I was 15 years old when I first felt a woman's breast. As a freshman in high school, I had been dating T., who was 14, for a couple of weeks. We had made out a few times, and the chemistry was building.
One Friday, after a study group at a friend's house, T. and I went to my mom's house. It was springtime, and I still remember that T. was wearing a cotton tank top and denim cut-offs. Perfectly flimsy and inviting. My mom wouldn't get home from work until late. The place was dim and quiet; perfect for the solemn and powerful event that was about to take place.
We started making out on the sofa in the living room, and feeling that I had to "be cool," like I'd "been there before," I reached out and placed my hand firmly on a breast and gave it a little squeeze like I was gauging the ripeness of an avocado. This contact was, of course, hugely thrilling, but I was already craving more.
After a bit of time groping her above the shirt -- I wanted to be romantic, after all, and take my time -- I let my hand float down to T.'s midsection, landing it at the bottom of her tank top with a tentative confidence that I can best liken to Captain Sullenberger landing Flight 1529 in the Hudson River. Having made a soft landing, I slid my hand up her shirt. In my mind, I could almost hear a rousing rendition of "We Are the Champions!"
T. happened to have pretty large breasts, but that wasn't important. What was important was that I was finally feeling those human mounds of flesh that I had stared at and thought about for so long. T. was wearing a basic cotton bra, and I grabbed breast, then both breasts. Then I cupped breast, then cupped breasts, I squeezed fingers under the bra to graze nipple. Having grazed nipple, I became more daring and pinched nipple!
I think that's the key to the story. Deliberately, I made sure to cop every feel, make every grab, pinch every area, that I had always dreamed of. That night, there were two breasts that I had license to feel, and I was gonna make the most of it! I think when girls get felt up by a boy who is doing it for the first time, they're basically getting a breast exam the likes and care of which they will never experience from any doctor. They are receiving the full treatment of someone who has never wanted anything more than to feel EVERY part of those breasts.
Meanwhile, I was kissing T. as softly as I could, and of course, every few moments, my mind stopped to think, "Yes! You are touching a breast! This ROCKS!" Looking back, I wonder why I didn't try to lift up her shirt and actually look at her breasts. But I think, if that had happened, my juvenile mind might have exploded.
From that night forth, breasts were no longer these foreign bodies I saw every day but had no familiarity with.
What about you all?
One Friday, after a study group at a friend's house, T. and I went to my mom's house. It was springtime, and I still remember that T. was wearing a cotton tank top and denim cut-offs. Perfectly flimsy and inviting. My mom wouldn't get home from work until late. The place was dim and quiet; perfect for the solemn and powerful event that was about to take place.
We started making out on the sofa in the living room, and feeling that I had to "be cool," like I'd "been there before," I reached out and placed my hand firmly on a breast and gave it a little squeeze like I was gauging the ripeness of an avocado. This contact was, of course, hugely thrilling, but I was already craving more.
After a bit of time groping her above the shirt -- I wanted to be romantic, after all, and take my time -- I let my hand float down to T.'s midsection, landing it at the bottom of her tank top with a tentative confidence that I can best liken to Captain Sullenberger landing Flight 1529 in the Hudson River. Having made a soft landing, I slid my hand up her shirt. In my mind, I could almost hear a rousing rendition of "We Are the Champions!"
T. happened to have pretty large breasts, but that wasn't important. What was important was that I was finally feeling those human mounds of flesh that I had stared at and thought about for so long. T. was wearing a basic cotton bra, and I grabbed breast, then both breasts. Then I cupped breast, then cupped breasts, I squeezed fingers under the bra to graze nipple. Having grazed nipple, I became more daring and pinched nipple!
I think that's the key to the story. Deliberately, I made sure to cop every feel, make every grab, pinch every area, that I had always dreamed of. That night, there were two breasts that I had license to feel, and I was gonna make the most of it! I think when girls get felt up by a boy who is doing it for the first time, they're basically getting a breast exam the likes and care of which they will never experience from any doctor. They are receiving the full treatment of someone who has never wanted anything more than to feel EVERY part of those breasts.
Meanwhile, I was kissing T. as softly as I could, and of course, every few moments, my mind stopped to think, "Yes! You are touching a breast! This ROCKS!" Looking back, I wonder why I didn't try to lift up her shirt and actually look at her breasts. But I think, if that had happened, my juvenile mind might have exploded.
From that night forth, breasts were no longer these foreign bodies I saw every day but had no familiarity with.
What about you all?
