's looking around. Is she meeting a carpooler here? She recites their pet roster. It sounds like a goddam petting zoo. I tell her so.

"We live on a farm," she says, "and no jokes please!"

Okay. I'm starting to feel weird.

"My name is Marlene MacDonald," she says.

"OH! MacDonald. Right. Had a farm. I get it."

Turns out it's not a fully-working farm but enough to get a great tax break. She's still glancing around. I acknowledge that her farm would make for a great photo safari and "Are you waiting for someone?"

"No no. But I should go." She is looking RIGHT at me now. Still weird. What is HAPPENING here? "You know," she says, "I have to go home for awhile and leave my family some dinner, and then I have to come back into town. I could give you an hour or so to take all the pictures you want and then give you a lift back here.

"Oh." I am feeling suspicious but I know this can't be what I think this is, because this is real life and not letters to Playboy magazine. But what if?

There are two possibilities here: ONE, I come back to class tomorrow with a kickass photo assignment to process instead of three tree shots and twenty portraits of my mom and little brother. Or TWO: I finally find out whether I'm gay or straight. I want to say NO but I cannot find a logical reason to. "Okay."

She does not tell me yet that she lives in Higglyville which is NOT CLOSE (nor its real name but please go with it). That info eventually comes out along with her personal history that I did not ask for. She's an art teacher (explains some things). She has been with her husband since she was sixteen. He WAITED for her. She was not allowed to date until then. He's the only man she has "been with" in her life. He has been "with" other girls before her and this matter has become an issue. He thinks that she should get some experience with other lovers in order to even the score.

I'm getting it now. And I'm starting to feel nervous.

She says she was not comfortable with that and hubby suggested, hey, you're a teacher. You could apply those instincts; teach a young man what you know.

Now I am SURE this is really happening and I start growing used to the idea. Most of my friends have got their dick wet by now and I have not.

Turns out Marlene and her hubby had previously set something up with an 18-year old boy who backed out last minute "...but enough about me," she says. "Where's your love life at? You have one?"

"Nope. But I feel like that's gonna change soon. I feel ready."

She nods. "Yeah, soon would be good. No time like the present." She glances at me. I feel like we have just signed a contract.

She stops at a gas station for cigarettes and I can SORT of see her shadow just inside the window. Is she on a pay phone?

Now she is smoking in the truck and I vow not to kiss her. I HAVE done some heavy kissing by now including with a smoker who tasted seriously gross.

Finally we arrive and the farm is pretty cool. Several buildings including a tall three-door garage made of tin by the looks of it; far bigger than their little wooden barn. I don't see any animals yet and I'm getting nervous again. "Is anyone else home?"

"No, we'll be alone." She pulls off the stony laneway and parks on the grass. "Listen. You can take pictures if that's what you want. Take your time, and I'll drive you back to the school whenever you're ready. But... I have other options in mind. You know what I mean?"

"I do. But when will your husband and kids be home?"

"Not until I tell them to."

"Does... he know?"

"Yes. I contacted him. He's hopeful for us."

We enter through a door directly onto the living room. Two rooms, two hallways and a back door all branch off of this room. I expect we'll go somewhere more private. We don't. She invites me to sit, fetches me a coke. Her hair is down now. There is a lot of it. She sits RIGHT beside me, leans into me, tickles the back of my neck. She reminds me of Christa now. She is the aggressor, insists on undressing me herself but I manage to get her top off before she takes over. She has cast my clothes across the floor. Nobody mentions birth control. I am aware of condoms and the pill and that's where my knowledge ends. I am not the Social Director of this cruise. I am putty in her hands.

Speaking of which, I am LIMP. Naked and limp. She plays with me. I sluggishly respond. "I'm sorry," I say. "I'm nervous."

"I know you are. It's fine. it's just fine."

Things start to take form. She lies down on her couch. I hop on top and rout around with embarrassing incompetence. She gets a hand down there and takes care of all that. "I'm sorry I'm so wet," she says. She's wet alright. She's also CAVERNOUS. Am I SMALL? Is her husband a CENTAUR? This is NOT what I expected. How in the hell am I gonna get enough friction?

We try for awhile. Things wax and wane. She's a wild water kingdom and continues to apologize.

Suddenly I feel a whole lot of NOT RIGHT. I push up, look around at the doors and windows and all the nooks and crannies of Grand MacDonald Station. "What's wrong?" she says.

"Is someone home?"

"No. No-no. Don't worry."

We carry on with this hopeless crusade. Her hands are everywhere on me and I'm sweating like a fiend. We're BOTH wet. We're banging so hard the floor creaks. Wait was that US? I prairie dog again. "Did you hear that?" I hiss. "Are you sure no one's home?" She soothes me. I'm losing steam down there, but I want to come and she really wants me to.

Again something jars me and I swing my head around and this time I see a shadow move on the wall of the nearest hallway.

Game over. Insert Pac Man ring tone. "Someone is HOME" I hiss in her ear. I spin my head fast and there is his goddam face. He's jumping back but not fast enough.

I scramble to my knees. My legs are wobbly. Fight or flight? The gig is up. He eases back into sight, grinning sheepishly. "Hi!" he says. I turn and stare at Marlene, horrified.

"He won't touch you!" she declares. "He just wants to watch! He won't touch you, I promise. I'm sorry."

Touch me? I'm not even clear. Touch me like beat me up or touch me like caress me?

"I'm Bill. So sorry about this." He is fairly youthful for his age and damn near as blonde as me. We're calling him Bill. I don't actually remember his name. He approaches, arm extended and shakes my hand while I am naked and straddling his wife. This is TOO surreal and now I deeply regret leaving my bike behind. I could have put it in the damn bed of the truck and had an escape pod.

Marlene is softly caressing my arms and taut belly (ah... youth) while Bill breaks into a pleasant monologue, explaining everything while he's picking all my clothes up off the floor. My mind is god knows where. I'm not really hearing him. He begs us to continue, begs as in the polite form, not as in needily. He smiles, sits and begins folding my clothes with astounding care. He's one of those boy-cuckolding laundry fetishists apparently but he seems so nice and so harmless and I'm starting to think that maybe he IS nice and harmless.

They promise me that, no, their kids are not home, but with a sitter, and they convince me to continue.

I've had a rest. Her fingers are working on me, This dude is watching. I dive back in, and at some point I start to relish the kinkiness of it all. I get to feeling SOLID about this experience and now things are starting to look up. If I'm performing better with a man watching than without, what does that say about the gay-straight equation?

I finally come the impossible come and it is shockingly INTENSE.

Bill returns to host mode but now he's interviewing me. He wants to know everything about me. My clothes are pristinely folded and still on his lap. I wish he'd hand them over. The horniness is draining fast and I'm sitting stark naked and vulnerable, upright on the couch now; the couch we've sweated to absolute ruins.

Marlene rises, steps into her panties, goes to Bill and reaches for my clothes, thank the gods. But she takes only my eighties-orange tee shirt from him and PUTS IT ON and walks away! Are you fucking kidding me? She's gonna wreck it; stretch it with those gazongas of hers even though it's considered oversized. I feel extremely annoyed by this. Is this a trophy? She better not think she's keeping it.

She returns with another coke for me and sits and we talk. They don't offer me my clothes. I'm the only one naked and I WANT to ask for them but.. I feel sort of at their mercy. One must be polite with the spiders when you're in their lair.

Eventually they had to surrender my clothes. They had to take me back to the city and go get their kids. The whole thing was a shit show at the time but at some point it became a bit of a turn on looking back at it, how this middle age couple kept a teen boy naked because they presumably enjoyed looking at him.

I suspect this telling of the tale is also a shit show. I intended to be as brief as possible and rush to the meagre CFNM punch line but in the moment, every detail felt necessary in order to explain the next; in order to guard authenticity. It felt like brevity would suggest falseness.

Good news is... I don't think any further tales will put us in this particular trap again.

[TeenFan]

Awesome story. You learned many things about yourself that day.

I had a fantasy that has one similarity to this. In my fantasy I am the man watching two people getting it on.
I was at the apartment pool, this time at the complex I actually lived at (it was a large complex with more than one pool).
I saw a very good looking teenage couple in the corner of the pool, and they had their hands all over each other.
I heard the guy say "You can feel how big I am."
It's obvious to me what they are doing, and it would be so obvious to anyone looking their way.

I thought about this, but didn't do it. I wanted to go up to that young couple and offer them a more private location where they can
be touch-feely friendly with each other. I wanted to set it up that I could end up watching them have sex, or attempt to have sex, on my bed.
In my fantasy the teen girl would want me to get naked too, and possibly join in for a three-way bump n grind. The guy would be nervous
and hesitant, but would enjoy the two on one action.

Of course if I tried to do this for real...then it could have turned out badly.

I started a story on this subject. It was three years ago, amazingly.

viewtopic.php?f=5&t=2620

I got to the big plot twist, but never put in a conclusion.
To make the story basically girlspns friendly, I changed the adult male (me) to young adult woman.