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When I was Twelve (bg, 1st, rom, youths)
by Tom (tje@mail.nls.net)
Date: Jan 1998

***

She lived in a row house on Miller Road.  It was modest, rather small. 
Her mother was a school teacher who did not make a lot of money and she
had no father.  I stood on the other side of the street waiting for her
to appear.  It was bitterly cold and the strong wind made it worse.  I
had been there for about three hours, stomping my feet and walking back
and forth.  Sara did not show up that day, and I went home very unhappy,
desolate.   I had wanted to tell her that I loved her.

Sara and I had met in kindergarten, and since then we had been best
buddies.  We became almost like brother and sister, a relationship in
which we would argue and soon make up, taking each other for granted.
loving each other without being in love.  But, at twelve, I fell in love
with Sara, and I wanted to tell her, that cold day, about how I felt.

She was still eleven, a little girl and a real tomboy.  I never minded
the other guys razing me about playing with a girl.  She could play ball
better than all of them, and climb trees faster and higher than anyone I
had ever known.  I didn't think of her as a girl.  She was my buddy.

Then the hormones began their work on my developing body.  I started
having wet dreams and I soon discovered masturbation, the habit grasping
me most firmly.  Before long I was doing it two and three times a day. 
Early on I began to visualize Sara's face at my moment of climax, and I
soon thought of her as a girl whom I wanted to kiss.  We had never
touched each other, except in play, but I then wanted to touch her cheek
gently and to kiss her lips.

Sara was a little girl, a head shorter than I and very slender, almost
skinny.  Her face, I suppose, was a bit mousey, but I loved her smile. 
She had large, brown eyes, and her lips were very expressive and
delightful, when she was exasperated and sought to make a verbal point. 
Her lips then shaped themselves around each sound, and her entire face
became engaged in her speach.  She was a  pixie who wanted to be a boy,
but who was resigned to being a little girl

For some weeks before that day on which I had waited for her in the cold
I had come to see her as a girl, my girl, but one whom I was too shy to
touch gently, with purpose.  I had loved her all my life, and yet I had
fallen in love with her.  She wondered about my new behavior, which she
found strange and unsettling.  When I once took her hand in mine, she
shook it off and looked at me as if I were wierd.   I just wanted to
hold her hand.  I wanted to hold her and kiss her, but she did not
understand.  So I waited for her across from her house in the cold to
tell her that I loved her, but she never appeared..

The next day in class, when I asked her where she had been , she said
that she had visited her aunt with her mother and had stayed for dinner.
We found ourselves alone for a moment, and I took hold of her hand.  She
scowled at me and jerked away, leaving me to go to band practice, where
she played the trombone.  At recess we joined the other kids in a game
of Red Rover Come Over and we had marvelous fun.  I looked at her from
behind and watched her run, her little legs flying.  I then realized
that I wanted to touch and feel those legs, and I sprouted a stiffie at
the thought.

She would not let me touch her, and she became irritable at my
attempts,  so I stopped trying,  wanting to keep her as my friend.  Sara
thought of me as being  just a pal, perhaps her best friend, but
certainly not as a boyfriend.

She was not yet twelve years old, a little girl without breasts, when
she took up with a fourteen year old boy and made a fool of herself over
him.  She followed him around like a puppy.  Then I developed the awful
feeling that that boy would get to her before me, that he would be the
one to be her first lover.  He was a large boy for his age, a football
player, who was still pretty.  It happened as I had feared.  He took her
and then threw her away.  She came to my house one day looking
haggared.  Her eyes were swollen and red; she had been crying.  She told
me that he wanted to have the Guiness record of fucking virgins, that
she was number thirteen, that he kept score with a pencil, marking his
scores on his bedroom wall.  Sara let me hold her as she sobbed against
my shoulder.  I wanted to go to the guy with a baseball bat and pound on
him.  He had not acknowledged the preciousness of the girl.  I held her
and tried to lick away the tears that streamed down her face, but there
were too many.  She was a distraught little girl, no longer the tough
kid I had known.  After awhile she regained her composure and pushed me
away, not wanting me to touch her with such familiarity.  I so wanted to
kiss her, to hold her, to protect her, but she would have none of it.

A month later she took up with a thirteen year old boy, not six months
older than I.  I was furious and we had a row.  We stopped speaking to
each other, until, three weeks later, she came again to my house in
tears.   Once more she had been dumped, even though she had taken the
boy's virginity and had taught him how to do "it".

I held her gently and tried to calm her.  She leaned against me in my
arms.  She was so slight.  I wanted to tell her that she could have me,
that I would never abandon her, that I would love her forever.  The
words were almost out of my mouth, but I could not do it.  I was too
shy.  Still, after her second disastrous affair,  and not yet twelve
years old, she grew closer to me.  She let me hold her hand and to put
my arm around her.  Sometimes we snuggled.

One day she let me kiss her.  I had never kissed before, and so she
taught me how, tongue and all.  The touch of her lips to mine  sent me
into ecstasy.  We kissed for a long time, and when we were finished, for
the moment, I looked into her face, touching her cheek with my fingers,
and I told her that I loved her.  I anticipated rejection from her, but
she beamed at me gloriously, her face lighting up, and she said that she
loved me, that she had always loved me.  We kissed some more for a long
while, as I rubbed my hand up and down her back.

I thought about sex, of course, but I was too shy to suggest it.  I
didn't even grope her over those next several days, when we snuggled and
kissed at every opportunity.  I suppose that I was intimitaded by the
knowledge that she was already sexually experienced and that I was
hopelessly inept..

That Saturday I went to her house, where we listened to Let's Pretend on
the radio at 11 AM, and hooted at the stupid Cream of Wheat jingle.  Her
mother liked me and was accustomed to seeing me about her house on
weekends.  She smiled down at me, as Sara and I lay on the floor in
front of the radio.  She then said that she had to go shopping and that
we must promise to be good, which we did obediently.  We knelt together
on the couch, looking out the window, until Sara's mother finally got on
to the bus.  Then we fell down on the couch and kissed, tickled and
giggled.  I was so much in love with that little girl, and I believed
that she loved me in return.

She lay in my arms and I looked deeply into her childish face with its
large brown eyes.  I petted her head, as I would have done a kitten, and
I told her again that I loved her.  Sara kissed my face with little
pecks and said that she loved me too.  We held each other, lying on the
couch.  Sara dozed off, and then so did I.  I awoke to the feel of her
tongue licking my cheek.  I grasped her and kissed her passionately,
using my tounge the way she had instructed me.

I was so protective of her.  The day before some guys in the school
yard, some of them older, seventh and eighth graders, taunted me,
calling Sara a whore. The word, inevitably, had gotten around.  I lashed
out at them in a fury.  I threw myself at the one who was saying the
worst things about Sara, an eighth grader, and I knocked him to the
ground.  He got up and started beating on me pretty hard, until one of
the teachers came up and stopped the fight. I was not really hurt,
physically.

That Saturday, as Sara and I lay together on the couch, I asked her why
she had let those two guys have their way with her.  She was suddenly
very defensive and a bit irked at my question.  Then she looked into my
face and said, in a low voice, almost a whisper, which I strained to
hear, that she had wanted to learn about sex, and that when the foot
ball player hit on her, she offered him no resistance.  Sara continued,
and told me more about her first affair than I really wanted to know.  I
just wanted it all put behind us.

She said that she had found the boy, Johnny Alberts, to be especially
cute, and she was flattered that he would pay any attention to her.  He
took her to his basement, when his parents and brother were away.  She
let him undress her and touch her all over.  Then he got undressed, and
Sara told me that Johnny Alberts had a large penis with a lot of hair
around it.  He got on top of her and put himself in side of her, hurting
her awfully.  She had bled, she later learned, staining the old couch in
the basement.  She had not enjoyed it at all that first time, nor did
she feel pleasure when they "did it" for the next several days.  Then it
began to feel better, although Johnny was always too rough, and she had
never felt the "big" pleasure with him.  She had wanted to stay with him
and be his girlfriend, to be his steady, but she saw that he was growing
tired of her.  He stopped seeing her and took up with another girl, a
seventh grader who had large breasts.  As for the other boy in her life,
Timmy McDermott, Sara said that she was the one who started it.  She
thought that he was so pretty, and  that she was so lonely.  I
interrupted then, and protested that I was there for her, that she
didn't have to feel lonely.  Sara ran her hand through my hair and said
that she did not think of me like that.  Her words really hurt me.  Then
she described Timmy, his penis, smaller than Johnny's, and with not much
hair.  She went on about how lovely and soft his legs were. I angrily
told her  to shut up and got up from the couch.   I was seething.  She
should have waited for me.  She should have given herself to me.   I
told her so in a loud voice full of anger.  She looked up at me, her
teeth on her lower lip, realizing that I had spoken the truth.  I then
left her house and went home, feeling very bitter.

I did not know anything about sex, except the most obvious things.  I
jerked off regularly and thought about girls.  But Sara was years ahead
of me, although she was not yet twelve..  I wanted us to be just kids
again, but I also wanted to make love to her.  I resented her experience
with those two other boys.  I was very confused and angry.

On Monday, in class, sixth grade English, Sara walked past my desk and
brushed her hand across my shoulder, after which I could not concentrate
on my work.  I was so in love with her.  After school she waited for me
outside on the sidewalk.  When I approached her she smiled  at me
brightly, making unnecessary any apology for my angry outburst on
Saturday.  We walked home, hand in hand, like a settled in couple, with
me carrying her books.  We didn't speak much.  We stopped at the park
and found a quiet place that was out of view.  It was chilly, but not
very cold. Our parkas pushed together as I kissed her fervently.  She
stammered in her hurry to tell me that she loved me and that she wanted
no one else but me.  I pushed her hood back and petted her head, playing
with her pony tail.  I palmed her cheek and looked into her little
face.  I felt warm in my love for her.  We made up.

For the next two months we were a blissful couple.  Sara turned twelve
and I was three months away from my birthday and teenage.  We kissed and
snuggled for those two months, and we didn't talk about sex, although we
both knew that when we were ready, we would do it together.  I defended
Sara's honor once again in the playground, thrashing a stupid class
mate.  The other kids then stopped their taunting, perhaps fearful of my
wrath.  I was growing large.

Sara and I had waited patiently for the right time for us to consumate
our love, to be more than just best buddies.  It was awkward for me,
because I loved her like a sister.  It was a Saturday, and Sara's mother
was gone from the house until late afternoon.  Weeks before I had
secured some condoms, not wanting to inpregnate my lover until we were
married, and wondering why she had not been knocked up by the two other
boys..

She opened the door to me.  She was bare foot and clad in shorts and a t
shirt, at which I could discern her nipples poking forth.  Her bare legs
were shapely, but very slender.  Her face was radiant, beaming to me a
welcoming smile.  She was becoming more pretty every day..  We knew what
we were about to do, I for the first time, she for the first time in
love.  When the front door closed behind us, we embraced and I breathed
deeply her aroma of Ivory soap and baby shampoo.  We went directly to
her bedroom, chatting idly, but knowing the momentousness that lay
before us.  My limbs felt weak, although my penis was rigid.. Then we
were there, beside her bed, together, alone.  She looked up at me
demurely as I held her head with my hands, intensely in love with her. 
Not being the first meant that I would not hurt her, which was a shallow
consolation.  We lay together on the bed and snuggled.  I ran my hand
under her t shirt and felt the flesh of her back, so warm and soft. 
When she lay on her back, I kneaded her soft tummy and moved my hand up
her body.  She had titties, small, but unmistakable.  Her nipples were
hard.  She lifted her body and raised her arms as I took off her upper
garment.  Her eyes were closed, her mouth at peace.  I wondered at the
lovliness of her flesh as I felt her incipient breasts with my fingers. 
I leaned down and suckled a nipple, and then the other.  Sara squirmed
and fondled  my head.  I raised my head and looked at her.  Her
shoulders were so narrow, so fragile.  I kissed her lips and she kissed
back without opening her eyes. I sat up and looked at her slender legs,
so soft looking, so beautiful.  I stroked them.  Her calves looked so
young and innocent.  Her thighs, fuller and more sensuous, appeared to
be more experienced.  I touched her wonderous flesh, marveling in the
certain knowledge that it was all for me.  I pulled at her shorts and
Sara raised her butt to assist me.  And then her panties.  She lay
before me in her nakedness as something newly discovered.  Her vaginal
lips, appearing to be a bit swollen, were topped with a few whisps of
pubic hair.  A curious boy, I poked at her.   Sara opened her eyes, took
hold of my finger, positioned it, and told me to rub her there gently. I
did as she said.  Her response was immediate.   She squirmed and moaned
louder and louder.  I feared that I was hurting her and took my hand
away.  Sara opened her eyes and pulled my hand back to her, holding my
finger and rubbing it against her.   Then she shuddered and squeeled.  I
supposed, correctly, that she had come.  It was marvelous. 

I then got off the bed and stood on the floor.  I began to  undress.  I
looked at Sara looking at me.  When I took off my shorts and my rigid
penis came into view, Sara smiled approvingly She then looked at me and
pulled on me, wanting me to come atop of her.  I was eager and did so,
forgetting to put on the condom.  I came between her slender legs and
she positioned my penis, pushing forward, inviting me to press to her..
I did so and I penetrated her.  I had a small cock then, but that first
feel of of her, her warm tightness, remains a treasured memory.  When I
came inside of her, yelping aloud at every spurt, I felt a monstrous
pleasure that I have never matched since.

I had come too soon.  Sara was near her climax. She pushed on me
insistently, taking whatever pleasure she could from my weakening
member.   It was sufficient.  She cried aloud and her little body thrust
against mine with a shudder.

Later she scolded me for not having put on a condom, and  for weeks we
worried that she might be pregnant.  But then she had her period, the
third of her lifetime.

We remained lovers, and, in time, we married..
