AdrianCanadrian

Hi, I’m Adrian. In a nutshell, I’m a creative gay nerd who thought puberty was sexy, and still think it is! I wore glasses from ages 7 to 12, and wore only tighty-whitey briefs until I was 13, when I started wearing boxer briefs too. Never liked boxers. When I was a preteen I had a couple romantic crushes on same-age girls at school, but that didn’t last; by the time I was a teen, I was purely gay, sexually and romantically; attracted to those cute, newly horny middle school boys. Puberty was fascinating and hot to me; adults were not. Hasn’t changed since. I’m an adult now, but I want to share with you my sexual journey through boyhood. To be clear, I didn’t do anything sexual with anyone until I was nearly 24, and I have stayed totally celibate toward minors, but I think you’ll find my story surprisingly titillating nonetheless. I grew up in U.S. suburbia, middle class, in the 90s and 00s, with a mom, dad, and one younger brother. But I’d say my story is fairly timeless, and if you’re younger or older than me I think my story will still resonate with some of your memories and feelings. _____________________________________________________________________________________ AGE 3-4 _____________________________________________________________________________________ Let’s start at the beginning. Before I reached school age, I would sometimes see my dad’s flaccid, cut penis as he walked naked around the bathroom while my mom gave me a bath. I would find myself staring at it, and I remember finding it a bit monstrous. To me, it seemed too fat and too brownish. More than anything, I was secretly bothered and confused by how much bigger it was than my own cut little acorn dick, though it was hard to look away. _____________________________________________________________________________________ AGE 5-6 _____________________________________________________________________________________ Around age 5 or 6, I would sometimes pull out a particular picture book when I was alone; it had illustrations of young shirtless boys on a field trip to an aquarium, and the fantastical chaos that ensued. I was inexplicably drawn to these images. I also remember, while watching The Land Before Time II, getting a strange feeling during the scene when Littlefoot is captured by the Egg Stealers, grabbed tightly around his neck and over his mouth, then dangled over a cliff by his tail. I was simultaneously disturbed and fascinated by the hero/ego being rendered helpless. Finally, around this age I discovered something that I loved to do while in the bathtub alone. I would let the water drain, and when its surface had lowered halfway down I would lean back against the ledge, sprawl my legs out, and stick my abdomen out of the water, nice and round. I’d then take a warm, wet washcloth and drape it tightly and smoothly over my tummy, stretching one corner over my privates and tucking it under my butt. The way the wet cloth clung to my smooth skin when I puffed out my belly was comforting and titillating at the same time; I imagine I got little boners from time to time, hidden under the cloth as a small bulge. Today I still love wearing tight underwear; the pressure it puts on my body, the silky caress and stimulating embrace, makes my penis and balls hard and tight, straining to break free and cum. I also like arching my lower back and puffing out my thin belly when I'm getting close or cumming; it's just a satisfying and sexy part of the sexual experience, to me. _____________________________________________________________________________________ AGE 7-8 _____________________________________________________________________________________ I was pretty asexual during these years. _____________________________________________________________________________________ AGE 9-10 _____________________________________________________________________________________ One day when I was 9, I had an exciting idea. I closed myself in my room with nervous exhilaration (my door did not have a lock), stripped down to my briefs, and sat down at my desk, a taped-together 3-foot-long canvas of manila-colored construction paper before me. I then began the task of drawing my body, from my neck to my toes (I left out my head because I didn’t think I had the time or ability to draw it correctly). My drawing depicted me standing, facing forward, with nothing but a pair of briefs on (I was too nervous to draw my privates). Throughout the process I constantly examined my actual body, pulling it around and memorizing the placement and spacing of everything, so as to make the drawing as accurate as I could. Unfortunately, before I was completely finished, my dad barged in, telling me to get ready for my haircut appointment. I and my drawing both jumped three feet into the air in panic, and I scrambled to put a pair of jeans on as quickly as I could while trying to draw any attention away from the drawing that was now face up on the floor. I did not want my parents, especially my dad, to know about my drawing, but I feared the jig was up. At the hair salon it was a nauseating struggle to contain my anxiety, and eventually I decided to pull my mom into the janitor’s closet and tell her about the drawing and why I made it, so she could head-off the debilitating disapproval I feared I would receive from my dad once we returned home. I tried to explain it away as one of my creative/analytical ideas (I was that sort of kid). The true culprit, which I dared not divulge, was that nameless, strange, enthralling feeling in my groin, its faint ache swelling pleasurably inside me as I stripped and drew myself naked. Also around this age, I found myself sucked into a particular chapter of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, in which 14-year-old Harry sneaks his way into the mysterious, luxurious prefects’ bathroom, strips naked, descends into the pool-sized bathtub, and is harassed by a voyeuristic ghost girl. To say my curiosity and imagination were spiked would be an understatement, but I also felt an anxious compulsion to make sure no one was near me or, god-forbid, reading over my shoulder. I was similarly aroused by an event in the novel ‘Bud, Not Buddy’, about a boy and a bunch of jazz musicians. The boy is sneaking out of the house at night, but before he leaves, he sneaks into the bedroom of an antagonistic older boy, who is asleep. He dips the boy’s fingers into a cup of warm water and watches with vengeful pleasure as the older boy wets himself. Around this age, there was a girl in my grade who basically made a game out of following and stalking me when we were on the playground during recess. I didn’t know how to deal with this beyond being awkwardly polite, but clearly she had some fascination for me. I didn’t have a crush on her though. Around age 10, I started to become very curious about what underwear other kids were wearing. Of course, as I grew older, the occasions to organically see other kids in their underwear dried up; it was private now. I myself wore tighty-whities (white cotton briefs with colored elastic bands and a double-layered opening in the front) 100% of the time until I was 13 years old, and I was most excited by the idea of another boy wearing the same type of underwear that I wore. So, if I were to satisfy my curiosity, I would have to do some sneaking. The first underwear drawer I raided belonged to the son of my dad’s best friend, who was three years younger than me. While he and my younger brother were stuck in front of the living room TV playing video games, I quietly slipped away and found my way to the drawers in his closet. To my surprise, I found training pants and diapers inside; not really my cup of tea. I never talked to him about it, since that would reveal my weird snooping. Next, when I was 11, I was over at a long-time friend’s house, and while she was out, I sneaked into her room, alone. I opened drawers until I found her colorful panties (which I had never seen, of course), nervously stripped my shorts off, and pulled a pair of hers up my legs, over my own briefs. It was very exciting, but my intruder-anxiety trumped my exploration, and I threw everything back into its original place after a couple seconds and silently slipped out of her room. The last time I went raiding was when I was 14, at an end-of-season party for my brother’s baseball team. It was held at the house of one of the 10-year-old players. When the activity of the party moved from the host boy’s upstairs bedroom down to the kitchen for cake or whatever, I stealthily sneaked back upstairs and locked myself alone in his room. My heart was beating out of control in reaction to my diabolical recklessness and the possibility of someone knocking, as I opened the cute boy’s drawers. I was wearing mainly boxer-briefs at this age, but I still hoped the kid wore briefs, rather than succumbing to the pressure to wear boxers because they’re “cooler.” To my great exhilaration, in his underwear drawer I found a neatly stacked pile of briefs, each with a different color pattern: one blue and black, one with a camo pattern, one classic white, etc. I flipped through them slowly, then shut the drawer and slowly, silently slipped out of the room, back down to the party. I got away with it, and now I knew what the boy had on under his shorts! Successfully ascertaining and literally holding another boy’s intimate secret, without his knowledge, really turned me on; it made me feel clever and in control. Back to late elementary school: Dad and I would watch the channel SpikeTV, for shows like MXC. The commercial breaks had this one particular ad with a group of intimidating, sexualized women, where their leader orders a man in the foreground to “drop ‘em” (i.e. his pants). Imagining being in the man’s position, being bullied into exposing my privates, disturbed me. Honestly, this commercial may have contributed to me being turned off by women. But, beyond this traumatic soft-core stuff, I had never yet seen porn or anyone else masturbate. Nevertheless, by this age I had discovered the pleasures of masturbation all on my own; the result of another weird creative experiment I'd come up with in my private free time. I developed a peculiar method, and would find myself in the mood to try it every month or so. Whenever the mood arose in my head and I gauged that nobody in the house was going to bother me about dinner or extracurriculars or homework or bedtime for a while, I would quietly close myself in my bedroom. Alone, I would change into nothing but my briefs and a vastly oversized white t-shirt, then grab my prized dual blacklight/flashlight device, which I had earned through a school fundraiser and which was about the size of a full-size Hershey’s chocolate bar. With my device in-hand, I would then slip under my bed covers, lay on my back, slip my briefs down to my feet, and cocoon myself inside the tent-like t-shirt, pulling my legs inside by cinching my knees up near my chest, then withdrawing my skinny arms through the sleeves, and finally pulling my head in through the collar, into this private fabric chamber. I loved the fact that I was effectively naked inside the shirt. It was not a conventionally comfortable position, but the casual contortion was part of the stimulation for me. Once inside my cocoon, I would illuminate the chamber of white fabric and lanky boy limbs with a surreal indigo glow, like I had my own sexy skating rink, or otherwise use the flashlight to direct a warm beam of yellow light onto my privates, spotlighting my little acorn penis (you could always see the entire head, no matter how soft I was) with high shadow and contrast. The fact that my private bits were so visible and center stage would turn me on, my boyhood hardening and plastering itself against my lower belly within seconds, probably 3 inches long at the time, with the glans engorged and glossy. All the preparation would create an immense sense of anticipation, so when I finally pulled the trigger and started gingerly rubbing and caressing my erection with my fingers, the sensations were intense and enrapturing. The most sensitive/pleasure-inducing spot on my penis was/is essentially the circumcised remnant of my frenulum: a narrow length of special nerves which stretched from the cleft of my glans halfway down my shaft to the circumcision scar. I couldn’t prod or caress this spot for more than a minute, at most, before I would always feel a frustrating and highly unnerving sensation of suddenly having to pee really desperately. Not wanting to urinate all over myself in this rather compromising position, I would stop, release myself from my chamber, and redress for the outside world. And so, I naively withheld the wonders of orgasm from my reality for a few more long years. I was very introverted, self-repressed, and perfectionistic, a model student and top of my class in terms of grades and talent. Since I had received so much positive reinforcement about being “smart” and “gifted” throughout my young life, I had taken that on as a core part of my identity, which I needed to keep living up to in order to feel ok about myself. I was constantly stressed and nervous about any performance scenario, and I bullied myself whenever I made a mistake, deriding myself as a “stupid idiot”. I had also internalized a paranoia about anyone seeing my privates or seeing me undressed; I literally never used a public urinal until sometime in middle school, always opting for a stall. Also, I would collapse into a traumatized, sobbing mess of “please, no!” during my annual well-check physicals, when the doctor (usually female) would ask me to drop my pants and underwear and show my privates, so she could check for any abnormalities. My mom would often be there too, trying to assure me this was “ok”, but that just confused me more, because I trusted her, and so my inability to get over my trepidation made me feel like something was wrong with me for being so freaked out. _____________________________________________________________________________________ AGE 11 _____________________________________________________________________________________ In 5th grade, the conversations among my friends were branching into new, mysterious subjects. Let me explain: Since I was 7, I had been developing a secret, frustrating, pre-adolescent, romantic crush on a really smart, pretty, rather popular girl in my grade who I interacted with on a nearly daily basis. By 5th grade I had built up the gall to anxiously slip this information to my best friends. As we leaned against the cafeteria wall, awkwardly watching my crush and a bunch of other girls and goofy boys dance at our first ever “lock-in” school dance, I whispered to them that she was “so beautiful.” Later that year I participated in the mandatory 5th Grade Camp (100 chaperoned eleven-year-olds living in a forested summer camp for a week). I was in my cabin one evening with my seven boy bunkmates, the chaperones had left, and we were all listlessly lounging on our bunks. Suddenly I found myself pulled into my first “bro” conversation about who each of us had a crush on. One of my best friends, a bit of a goofball, got under his covers and started cartoonishly humping the mattress, exclaiming the name of his crush over and over. Everyone laughed, and soon enough it was my turn. They started really digging into me to reveal my crush, repeatedly asking what I wanted to do with her. I anxiously stammered, stubbornly trying come up with more and more ways to shut them down. Having never seen porn before and not having an older sibling who could have educated me, I only had a vague concept of what humping and name-moaning signified (though I did perceive it as rude and obnoxious). Regardless, their bug ultimately took hold of my brain, and I finally slipped under my covers and started humping the bed, quietly exclaiming my crush’s name, feeling a mixture of embarrassment, excitement, and confusion. Seeing how everyone knew me as the studious, serious guy who normally barely tolerated such immature shenanigans, my actions garnered quite a reaction from the boys in the room. No one blabbered publicly about this incident, thankfully, but it came up in conversations amongst us friends every once in a while for a few years after. Also during this later phase of my elementary school career, there was a day when I accidentally barged into the toilet room when my mom was in there. I caught a glimpse of her pubic area, which was a maw of curly black hair. I shut the door immediately, apologizing profusely and thoroughly embarrassed. The image freaked me out a little, though; if that was what girls had between their legs, then I really had no interest in getting any closer. My appreciation of the penis escalated that day, lol. More pleasantly, during 5th grade, a new boy, Cooper, moved to my school, into the grade below me. There was something about him: his swoopy, sunny blonde hair and his cute, confident face. I couldn’t explain it; whenever I saw him pass in the halls, I was confoundedly mesmerized by him. Considering how shy as I was and how confusing these feelings were, I never exchanged more than a couple of perfunctory words with him. I was able to equate these feelings with the warm, slightly nauseating feelings I felt around my girl crush, but I knew that this phenomenon wasn’t normal, like that was. I never told anyone about this. There was a boy my age who I was in Cub Scouts and choir with, who was a goofball and was also very touchy with me, poking me and trying to hold my hand when he could get the chance. I saw this as harmless but annoying; certainly did not see it as an opportunity to try sexual stuff with him or anything; I wasn’t even explicitly thinking about that with Cooper, even though he gave me butterflies. At the same time, the posse of smart girls in my grade (two of which I had crushes on) began interacting with me in an increasingly teasing way; a less friendly, more supremely frustrating way. For example, I particularly remember one of my crushes teaming up with her best friend, finding me during recess, and asking me loudly and jokingly if I wished I could go out with her. I wasn’t ready to publicly admit it out of the blue, and I felt like I was being set up for rejection; it made me feel really nervous and embarrassed. One of the most popular boys in my grade was already “dating” one of my crushes, and I felt jealous and bitter; defeated and clueless before I even tried. Admittedly, my own behavior wasn’t helping to repair the decaying dynamic between me and the girls either; I spent a lot of my free-time during fourth and fifth grade organizing various iterations of a “Boys Only Association” (BOA) with my boy friends, conquering playground territory from the “evil” Girls Only group. Regardless, I still had a secret fantasy of being close and affectionate with my girl crushes, and receiving the same attention from them. I was turned off by the idea of “having my way” with them like a mindless, gross brute, or them “having their way” with me like in that SpikeTV commercial; instead, I longed for their affection, approval, and compliments; and for me to be allowed to give them the same. I thought they were beautiful, and I wanted to be able to tell them that. I respected them, but was also intimidated by them. My attraction to girls was essentially psychological: a grand excitement over the prospect of getting affection from the people I perceived to be the most mystical. As early puberty started blooming in me, I remember standing in just my briefs in front of a mirror at home, and noticing that my balls were starting to take up more space in my underwear, creating a hot cotton-clad downward bulge between my legs. …And then my family and I moved to a new town. I was forced to abandon all of this strange muck that was starting to stir up my social and emotional life; I had to transition to middle school and start from scratch in a new place. Even so, I stubbornly clung to the bitterness I felt toward the girls; the bitterness of my wasted, unexpressed desires. _____________________________________________________________________________________ AGE 12 _____________________________________________________________________________________6th grade was limbo. Other than academics, baseball, and my family, there was essentially no continuity from my original existence. I made one good friend at my school, a boy with long blond hair who played the same instrument as me in band, but he did not register in my mind the same way as my hometown buds, who I still considered my “best friends.” In a similar way, I was able to develop a new crush on one girl, but it had none of the meaning or power that my lingering long-term crush from elementary school possessed. In this foreign environment, I found comfort by deeply retreating into an imaginary world that my younger brother and I lived in during much of our free-time at home, spinning an epic story of war-torn kingdoms, a la Lord of the Rings, using our LEGO sets and action figures. This would end up being the grand finale of my days of childhood imagination, because puberty was about to drive a truck through my life. Around my 12th birthday, my first pubic hairs sprouted at the base of my penis and on my balls. Then, at around 12 and a half years old, I orgasmed and ejaculated for the first time ever; unfortunately, I was sleeping at the time. I don’t remember the dream, or the orgasm; I just remember waking up with the sticky aftermath in my briefs. My balls had been building up so much cum by that point that my pubescent brain had to dispose of it somehow, lol. Not yet appreciating the full implications of this discovery (only vaguely recognizable from the rudimentary sex-ed class I had taken the year prior), I put the strange experience behind me and went on with my life as if nothing had changed. [According to Alfred Kinsey’s research, if a boy’s source of first ejaculation was a wet dream, then he almost certainly had already been capable of ejaculation by other means (ex: masturbation) for months beforehand. Therefore, I probably developed the capacity around my 12th birthday, though I certainly didn’t realize it at the time.] Throughout the process of moving and acclimating to my new town and school, I was getting horny more and more frequently. This is when I secretly raided my friend’s underwear drawer and tried on a pair of her panties. I also continued my private masturbatory teasing sessions, and I was ignorant (and uninterested) as ever about what would occur after I started tensing up and feeling like I had to pee. I always diligently stopped short, which was frustrating, but also somewhat addictive. However, I eventually got bored (and, frankly, too tall) to continue my t-shirt cocoon method; so, I started coming up with increasingly unique and convoluted masturbation ideas. I still didn’t have the desire to be sexual with anyone else. _____________________________________________________________________________________ AGE 13 _____________________________________________________________________________________ One night, a few weeks after my first leg hairs had sprouted on my lower shins and right around my 13th birthday, I finally tried something that accidentally pushed me over the edge. Alone in my new bedroom, I stood in nothing but my briefs, holding a thin, orange Crayola marker in my hand. You see, I had recently started experimenting with drawing on my privates; it felt good, obviously, and I also thought it was an exciting perversion of my passion for drawing. So, I pulled my erection and my maturing balls out through the crotch-slit of my underwear, my 4.5 inches already rock-hard, pointing skyward, and twitching from anticipation. Eagerly, I started prodding my boner and tight balls over and over with the tip of the marker, covering them with inky polka-dots. Silently and relentlessly I continued this kinky self-stimulation, covering more and more of my penis and returning to certain spots that felt the best, until I tensed up, the imminent piss sensation rudely summoning itself. I knew this feeling well; the only difference this time is that I didn't stop; I couldn't stand shutting it down anymore, and the temporary tattoo wasn't complete yet. So, a few more prods sent me over the edge for the very first time. A foreign whitish ooze, known to me only through reference books, started oozing out of my engorged mushroom tip in pulses, slipping down my throbbing, polka-dotted shaft and into the cotton of my briefs. I, of course, stopped using the marker immediately and, for a moment, stared wide-eyed at what was happening, frozen in awe, terror, and euphoria. After a few seconds I started regaining control of my body and frantically did all I could to prevent the unexpected substance from messing up my underwear. When it stopped coming out, I dashed to my bedroom door, the stuff on my hand and all over my crotch; I peeked out silently to make sure no one was out there. Thankfully it was dark, and everyone was asleep, so I rushed down the hall to the bathroom and locked myself in. At that point I proceeded to strip off my soiled briefs and firmly scrub them clean, using warm water and my bath towel, my mind still in an adrenaline-fueled state of shock. To my chagrin, I wasn’t able to completely erase the evidence. I was a bit spooked for a couple weeks afterward. However, this newly discovered miracle of orgasm would inevitably call me back from my trepidation, my horniness eventually trumping my nerves. I concocted another kinky experiment. Again, I stood in my room, having stripped to nothing but my tighty-whities. Instead of taking those off though, I reached into my underwear drawer and started putting on more and more layers of briefs, each additional layer of tight cotton making me more aroused and my penis harder. I think I got to four layers of briefs before the constriction of the elastic bands started feeling a bit uncomfortable, and my horniness was so elevated that I had to be delicate. The next step was to release my boner, stretching apart the front slits of the briefs with my fingers, one gate after another, until my reddened shaft was revealed. Aligning the portal with the head of my penis was a challenge, but once I did, my raging erection popped out, trying to spring up against my lower belly, but braced in a more upward diagonal position due to all the all the elastic layers getting in the way. With the center of my universe exposed to my view, my excitement was overwhelming; I couldn't wait any longer. I'm not exaggerating when I say that it took five seconds, max, of gently rubbing my erection with my fingers before my whole body tensed up and my whole crotch started throbbing and pulsing, that incredible high flooding my brain as I watched the cream-colored cum pulse out of my tip and ooze down my shaft, starting to soak my white briefs. As I descended back into reality, I was immediately frustrated with myself for getting so many pairs of underwear messy, but upon inspection at the bathroom sink I discovered that the inner two layers were still clean and dry. After this, I had a moment of clear realization: cleaning this up was a big pain, and the only way to completely get rid of the byproduct was to flush it down the toilet. Why do this in my bedroom, when I could do it in the bathroom instead? I would have immediate access to toilet paper and the toilet, and I would be able to lock the door! Invasion anxiety would no longer be a thing! So, I abandoned my bedroom and set up my official masturbation/orgasm base in the bathroom, from then on. I soon was completely comfortable with my newly discovered super power, though I spent a lot of adrenaline and nerves making sure no one else at home knew or saw what I was doing. Sex was a taboo in my family and household; no one taught me to fear it or abstain from this stuff, but it was just something no one ever talked about, so I had learned to be deeply embarrassed and secret about it. For the remainder of seventh grade, I would dart out of school at the end of the day and quickly walk the 15 minutes home, so damn excited to masturbate once I got there. It was common for me to get hard and literally daydream about it as I walked home alone. So, I’d get there, unlock the front door, turn off the house alarm, set down my backpack, and head up to the bathroom. At this point I had developed a technique for this new setting. I would strip naked, sit down on the toilet seat, and scoot my butt forward to the end of the seat, as to make my abdomen (cum catcher) as horizontal as possible and contain any spillage. I’d then fold up some toilet paper and slip it under my erection, which would hold it in place so it would hopefully soak up most of what came out. With my shoulders pressed back against the lifted underside of the toilet lid and my chin tucked close to my collar bones, I would elevate my legs and plant my feet upon the wall in front of me, spreading my legs as far as they could while still reaching the wall. In this spread-eagled, supine position, I would then use my right hand to stretch my balls down away from my penis, making my shaft skin really taut as my dick continued to strain against my belly and the toilet paper. Anticipation and horniness would have built to a crescendo at this point, and I could no longer restrain myself… So, I’d gingerly take my left pointer finger and middle finger to that ultra-sensitive frenulum area and rub up and down, either with the fingers parallel to the shaft or perpendicular. I’d go relentlessly like this, at a moderate, consistent pace. If I had built up enough erotic anticipation and sufficiently teased myself beforehand, I would feel the orgasmic tension arise within a minute. In response I would jack up the pace of my fingers to a blur, then, as I came, I’d continue rubbing fiercely throughout the duration of the orgasm. I quickly developed the ability to shoot strongly and repeatedly in those early days, so typically some of the cum would overshoot the toilet paper completely. I found that I really enjoyed seeing myself ejaculate, but then immediately was annoyed by the oozy sticky mess. Once I descended back into reality I would finally ease off my dick, which would usually be softening at this point. Then I’d drop the soiled toilet paper into the toilet, use a little more to clean up the stuff above my belly button, then flush it all. I was a silent climaxer: no noises or moaning, just a quiet intensity with sporadic leg and hip spasms. I discovered pretty quickly that distending my belly out nice and round, with my erection jammed up against it while I came, really turned me on. I figure this was the evolution of the thing I liked to do with my belly and the wet washcloth back when I was much younger. I also found that I have a pretty long refractory period; it was (and is) very rare for me to have focused wank sessions more than once a day, and I've never had multiple orgasms in sequence. It became much more common for me to let a few days pass in abstinence/chastity (usually because I was too mentally busy with extracurriculars and schoolwork), before I'd finally pay attention to my whiny penis and balls which wanted more and more desperately to be rubbed and satisfied. I noticed that, at the end of these extended chastity periods, more and more things would start to arouse me, and the orgasm I rewarded myself with tended to be exceptionally strong and amazing! Though I didn't mind defaulting to this main technique most of the time, I also experimented with a massage vibrator on my shaft (LOVED it), and also a folded up and moistened facial cleanser pad, which I used to simulate a tongue licking my erection. Like I said, I've always been sensitive, and at this point had built up a deep appreciation for the art of anticipation, build-up, and mental edging; it made the actual masturbation session pretty quick, but led to a powerful, long, and satisfying orgasm. The standard "pull til it squirts" technique of jacking off that most guys employ has never been my thing. Defaulting to that is just a huge missed opportunity, imo. To this day I can pretty easily make myself cum by just rubbing one or two fingers along the most sensitive part of my shaft, once I'm totally hard. I can still get hard real quick just by thinking about or seeing, reading, writing, or drawing sexy stuff, so I'll often do that for a while, building up my horniness over many minutes or hours, and edging closer to the point of no return with minimal actual touching, beyond a teasing stroke, brush of fabric, rubbing my balls, pressing my taint, etc. --- Then when I finally decide to give my aching penis what it wants, I'll caress and stroke my shaft with one or a few fingers, not using much pressure. That way, the friction/slippage is occuring between my fingers and the tight shaft skin, no lube or spit necessary. If I were "jerking off" with a tighter, fuller grip, the friction and slippage would be happening between my dick meat and what's left of my foreskin. I'm sure that works well for uncut guys, but with the foreskin having been removed from the sensitive frenulum area of my dick, that technique just sort of rubs me raw, unless I'm super horny. But even then it feels like overkill, when instead I can just make myself cum with sparse moments of light, slow rubbing. The fact that my penis is so sensitive and helpless is actually hot to me, and I really want to find an attractive FWB who's dick operates the same way. Still looking... Anyway, I also experimented with masturbating while laying down on the bathroom floor, face up, and while sitting backward on the toilet rim and cumming directly into the toilet bowl. This approach basically eliminated the need for toilet paper or clean up, but it did come with a new challenge: if I let myself become fully erect before I sat down, it was difficult to push my penis down far enough for it to aim into the bowl correctly. While I settled into this habit of consistent masturbation, puberty kept moving along. I grew my first leg hairs at 13 (7th grade), there was a thin trail of hair up to my belly-button a couple months after I turned 14, but my armpit hair was stubborn and didn't show up until 14.5 (end of 8th grade). There was a teammate on my middle school baseball team who was a bit short and frumpy, who once commented while the whole team was stretching at the beginning of a practice that he and I were the only two boys there who didn’t have armpit hair yet. Though that was a bit embarrassing, I also know that he sorta admired me, and we did have one sleepover together. I was taller and had a much deeper voice than him, but he wasn’t cute enough to register as a crush, for me. From 12.5 to 13.5 (all of 7th grade) I grew rapidly both in height and penis size; from 5'-3" tall to 5'-9", and from a ~3.5" erection to nearly 5". Unfortunately it has stayed this size ever since, and I've always preferred the idea of boys/guys with smaller dicks than me; hung guys have always made me feel a bit inferior. Growing up I was pretty handsome, with beautiful hazel eyes that shifted to blue-gray as I went through puberty; I was lanky, thin, fit, sporty, and in middle school I was taller than average. By the end of 7th grade I had a deep voice. Sounds sorta like I would have been a popular athlete type, right? Nah. As I’ve mentioned, I was a shy, serious, smart geek, and had developed a random, sometimes dark sense of humor. I was never a "popular" kid, but also rarely picked on; if anything, my classmates knew me as the "genius”: a nice, well-behaved, but somewhat mysterious person who always got amazing grades. There was a fairly tall, masculine boy in 7th grade PE (gym) who seemed to be obsessed with me; he liked to mimic what I was doing, and always tried to sit as close to me as possible and get my attention. I think he might have been on the spectrum a bit. It was harmless and sorta funny, but inexplicable to me. Now that I had slipped full-on into puberty and discovered the wonders of masturbation and orgasm, my curiosity and desire for experimentation started expanding beyond my own body. Just as I had been insatiably curious about other boys’ underwear for years, I was now also curious what their dicks looked like. I realized I had a burning curiosity to know all the private, sexual things about these other cute boys around me: what underwear they wore, what they looked like naked, what their penises looked like and how big they were, how far into puberty they were (where they had hair, whether or not they could ejaculate), what they knew about masturbation, and whether they had the same thoughts, interests, and triggers that I had. All things that were taboo to ask about, but were therefore endlessly captivating in my private thoughts. Like most middle schoolers, I was insecure about my new interests and just wanted to not feel so weird and alone; I craved similarity. The more similar a person was to me, both in reality and in my sexual speculation, the more I wanted them. Why? Through our similarities I would UNDERSTAND them, and felt I would not be judged by them. We would get each other. But the problem was that my interests, both sexual and in other parts of my life, WERE weird and rare. At the very least, there was no open dialogue in my social environment for me to plug into, regarding my gay thoughts, my esoteric tastes in music, and my increasing skepticism toward religion, like there was for straight crushes, pop/rap/rock music, Christianity, and other mainstream things. And appearances might as well have been reality, because I wasn't going to be the first person, the initiator, to broach the subject of my inner attractions, beliefs, and passions, sticking myself out there for my peers, family, and broader society to gawk at and condemn, when all my life so far they had loved, admired, and encouraged me because of my hard work, talents, and intelligence. I couldn't lose their approval. So, I didn't feel that being honest with my crushes was even an option; predictably, nothing ever happened with them. No one attractive to me ever initiated anything with me either. It's like that Shel Silverstein poem: "She had blue skin, And so did he. He kept it hid And so did she. They searched for blue Their whole life through, Then passed right by- And never knew." Or... none of the boys in school were attracted to me; I suppose that's possible too. And so: I've been a boylover since I was 13, my first sexual crushes being on 11-13 year olds at my school. I found some of the seventh graders and incoming sixth graders really cute. Cute in a “I want to make your dick hard and play with it until you cum” sort of way. My crushes included my blond-haired friend, but I also developed a celebrity crush on a few boy stars/actors like Cole Sprouse, who was also 13 (but a late bloomer). I was honestly obsessed with Cole for a few years, going online to find every bit of footage of him I could find, ideally shirtless. I’d been watching online comedy and flash videos with my friends since I was 10, but I’d say I became a true citizen of the internet at age 13, when I started frequenting the now-defunct chat room at studentsoftheworld.info because it had a bunch of Cole Sprouse fan club threads. I also finally discovered porn; in a charmingly cliché moment, I stumbled across my dad’s Playboy magazines while using the toilet in my parent’s bathroom for the hell of it. Most of the grown women didn’t really do anything for me, but the few lesbian sets were a little more interesting to me, as the mutual pleasure they were creating together was what I realized I wanted with boys. So, I hunted for boy pics and porn online starting at 13, googling "boy penis", "naked boy", "boy briefs," etc. until I discovered shota art and a few gay/boy blogs like Milkboys. Sometimes I would print images I really liked, and kept these printouts, along with my own drawings, in a school folder stuffed in the deepest darkest corner of my closet. I loved to secretly glance around at the other boys’ bodies during gym class, stealing peaks at their ankles to see who, if anyone, had also started growing leg hair like me. Most hadn’t. I’d also try to get views up boy’s shirts and sleeves, to pick out any hint of armpit hair. I have vivid memories of the briefest of moments when I got to see hints of other boys’ private areas. When I was 13, I was with my baseball team at an athletics complex, preparing for a scrimmage; the restrooms were closed since the season hadn’t started yet, so a few of us had no choice but to slip around a back wall of the concession stand to gain a little bit of privacy to change into our sliding pants. My teammate Dylan was standing in front of me, looking away from me, and he stripped down to his jersey t-shirt and his jock strap; I could see his skinny bare butt with the white strip of fabric running down his crack toward his balls. I just stood still and silent, paralyzed as I took in the view. I also got swept up in my new fascination and concern about penis size. I measured myself for the first time two months before my 14th birthday (the correct way: with the ruler on top and my erect penis parallel to the floor as I stood upright); I was 4 3/4” long. I quickly became obsessed with figuring out where I was, compared to average. Being so unsure of my sexuality, my desirability, and my ability to form relationships with the friends/acquaintances/strangers to whom I was attracted, I obsessed over this objective, measurable, knowable characteristic, hoping to derive security from the idea that I was average or above average size for my age. At school, I'd see my crushes pass in the halls, or talk to them during class sometimes, but I maintained a nervous shield around me when I was near them, which probably came across as me being a bit cold and distant. At the same time, I'd sneak any secret glance I thought I could get away with; maybe catch a bit of armpit up his shirt, or midriff at his belly button, or his shorts might ride up, or a bit of his underwear might show; maybe even the hint of an erection! All this to say, I was too scared to reveal my curiosity to my crushes. _____________________________________________________________________________________ AGE 14 _____________________________________________________________________________________ Instead, I turned internally. By 8th grade, I was richly exploring my erotic fantasies through making drawings (such as naked drawings of cute boy characters in video games), and my blond friend had recommended the website 89.com at our lunch table. Though my flight-or-fight response tended to activate whenever sex came up as a topic of conversation (since I felt like I couldn’t be honest with anyone), my curiosity got the best of me, and I checked out the website. I didn’t really even do the photos; I went straight to the videos. I would slip onto my dad's office computer (which didn't have parental blocks) during the 15 minutes between getting home from school and my dad arriving home from work, frantically watching vanilla porn videos on this website, both straight and gay, literally comparing how much I liked them. There were way too many hyper-sexualized, beefy, hairy, confident, and roughly-treated adults in these videos for my liking. Out of the straight stuff, I liked the “college,” “handjob,” and “lesbian” categories, but they all faded gradually from my interest, since none of them focused on the sexual excitement I felt toward my penis (and other boys’ penises). The gay stuff, however (“gloryhole,” “blowjob,” “orgy”), maintained its appeal, since I could easily substitute myself into any of the roles in those situations and make it jive with my fantasies. Well, except for anal sex, which seemed painful and gross to me [To this day, ‘butt stuff’ doesn’t really factor into my sexuality; I just don’t spend any time thinking about asses, or about doing anything with them]. I also waded into the online Nifty erotic stories community and the shotacon art community, just as an underage lurker. Enough googling and I finally began to discover that my fantasies existed somewhere outside of my head, which was pretty cool; but the people creating this stuff seemed so abstract and prohibited, that I never chatted or emailed with anyone. Even as my preferences settled in a very gay area, I maintained in my own head that I was “straight,” since this was the default/only identity in the worldview I was raised with. No one talked about gay people and what that meant; at best it was an insult I started to hear around fifth grade. So, when my dad discovered porn in his browser history (yes, I know that was stupid of me) and saw how much of it was gay, he accosted me in my room. He was accepting of the porn thing, but much more confounded by the gay thing. Basically he asked me, straight-up, if I was gay. This accusation tore me apart; not only had my biggest secret (the porn) just been discovered, but my ignorance/denial of my sexuality was being directly challenged. I very suddenly pieced everything together and realized for the first time that I might actually be gay. I broke down into tears in front of him, my face stuffed into my pillow. Eventually I was able to say something, and it was (my own) truth: “I was just comparing…” Before I could further explain what I meant, my dad jumped on the opportunity, taking my words to mean that I was just comparing dick size and felt inadequate. This interpretation relieved his worries enough to discount his justified suspicion, so he transitioned into a talk about how I shouldn’t worry about size, blah blah. I was shocked that he misinterpreted my words, but was damn grateful for it, and played along. So, my dad avoided facing my true sexuality that day. Also this year, Dad tasked me with videotaping an amateur football game he was helping to coach. The device was a handheld camcorder; when I activated the screen and started scrolling through the saved files, I saw a long series of clips that seemed to be taken in my parents’ bedroom. Fearing the worst, but morbidly curious to have my suspicions confirmed, I selected one to play. Indeed, it seemed like my parents had decided to spice things up by video-taping themselves having sex. Nothing was visually obvious; the room was shadowy and the camera had been set on a dresser. But I think I heard some quiet moaning from my mom through the weak little speaker built into the camcorder. I shut it off in horror after a few seconds. I was definitely shaken and shocked, and it took a lot of discipline to move on and focus on filming the football game like everything was normal. My mind was racing with slight bits of adrenaline and nausea; rapidly processing my thoughts and feelings. More than anything, I felt like I suddenly had serious dirt on them, which I could blackmail them with if they ever unfairly accused me of doing something forbidden (like my fairly recent habit of watching porn, etc.). I now had secret proof that they had done something forbidden. More specifically, they had done something which I felt was forbidden to me; it felt drastically unfair; I felt adversarial toward them, perhaps even betrayed. After recovering from these dramatic altercations, I continued in my isolated denial, aware on one level that I was attracted to boys, but not yet willing to admit that I wasn’t attracted to girls. I couldn't yet accept that I was gay, especially now knowing how my dad reacted with concern and fear when he thought I might be. Surely I would find a girl soon that would allow me to break through my mental blocks and my walls, right? I could finally be normal? Anyway, time passed, and I got a bit more risky with my erotic adventures, as long as I felt confident no one would see or notice what I was doing. This is when I raided my younger brother’s teammate’s underwear drawer, for example. I also came up with an exciting idea for something to try while I was out alone, riding my bike through the new neighborhoods that were under-construction around my house. I had already built up a habit of sneaking into half-completed homes on Sundays (when there were no construction workers) and exploring their layouts. I was in one of these houses and had found my way to what was obviously going to be a kid’s bathroom (the layouts of suburban homes are pretty predictable). I was particularly horny, and I realized that I had enough privacy to masturbate right there and then, in the exact same place where some unsuspecting boy in the future would probably get naked and probably even masturbate too. Disregarding the 4th dimension, I could share a masturbation experience with this mystery boy, and I found this idea really clever and erotic. So, I would freeze and listen closely for any noises, make sure I wasn’t in view through any wall openings, then pull my shorts and underwear down right over the boy’s future toilet and start silently going to town on my raging erection. I always stopped before I came, of course, since I didn’t want to leave any evidence for the construction workers to find the next morning. I did this at least a handful of times, and never got caught. As high school approached, I came to the conclusion that my penis size was average at best, and that I had apparently stopped growing at just under 5 inches, while the average would continue to climb beyond that. So, I developed a bit of a complex. The idea of a guy with a larger penis than mine became a big turn-off for me, and my fantasies started to focus exclusively on boys who I could be fairly confident had a smaller penis than I did. Those sixth graders and scrawny seventh graders with the higher-pitched voices definitely did the trick. By this time, I also subconsciously believed that girls were inherently more experienced and superior to me, since they continued to show no affectionate interest or attraction toward me (from what I could tell). One day, a couple of girls in my gifted students class rather loudly speculated that I had a big dick, and I had no way to react to that other than to make a weird face and turn my focus elsewhere; I wasn’t interested in lying to them or disappointing them. During high school a couple of girls finally expressed some interest in me, but the heterosexual pathways in my brain were dead (if they had ever been alive in the first place); I was just never viscerally attracted to breasts, butts, or vaginas. _____________________________________________________________________________________ AGE 15 _____________________________________________________________________________________ I started identifying as “bi” to myself when I was 15, even though I only ever fantasized about boys; it was still a bit of insecure delusion. I had always enjoyed playing "teacher" in a non-sexual way, tutoring, and teaching people things; this was naturally extending into my sexuality. By high school, my fantasies were clearly coalescing around being a guide / mentor / big brother to a good-looking boy who was just starting puberty, less experienced and less knowledgeable than I was. My fantasy was (and is) to break down the walls around his secret private life by kindly and empathetically asking and listening to him about his newfound questions and frustrations regarding his body and "sex". This would hopefully lead to me offering to help him figure out how to masturbate, or get past that point of no return, or just see each other naked and aroused so we both don't feel so alone or weird anymore. I would want him to know, conceptually, what is going on and consent to the activity, to consent to handing himself over to me, so to speak; to allow me to touch him and to tell me what he is feeling, good or bad, and tell me when to stop or start again. It is a careful balancing act between me wanting to be in control of his pleasure, and me wanting to be the instrument of his pleasure as he wants it. It all comes down to me being the one giving him pleasure; me being the instigator and instrument of new or intense pleasures in his life as he awakens to his own body and sexuality during puberty. Ideally, he'd be curious and horny enough to let me fondle, stroke, and lick him to their first orgasm, or at least his first orgasm at the hands of another person. This guide / older friend fantasy had an equally powerful counterpart: I did not want to feel inferior. Keep in mind, for all my research and hypotheticals, I was still as virginal as they come; not even a kiss or a touch from anyone in any sort of erotic context. My mentorship fantasy was at odds with a self-perception that I was behind most of my same-age peers, and certainly behind anyone older than me. I assumed that my crushes and peers were actually out there, becoming sexually experienced. If they were, then they were becoming increasingly intimidating, out-of-my-league. How could I hope to not fail or embarrass myself with them, or even be desirable to them, as a complete novice? How could I possibly hope to satisfy them? Older guys? Women? Girls? What could I possibly teach them? How could I possibly impress them? Why would they ever look up to me? They were intimidating and foreign, not fascinating and attractive. I had a much greater understanding of and experience with how to pleasure a boy (being one myself). Only boys, specifically those around the cusp of puberty, were both beautiful and understandable without me feeling inferior to them, since they were unlikely to be more experienced or more endowed than I was. I could see my past self in them, and the ripe potential of their (my) unfulfilled desires and curiosity. So, I wanted to learn their secrets, be able to touch them, and introduce them to the euphoric world of masturbation and orgasm. However, I still kept my attractions completely secret. I felt they were too weird to be appreciated by anyone else. I didn’t know anyone who thought like me. I feared failure, rejection, and being exposed as inferior. So, regrettably, I never acted on my attractions, even when I was still young enough to do so legally. I was simply too introverted and nervous and risk-averse; I had too much reputation to lose. So, I continued turning inward, starting to write erotic stories in the vein of what I had found on Nifty. One example was a story of an erotic sleepover tournament at my house, where I captured all my sleeping crushes in sci-fi pods where I could observe and take notes on their puberty progress and penis size, then woke them up and we all sheepishly agreed to compete in a series of one-on-one sex matches, where the boy who came first would lose, and the one who made him cum would progress to the next round. I wrote out the entire tournament, describing each match with gleeful detail, my poor penis hard as a rock, squished between me and my mattress as I wrote into my spiral notebook for hours upon hours. My very first story was actually about my younger brother, who was 12 and a major crush of mine at the time. In it, I bring up how he often has a hand down his pants while watching TV, and wonder if he knows about masturbation or wants to see what it's about. He's skeptical at first, but I make him more comfortable with getting naked by getting naked first myself, so it would be fair. Gradually I introduce him to sex by giving him a demonstrative handjob, bringing him to his first orgasm, and giving him a blowjob. That's where my mind was at when I was 15. That my attraction was incestuous didn’t bother me; the trust and comfort between us was part of the appeal, imo. Besides, like the rest of my sexuality, I was keeping this in my head and in my closet, where it couldn’t make him, me, or anyone else uncomfortable. So yes, I did have a crush on my brother for a few years when he was in my prime age of attraction (11-14 years old), and I actually did see his penis once, when he was 12. I knocked on his bedroom door, and he answered, opening the door with one hand and adjusting the elastic of his soft shorts with the other. Looking down, I was able, for nearly a full second, to see down his shorts as he carelessly pulled the elastic off of his abdomen. His penis was completely hard and skyward, pointing up toward his belly button. It was uncanny; like a slightly smaller version of my own; almost an identical circumcision too. No underwear was to be seen; I figure he had been playing with himself when I knocked, and he just pulled on some shorts before answering the door. In any case, the elastic was back snug around his waist in an instant; however, he didn’t seem to notice that I had seen anything. Also this year, I was in an off-season baseball class, in which we had to take the bus to the district fields each day. A classmate, skinny and athletic with short dark blonde hair, had shimmied his shorts down his waist pretty far for some reason as he talked to his pals on the bus, to the point that I could clearly see his pubes for a few long seconds. It was very difficult to stop myself from staring. At the core of my sexuality was an obsessive curiosity about anything and everything that attractive boys kept private. “Attractive,” to me, consisted of two fantasy types: first and foremost: the slender, intelligent, caring, introverted boy (me, basically), whom I thought might have the same awkward curiosity, lack of experience, and desire for affection and experimentation that I had. In fact, when I was 15 I wrote an erotic story, in which I brought my 11 year old self to the present with a time machine, proved to him that I was him, then convinced him to let me teach him how to have an orgasm. My younger self was a tough nut to crack, but it was incredibly satisfying to write. My second fantasy type was the slender, good-looking, arrogant popular boy who I generally found obnoxious and annoying, but whom I could reveal to be a sensitive virgin like me, ideally smaller and less developed than me, then incapacitate/dominate him by bringing him to orgasm. As such, my sexual fantasies began to always center on someone inexperienced. This assured that he and I would be on the same level: equally excited, equally overwhelmed by the pleasure we gave each other. That turned me on: innocence. Because I saw that as the best time in one’s sexual life: when things were new and strange and exciting and overwhelming. To provide those first experiences to someone was my dream. There was a limit, though: if a boy was too ugly, fat, or obnoxious, or bigger and taller than me, or too hairy and manly, then I wouldn’t feel inclined to empathize with them; they would seem emotionally/sexually foreign and sometimes overly-dominant, sort of like my dad. Authority figures were never sexy to me; the bad ones scared and angered me, and the good ones made me feel inferior; I could not empathize with them. Unfortunately I had no clue how to strike up a relationship with my crushes, many of which were just distant acquaintances on a social level. The prospect of suddenly directing all of my attention toward them seemed very risky and publicly suspicious, so I kept it all to myself. I also accepted how unlikely it would be for my crushes to actually be into me, an older boy. Straight is the majority, and I was scared by those odds. Because of these insecurities and because I'm a nerd, a big part of my internal sexual exploration was based in science and data. I needed to create a way to predict what a boy's private bits looked like, whether he could ejaculate, and how big his penis was, based on factors I could openly observe (like his height, voice pitch, and any sorts of body hair), and also how likely he was to not be straight, to be circumcised, and even be into teens older than him. This goal inspired an epic one-man statistical quest for data and studies, by age, by race: you name it. I produced charts and graphs based on collected data and anecdotes, and attempted to generate a series of equations that could output the average penis erect length, girth, flaccid length, etc. based on inputs like age, race, and extent of progress through puberty. I expanded my research, collecting a large amount of case study data provided by actual teen boys on the govteen forums, and finding a copy of Alfred Kinsey’s “Sexual Behavior in the Human Male,” the first couple chapters of which really helped me better understand sexuality, puberty, and penis size development. Math was sexy to me because of what it could TELL me about the boys I was so desperately curious about, without having to actually risk asking; this level of quantitative certainty, even if flawed, was very satisfying to me. Feeling like I had figured out a crush's secrets without them knowing gave me a thrill. Beyond that, it reduced the amount of unknowns, which made me feel like I would have a better chance with them; would be more confident and prepared (hypothetically, of course). Throughout high school and beyond I continued to refine these charts, and I consulted them whenever I wanted to speculate and fantasize about a boy’s private bits. At this age I also started secretly taking photos of cute boys I saw in public while I was traveling on vacations and whatnot. I knew I wouldn't be able to become their friend and certainly not explore sex together with them, but as they say, "Take a picture; it'll last longer." _____________________________________________________________________________________ AGE 16 and beyond: message me! I ran out of space here :) _____________________________________________________________________________________