Matt Forney
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Letters from a Heartbroken Pervert: Youth

This is a guest post by Nameless Writer, the first in a series.

I lost my virginity a few months before my seventeenth birthday. The three years building up to that were, in many ways, a haze of desire and desperation. Women will probably never be able to fully wrap their heads around it, but a man’s horniness at that age is truly dizzying. Here are a few examples of what that state of mind is like.

One night I dug through my house’s recycling bin in search of a bottle with a neck that my dick could fit in. I didn’t care if it was plastic or glass; I just desperately wanted something different than my hand. I grabbed a few promising vessels and brought them all to my room to try out. None of them were an appropriate size. This was almost certainly a blessing in disguise, since even if my dick had managed to get into one, there’s no telling if it would have been able to get out.

When girls in middle school would yawn, I would stare straight into their mouths. It felt like a little glimpse into a blowjob. It was great because you get a bad reputation for staring at tits or making creepy comments, but no one knows about the perverted preview of a yawn.

I also used to ask girls of my acquaintance to hit me. I looked up online how to hit erotically and safely (above the jawline, below the cheek bone, aim for the fleshy middle and steer clear of ears) and started teaching the willing all about it. In a way, it was innocent. The girls were intrigued, and I never followed up the slap with any other proposal. That may have been a mistake, but at the time it seemed appropriate. Though I’m not a big fan of slapping generally, and when I am I tend to prefer it moving in the other direction, at the time this was great. Girls were touching me! Touching me because I asked them to! I would always make eye contact with them as they did it. Their faces always showed a mix of curiosity, intrigue, and maybe even a bit of flirtation. They tended to giggle after making contact and then ask if I was okay. I always said “yes” and asked for another. I would masturbate to the memory later, straining my brain to recall the precise sensation of the sting of each slap. It wasn’t much, but it was an improvement on masturbating just to the recollection of what a girl looked like that day.

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