Every young man’s goal in life is to make their father proud, but honestly I could give two shits about my father. He was always there for me in a literal sense, but he was never there for me in a metaphorical sense. By that, I mean that I literally had to teach myself everything about becoming a man… or at least the internet did. This is an anecdotal story following my journey into manhood, sex, and some things best forgotten.
My story starts at 17. I’m a young white boy, top of my class, but bottom of my social circle. I wasn’t hated, I just wasn’t popular, and I didn’t have many friends after abandoning them all from my 8th-9th grade year to play bass guitar in a band. My band story is for another day, but lets just say it expanded my mind. I was tall, 6 footish, brown hair kind of guy, who was torn between a love for boobs and a love for booze. I began lifting weights towards the end of my sophomore year, and to my surprise they expected me to play football after making perfect attendance to every morning lift. I’d be damned if I didn’t have a clue what the fuck I was doing. Defensive end? Tailback? Cornerback? I had not a fucking clue what I was doing, but I stuck it out and made a few friends along the way. I’ve always been good at politics. Anyhow, after sophomore year, me and some of my newly founded best friends began breaking into the local party scene. My parents were still arguing out parts of their divorce, so they rarely spoke. This gave me and my buddies the perfect setup for not getting caught. I think my parents knew, but never really thought anything of it since I was so “smart”.