Growing up in America, it was hammered into my mind that 18 was the cutoff to have sexual relations with a girl. Even if the age of consent was 16, pursuing a girl so young was sure to prompt “jailbait” comments from well-intentioned friends who also warned about ambiguous statutory rape laws that require a lawyer to decipher. Once you add in the societal shaming of older man and younger girl pairings, it’s no surprise that you almost never hear stories of men in their 20’s or beyond getting with high school girls.
There are fewer laws and shame in having such relations in Europe and South America, but my American-washed brain prevented me from pursuing all girls under 18, in spite of living on these two continents for years. The fear of imprisonment stayed with me far from the hands of the feminist-dominated American judicial system.
Somewhere in Europe, I met a 17 year old on the street. Normally I’d end the conversation without trying to get her number, but this time I pursued, and we had a brief date. It didn’t result in a kiss, but I felt the seal was broken, and my mind was prepared to go farther the next time around.
Two months after, I met another 17 year old. She was a woman in every respect, with large, perky breasts and a 5’9″ height that her personality had yet grown into. She had a noticeable slump in her shoulders, as if announcing to the world that she didn’t want to be so much taller than boys her age, a condition that would surely fade as her confidence rose. I figured it would take no more than three years until she would be seen with massive heals, strolling through the nightclub with a face so cold that few men would brave an approach.
I was able to get her phone number. She didn’t even ask where I was from or how old I was. I thought it was a poor prospect, but she showed enthusiasm when we text messaged, and we soon set a date one evening to go for a walk.
I was braced for a night of awkwardness. We met near a fountain and the conversation was essentially me interviewing her. She barely responded due to her weak English, but did eventually ask how old I was. I told her the truth—34 years old. She didn’t give it a second thought.
Her shyness became apparent when she never dared to break a silence. If I didn’t say anything, neither did she. This meant that the crickets chirped all night, but much intimate eye contact was exchanged. What attraction could possibly exist between a 17-year-old girl and a man twice her age? Physical attraction, I suppose. I can’t speak for why she came out to see me, but her timid beauty, not yet enhanced by female guile and manipulation, was more than enough for me. I decided that I wanted to have sex with her.
As we walked around the city, I touched her more and more, knowing that touch would partially replace what my words would have done had language not been a barrier. Every so often we’d stop to check out a view and I’d plant my hand on her arm or back. She never objected, eventually agreeing to have some wine at my apartment. After stopping at the grocery store to buy a bottle, we made it to the front door of my building. Unexpectantly, she told me she wasn’t coming in. Something must have been lost in translation.
“Okay, well, I can drop the bottle off and we can continue our walk,” I said. “But don’t wait outside.” That’s how I got her to step into the building.
“I’m going to put the wine in the refrigerator. Come take a look at my apartment.” That’s how I got her inside my place.
“I have a nice view. Come take a look.” That’s how I got her in my room and on my balcony.
I was almost disturbed how my mind had no objection to escalate when just months prior I would have been scared to even ask her out.
I poured some wine and the mood was right for a kiss. It felt natural. I enjoyed it because of her beauty more so than her age. She insisted on leaving after finishing her glass, and I did little to convince her to stay, already having gone much farther with a girl her age than I have before.
I took her to pizza for our second date. She wore a shirt that said “Future Model.” Tall girls can be exceedingly bulky, but she was trim with a thin layer of baby fat that smoothed out her figure. After pizza, we went to my apartment and straight into my bed. One hour passed and she was still fully clothed, refusing to let me rub her vagina. This continued for some time, and when I was on the verge of giving up, I thought, “Well, if she is still here, after my persistent attempts, and doesn’t show any sign of leaving, that must mean she wants me to keep going.” So I continued, knowing full well she may get annoyed and leave.
I steadily marched on until most of her clothes were removed and I was finally able to curl my finger around the strip of her panty cloth and onto her labia.
“I have a condom,” I said. Less than ten minutes later and the deed was done. I didn’t last particularly long because her vagina was constructed very tightly. Thankfully, there was no blood.
I thought that doing an act forbidden in the West would give me a higher amount of pleasure, but it was more of a burden. She wasn’t in a ready-to-fuck state and would need both emotional and physical training in order to get her up to speed. Besides the extra tightness of her vagina and the suppleness of her body, she could have been any other girl I’ve had before. It was just another bang, of running game and dealing with a girl’s unpredictable behavior and desires. And that’s all there really is to say about that.
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