Saturday, April 16

When I was eleven

A long time ago JamieLin answered somebody else's question of what he remembered from when he was eleven. Here's what I remember. The story is entirely true, except for a twist. Lets assume, for the sake of the story and for the sake of a deeper truth, that at eleven I was a girl.
Picture taken from here
I grew up in a rural area in northern Europe. I spent a lot of time outside, often in my older brother's tow, straying around with other kids of both sexes, climbing trees, stealing cherries and that sort of thing. I was what you call a tomboy.

The story:
We, that is my parents, my mother's cousin and her husband, their kids, myself and my little brother were at an holiday camp in Holland, similar to a camping-site only that instead of tents there were quite comfortable cottages for rent. I was eleven. As my older brother was not with us - that year he was on a boy-scout vacation, I was the oldest of us children and in charge. My parents counted on me that I would look after the younger ones. Also I decided what we would play, made the rules and attributed the roles to all. I enjoyed that very much.
There were other kids and groups of kids in the camp, too. Quite naturally, we befriended and cooperated in some games. Among them was a boy that I found really cute. He might have been a little older than me, but not much. I noted that he held a similar position in his group as I had in mine.
One day we agreed to play dodgeball, and we had to establish a rule to choose the teams, because family against family was not viable, the teams were too unequal. Normally you sort this out by a game of the type "paper/scissors/stone" or some counting-out rhymes. But he suggested something else: that we should shoot the ball away and then run after it. Who returned it first to the place would begin to choose the team-members. It was obvious to me that he made the suggestion because he was sure he would win this competition. That instigated my pride. I thought: Oh well, let's see! There might be a nice surprise for him in store! So the ball was shot off and we two ran after it. In fact he reached it first. But I wasn't to admit defeat so easily! I threw myself at him to wrestle the ball from his arms. The ball sprang off and no one followed it. Instead we two were rolling in the dust in a fight. It was not violent, but a wrestle that either of us took very seriously. I sensed his surprise when he realised that I was not an easy match and he redoubled his effort. He was panting and I felt his breath in my face. I don't know what triggered me then to do what I did. He had the upper hand, but the fight was not at all over when, out of the blue, I decided to let him win. I did not plan it, there was no conscious decision, but it was clearly a choice that I made: to cease resistance. In hindsight I imagine it was feeling his taut body, his commitment and his beauty that suddenly made me succumb to the lure of submission, so strong that it made me forget my pride. He sat on my chest, pinned my wrists with his hands on the grass over my head, and mercylessly put his knees on my upper arms. "Muscle-riding", that is called. I watched his face. As he looked up to our kid-audience I saw his expression of dedicated effort give way to the gleam of triumph. Then, for an instant our eyes met, and I turned my face away, bashfully trying to hide my extasy.
Until today I have not felt anything more intense than that moment! Was it an orgasm, my first orgasm? I am not sure if I can say so. In a way: yes. The feeling radiated from the belly, that area from beneath the navel and above the crotch, and flooded from there my body down to my toes, up into my fingertips and the roots of my hair. I have recalled this moment over and over, and my fantasizing certainly has not left my memory unchanged. But in the essence, I did not add anything to the original feeling, because there was nothing to add. Since that early moment in my life it is my quest to reencounter this experience: the overwhelming, ultimate lust of surrender!


  1. That is such a sweet little story, and the perfect lie–one told convincingly to one’s self. I found it so much more delicious reading it correctly. You, a young boy, full of confidence lording over your siblings and cousins, hitting your first climax at the hands of a dominate male.


    I’m confident if most of us edited the story, we would remain a little boy, but the second boy would have become a darling little girl who looked just like Haley. I know I would have if I couldn’t face the truth.

    But truth is so much sexier and this may be the best I’ve ever read!

  2. Thank you so much for the praise! From now on, it can only go downhill: it lies in the nature of things that I won't be able to supply more first time experiences of this kind.

    It appears to me you continue obsessed with truth, or worse: with my "lies". Well, in this post I show all my cards, allowing everybody to choose the reading he/she prefers. The Friedoline-girl version or your "correct" version. Or the third one you suggested and then dismissed, with the other boy being a girl like Haley. But does it really matter? For me personally it matters of course: how it was in my life. But for the story? For its truth, that is, its psychological plausibility? I don't think so. I really believe that in this erotic experience of an eleven year old kid the gender of both protagonists isn't even secondary.

    And as to me being a "liar": I don't lie. I just don't show where the line is between confessional and fictional in my texts. (Not counting the obviously fictional captions.) Even if I tried, I'd still have the problem you have: Try as you may, you simply cant expect that readers of an anonymous blog believe you! But you may convince them - on a level that is beyond the factual. For my money that is worth more.
    By the way, you are doing a pretty good job at that in your blog.

  3. Let me add another little bit to the circumstance of the real Friedolin(e). It would be more truthful if you wrote "You, a young boy, who was discovering his sexuality by dreaming of being a girl, was lording full of confidence..."
    Earlier that year, on Carnival, I managed to pester my mom into sewing me an Indian's outfit exactly according to my ideas. Besides the obvious wig, the important piece was the shirt that had to be long and tied by a rope at the waist so it rather looked like a minidress. At eleven I would never have dared to go out "en femme", not even on Carnival. But this outfit did it! I felt incredibly sexy and free in it!
    So, perhaps contradicting a bit what I said before about the indifference of gender in the story, it's worth noting that this was not an ordinary boy having that experience.

  4. Is that the truth? Yeah, I'm giving you a bad time about "truth." Who started it? It's lighthearted teasing but true nonetheless.

    If that's the truth, then the story doesn't ring true because that's not what I read. So the question is, did you fail telling the truth or succeed in telling an untruth?

    Because it very much succeeds. It says little but speaks volumes. I should perhaps add that the introduction is elemental to the story. Without it the tale falls away.

  5. Well, you are making it difficult for me! Yes, I have been dreaming since ever of being a girl. No, I have not been doing so all the time. The carnival episode is true, the fight too. When I was having it, I was not in girl mode. Not before, not even after. That is, not immediately after. A couple of weeks later, back at home, I began fantasizing about it and then, yes, imagining being the girl. That I could have become his girlfriend during the holidays what, unfortunately, I have not. Not even a boyfriend in this sense, for that matter. Sadly.

  6. That's exactly what I read without you ever telling me. You SHOWED me.

    I like boys. If only boys liked me back, but that's wrong. Boys like girls and girls like boys. I will be a girl.

  7. More truth. This post was particularly hard for me--Haley looks so much like my young J. I still have a childhood picture of her. Given her age, it's easy to wipe away all the sex from the equation. I'm just left with the hopeless realization that I'm still in love with the idea of what we shared.

    It's difficult for me not to look at that cute picture of Haley with the same emotion. Enough difference in appearance to imagine her as our child. . . .

    Sometimes I'm so sick of caring anymore.