• Join The Fed
• Advertise with The Fed

• About Us
• Contact

In This Issue

• Young and In Heat
• Teen Talk
• Way Embarassing Stories From Teens Like You!
• Letters to the Feditor
• You're Bleemin' Thin!
• New, Finger-Eatin' Good Diet!
• Pot Calls Kettle Black, Gag Ball Calls Assless Chaps Gay
• Sequels: Always Better Than Originals
• Boy Bands: Our Saviors
• Barbara Bush is a Dead Bitch
• H&M: We're So Hip!
• Beauty is in the Red, Tearful Eye of the Beholder
• Pity the Lowly Rock Dove
• Do-It-Yourself Object of Love
• Ode to a Spill-Proof Mug
• Mouse and Cat: World Series Prep
• Revolve: The *New* New Testament
• Fed Insider with Grown-Up Teen Idol Rider Strong
• Jewry Blocks Masturbation
• The 9 Train
• THEY Watch
• The Staff of 21.1

Oh, to be young and erect!

I had just turned 14. It was the springtime of my youth, and the first flowering of romance. I had begun to notice the small dumplings under the heavy wool sweaters the girls were wearing, and it was time to make my move. The three hairs on my testicles told me so.

Sally was every guy's dream. She had eyes that said "Come to Me." and braces that said "I don't brush my teeth very often." We're sitting in the auditorium for a safer sex video, and I can tell by the way her eyes glaze over and she starts to drool that she's really turned on by the guy in the suit talking about herpes. I lean over and forcefully grab her hand, separating her index finger from her thumb and pressing my sweaty, clammy palm against hers. She gasps quietly, but holds back like she's done this a thousand times before. I'm about to peak, so I let go and wipe my palm on my corduroys. I give her a look out of the corner of my eye and say, "Hey Sally, let's go to the broom closet." She nods seductively, her My Little Pony barrette gleaming in the auditorium light. We enter the broom closet, and my heart is beating like when I'm home alone and I find my dad's "magazines." I close the door and slide my hand back into hers; she grips my index and fourth finger lustfully.

"Oh, Wuthell," she sighs. Her lisp is enchanting. She has the sort of foreign air that says, "I take the bus." That's hot.

I ask her if she wants to kiss, French-style. She's taken aback, like she's never been with someone who's so forward before. But I'm the most forward guy there is. I'm the only guy in my grade who's touched a boob. "Just go with it, Sally," I say.

I kiss her, slowly, like my friend Billy kissed me when we wanted to see whether or not we were gay. My tongue penetrates her mouth, sliding in and out, and in and out and in and out until it gets stuck on her retainer. It hurts, but I like it. My tongue enters the metal labyrinth of her orthodontia. She pulls back. The gleam of her braces reflects in the fluorescent lighting like the linoleum floors; I don't think I can stand it. I put my hand on her left shoulder. She likes it, I can tell. She's such a dirty girl. I feel the strap of her training bra; her 34 AAs are almost bursting out of her shirt. I'm really sporting two inches of wood now. I start to lift up her shirt, and she's breathing heavy, but then she urgently grabs my hand and says, "No, wait. I'm saving myself." So instead she slides down her pants, pulls out a giant strap-on dildo, and fucks me forcefully in the ass. I wander out of the broom closet, dazed, sore, and proudly a man.

I'll never forget those days; I'll never forget Sally and the broom closet of my freshman year. I can't; I still have the scars from the stitches they put in my ass.