How I Lost My Virginity

As promised, here’s the story of how I first had sex when I was fourteen.  I know most of you are here for the pics, not reading material, but if anyone DOES have the time to read it I’d appreciate your feedback!

I started masturbating, and had my first ejaculation, when I was twelve (see the full story at Hoiphalloi.tumblr.com/tagged/first).  It wasn’t long before I realised that the images and fantasies that went through my head while I was wanking were all of other boys, mainly from school – not only scenes from the showers and changing rooms, but also of them sitting in class in their school uniform (a tall muscular boy in uniform still turns me on).  I should add that most of the boys in my class were a year or two older than me, and often far ahead of me in terms of physical and sexual development – I was surrounded all day by hormonal adolescents who seemed like sex gods to me.  So I knew I was gay, or rather a ‘poof’, or that strange exotic word I’d sometimes heard on the news, a ‘hoh-moh-sexual’.  I also knew I had to do something about it.  Joining in with the exploratory sex games of the other boys didn’t feel right.  For one thing, the age difference made it awkward (although I wasn’t a late developer, I had a quite respectable pubic bush by the time I was thirteen).  But I also sensed it would have an emotional content for me that it didn’t have for them, and that I might get hurt.  So one afternoon when I was supposedly playing tennis with two other boys and they went off into the woods to wank together, I refused their invitation to go with them.  I do slightly regret never seeing Robbie’s cock in action…

                By the time I was fourteen the need to act had become overwhelming.  One of the little independent treats I was allowed at that age was to take the train into town, one Wednesday evening a month, and go to a concert in the Town Hall.  One evening, as I was walking from the station to the Town Hall, I noticed some little stickers on a hoarding, advertising something called the ‘Gay Community Group’ with a phone number.  I read the number and memorised it without even breaking my stride (in fact I can still remember that number today).  Next time I was alone in the house, with some trepidation but lots of determination and excitement, I made the call.  A nice-sounding man (the first homosexual I’d even knowingly spoken to!) told me they had meetings in the upstairs room of a pub, also on Wednesday evenings.  This was perfect – I could pretend I was going to a concert and go to this gay group instead, my parents would be none the wiser.  So the next week off I went.

                The pub was in a dodgy part of the town centre; it was also a pretty dodgy pub, I now realise.  But at fourteen I’d never been in a pub before, certainly not on my own, and I must have been so buzzing with adrenalin that I didn’t notice.  I went straight up to the bar and asked the barmaid, a motherly woman in her fifties, where the meeting was.  Amazingly she didn’t bat an eyelid and directed me straight upstairs.

                I don’t remember much about those meetings, except that the others certainly regarded me as a bit of an oddity.  I was just so excited and stunned to be with a group of men who all wanted what I wanted – to have sex with each other (at least that’s how I saw it at the time).  I do remember one or two personalities: an arty-looking man in his twenties, a middle-aged psychiatrist…  One of them looked at me once, when I’d just said something particularly precocious (or just uppity, perhaps) and asked: “To what exactly do you attribute your membership of the human race?”

                There was one person who attracted my attention more than all the others.  He was sixteen, with long dark-blond hair, and – what my eyes were drawn to most – tight navy-blue corduroy jeans that emphasised his thick meaty thighs and full, mouth-watering bulge.  But there was a problem – or rather, two.  He took absolutely no interest in me, and he was always accompanied by his boyfriend, a taller dark-haired man who I later discovered was twenty-two.  But… the boyfriend was about the only one in the group who seemed a bit interested in me.  And it wasn’t long before he gave me his phone number.  If I couldn’t have the cute blond, I could at least get what I wanted so badly – sex with a man for the first time.

                I phoned him the next day and arranged to go to his place, hoping his boyfriend would be there too (needless to say, he wasn’t).  It was a hot afternoon in July during one of the hottest summers of my life.  His council flat in a sort of elongated tower-block was boxy, but quite nicely furnished from Habitat, and had a balcony where we stood for a while in the hot air.  He put his arm round me and noticed I was trembling, “but I suppose it’s understandable,” he said, “if it’s your first time.”

                There’s lots I don’t remember about that afternoon: how it all started, how we got undressed, how we ended up in bed, whether or not we kissed, and so on.  I do remember the perfume I’d chosen specially, Weil pour homme, which I’ve never been able to find since (it smelt rather like Kenzo for men) – my father had brought it home for me from a rare business trip abroad (he also brought Drakkar – not Drakkar noir – another scent I loved, but which seems unavailable now).  But eventually we were both naked, lying on his bed, and for the first time I was able to see and touch a man’s body.  He was quite hairy and – I think – skinny, but I’m not sure if that’s memory or imagination.  He quickly wanted to fuck me, and I was quite certain that was what I wanted too, so I lay on my front and let him get to work.  It didn’t seem difficult; he was soon inside me and I don’t think it took him long to cum.  Another sense-memory is that I was very surprised how hairy his ass was; apart from my pubes I had no body hair, and didn’t know that ass cracks got hair as well.

                After he finished he lay next to me while I masturbated.  I’d never wanked in front of anyone before, and really enjoyed letting him see me cum.  Then, somehow (another memory that’s lost) I got dressed and left – I do recall that I didn’t stay to chat.

                Being fucked hadn’t hurt, but on the bus going home I was astonished how sore my ass felt now.  Looking back, it must have been the adrenalin again; when the surge started to die down, the pain kicked in.  I was sore for days afterwards and moved very carefully in case anyone noticed.  After that, for many years, whenever anyone tried to fuck me it was just too painful and I couldn’t let them.  It was only much later that a kind friend, with the help of lots of poppers, taught me how to relax my sphincters enough to let someone get his cock inside – and now, once that cock’s in, I love it!

                Revisiting this story today I have some questions that I didn’t have at the time.  Was I abused?  I don’t really think so.  I was determined to have sex, and if it hadn’t been him it would have been someone else, maybe better, maybe worse.  I feel neither regretful nor resentful, but on the whole I’m not sorry that I never slept with him again.

 

© Hoiphalloi, May 2012