Losing My Virginity and Then My Heart

Please do not read if you are not of legal age or if this material is illegal where you live. The author appreciates feedback and comments to dannyd274@yahoo.com.

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I want to thank everyone who emailed me saying they ejoyed my story, "A Tough Lesson Learned", in high school. It means a lot and makes the time I put into this worth it. I hope you will enjoy this story too.

My boyfriend inspired this story. He named it but I'm writing it. However, he will write some of the later parts of the story. As it was with my other story, this story is based in fact but is also fiction.

I know that this is Nifty, an erotic story sight, but to really give this story depth and meaning, I think I'll have to start before the sex gets hot. For those of you who are interested in just erotic stories, this might not be the one for you, at least not at first.

"Losing My Virginity And Then My Heart." Part One.

By Danny D

My name is Jordan Rizzo. When people hear the name Rizzo they have various associations: Stockard Channing in Grease as Betty Rizzo the leader of the Pink Ladies or Anthony Rizzo of the Chicago Cubs.

I have two older sisters who are twins. My mother and the twins, according to them, were the best of friends. They did everything together and my mother loved to buy them whatever they wanted. When I was about fourteen, I saw the movie Grease and laughed. From that day on I called my mother Betty and the twins "The Pink Ladies".

So, about now you might be thinking that I'm nasty, or funny, or brilliant to come up with those names. You might also be thinking that if my mother is Betty Rizzo and my sisters are the girls of the Pink Ladies that I might be like Anthony Rizzo. If life were that kind, my teenage years might have been a lot easier.

The reason the idea to call my mother and the twins, "Betty Rizzo and the Pink Ladies", occurred to me was that when I was thirteen, yes when puberty is supposed to have started (more on that later) and your self esteem is at it's most vulnerable, my sisters named me after another Rizzo: Rizzo the Rat of the Muppets. So, Betty and the Pink Ladies was payback.

I was a very awkward thirteen-year old. I was five-foot six and weighted ninety pounds wrapped in a wet towel. I had light brown hair, big brown eyes and big ears. (Yes, just like Rizzo the Rat.) I would have liked to have had parents who would have chastised my sisters, but my mother laughed and my father said, "If you just laugh it off, they'll stop." I couldn't laugh it off and they didn't stop.

I stood in front of the mirror, looked at my skinny naked hairless body and my big ears and felt humiliated. And if that wasn't enough puberty hadn't started. Every guy I knew had started puberty. You know, the voice that changed, the hair that showed up on various parts of the body, especially in the pubic area, and the arrival of maturing junk.

I wasn't athletic. I didn't think I was good looking, I wasn't popular but I was smart. So smart that I tested in the 99th percentile on national exams throughout middle school. So, smart that it was suggested that I skip the eighth grade and go right into high school after the seventh. I begged and pleaded with my parents not to do it. I was terrified of being that kid in the high school gym class that was the smallest and had no pubic hair. It was the only time they ever listened to me.

I spent the thirteenth year of my life at school and in my room where I occupied my time doing four things: playing guitar and I was pretty good, reading and studying, checking my crotch for the emergence of hair and masturbating.

I had started masturbating several years before. When I say masturbating, I mean washing my penis in the shower until it was hard and then until my body quacked with the most intense and pleasurable sensation. Soon I had my hand in my pants as soon as I got home from school. I'd go to my room and before I'd crack the books, I'd rub my penis until that feeling washed over me. Then I'd make myself study for at least two hours before I pleasured myself again. Then, of course, there was that time before I'd go to sleep. Every night, I'd lay naked on my bed Ð I had a lock on my door Ð and rub and rub and rub.

And what I'd think about was one specific guy that was in my class. He was so handsome. I both loved him and hated him. I loved him in my fantasies while I rubbed my cock and hated him when he'd make fun of me at school.

I turned fourteen the summer before high school and much to my chagrin there was still no hair. My worst fears were mild compared to what happened. It wasn't long before I was the last guy anyone picked for their team during physical education and I was the only guy, yes the only guy in the showers who didn't have pubic hair. The teasing started and it was relentless.

I knew I couldn't tell my mother. She'd tell my sisters and Betty and the Pink Ladies would have more to tease me about. My dad and his brother owned car dealerships. He was always at work, seven days a week. If I wanted to talk to him, I had to ride my bike to the dealership and catch him while he was free.

I tried to tell him how much I hated being at school and what was happening, but he quickly cut me off and said, "Just ignore them and they'll stop. Keep your head down. Study. Get to college and it will all be different." Easy for him to say.

My penis was about four inches soft and six inches long when it was hard, but it was as thick as my thumb and my balls were like the size of small radiuses. I had always had a long penis. I thought that was the normal size for boys until I took my first shower and saw that some boys were a lot smaller. Even some of the boys who had pubic hair had smaller penises. But none of that matter to me.

My sophomore year started and still no pubic hair. Depression really set in. I was scared and I thought I knew why I hadn't started puberty. I must have fucked up my junk because I started masturbating before I hit puberty. I decided that you had to hit puberty and then start masturbating. I had started too early. Now I would never start. Then it occurred to me that if I stopped masturbating I might start puberty. So, I did everything I could not to touch myself even though my penis seemed to be in a constant state of erection. Then I searched the Internet for a type of disease that stops puberty, hoping there was a cure. I couldn't find anything.

I wished that I could tell someone, but that scared me more than not starting puberty. I sat in my room and thought I wanted to die. I began to fantasize about how I would do it. I could hang myself. I had heard about a boy who was gay and bullied and he jumped onto the freeway from an overpass. We didn't have guns in our house so that was out and I hated the sight of blood, so I couldn't cut my wrists. I'd probably pass out before I got very far.

But things weren't bad just for me. My sisters, who had not done well in high school academically, didn't get into any of the colleges they had hoped for. Both my parents were Stanford graduates and had hoped that they might go. Even though my parents were alumni and supported the university financially, the twins' grades sucked so badly that they weren't accepted. So, they'd be living at home and going to community college. They started school at Pierce College in San Fernando Valley in Los Angeles. They hated it. Things around the house were tense and that meant they got a lot of attention from my mother and I got criticized. She was very protective of them. When they weren't around, my mother and I did fine, but when my sisters were present, she was like a lioness protecting her cubs and I was the predator.

Whenever my dad wasn't home for dinner, I always ate in my room. Sitting at the table with Betty and the Pink Ladies was enough to destroy any appetite I might have and when you're as skinny as I was, missing a meal was dangerous. But he always made it a habit to have Sunday dinner at home. So, around the table we sat.

My mother rattled on about the courses they were taking and about how they were doing.

"Maybe tutors would help," my dad suggested.

"They don't need tutors," my mother said, defending them. "They're bright girls. If they just focus and apply themselves they'll do fine. A year at Pierce and they can transfer to whatever university they want."

Dinner went on and the conversation continued about their future. I sat quietly stuffing Rigatoni and Italian sausage down my throat. Two minutes and I'd be done and in my room, having avoided being involved in the discussion of my sisters intellect.

My dad said to me, "How'd you do on that chemistry mid-term and you had one in English, or was that a paper?" I had always done exceptionally well in math and science Ð rules, formulas, logical sequences and proofs. If I struggled in a subject, it had to do with human interactions, ideas or psychological or philosophical paradigms. But even when I found something difficult I could usually do well enough to get an A.

I said, "I got a hundred percent on the chem. test and an A on my paper."

"Good boy," my dad said. "I'm proud of you."

My sister Amy, for the first time that meal, noticed I was sitting at the table. She glared at me. My mother turned her attention of me and also glared.

I said, "What?"

"A hundred percent. You had to say a hundred percent," she said, her mouth twisting with anger.

"That's what I got."

"How do you think that makes your sisters feel? You could have just said that you did fine and let it go at that."

"So, I can't say how I did because they get lousy grades. They're always talking about all their friends and all the parties they go to and no one thinks about how that makes me feel."

Amy said, "That's because no one cares about how you feel."

"Fuck you," I said, glaring at her. It's the truth that always hurts the worst.

My mother slammed her fork down. "You don't get to talk to her like that. Get out of my sight." We glared at each other. "Go, I don't want to see your face."

I got up and then said, "Ya know, there's something that I've always wondered about. Do you regret having me?"

"To tell you the truth, that's something I wonder about and sometimes yes I do."

It was like someone stuck a knife into my gut. My eyes filled with tears.

My dad went ballistic. He never gets angry. He never intervenes. He's never home and I was sure I knew why Ð my mother. He screamed at my mother. "You don't get to talk to him that way. You're the reason these girls are the way they are, spoiled rotten. They expect to get whatever they want in life and never have to earn it." He looked at my sisters. "You with a C minus average and you with a C average. You had the gall to apply to Stanford and think that I could buy your way in. That's not how the world works."

He looked at my mother and said, "But that's all on you. And that boy deserves better from you. How dare you say something like that? How dare you?" They glared at each other. "Tell him it's not true."

"Dad," I said. "Forget it."

He slammed his fist on the table. The dishes rattled. "Tell him."

She just glared at him.

"Jordan," my dad said, "Go to your room." He said to my mother. "You'll regret this day. I've had it with this shit."

"Dad," I said.

"Jordan, when I speak to you, you listen."

I stood there, my heart pounding in my chest, watching my parents glaring at each other.

"Tell him it isn't true," my dad said again.

She looked at me and said, "I shouldn't have said that. It isn't true."

I did go to my room. I didn't believe that it wasn't true. Somewhere deep inside of me I knew what she said was true. I lay on my bed and cried, wishing I could die.

My dad came into my room. He sat on my bed beside me and tried to convince me that she was just angry and didn't mean it. "You can't believe for one minute that I feel that way Jordan," he said.

I shook my head. I knew he loved me. He talked about how excited he was when I was born and how proud he has always been of me. I wasn't sure I believed that he proud of me. How could he be proud of a son who was short, skinny and had no pubic hair? And, for sure, he wouldn't be proud if he knew I was gay.

I went to school the next day dreading, as I always did, physical education. On Tuesday, Coach Wilson pulled me out of my first period class. "Go speak to your counselor," he said and then don't dress for PE. Just come into the office and look for me.

I gathered my books and went to my counselor's office. I couldn't imagine what was going on. They had changed my class schedule, he told me. Three of my class times were changed and now I had PE sixth period. "By why?" I asked. "Sixth period is when the athletes have gym." He had no answer for me.

I followed my new class schedule, confused and nervous. I considered not going to PE and just heading home. I walked to the gym feeling completely inadequate, surrounded by football players, basketball players, and baseball players. I looked into the coach's office. They were all there sitting at their desks talking. I waited outside. One by one they left the office. Coach Wilson came out. "I'll be back in ten minutes. Go in and have a seat."

"What's this about?"

"Just have a seat."

This was bad, I decided. I sat down, waited and then decided to leave and head home. As I stepped out of the off, Coach Wilson turned the corner. I sighed and stepped back in. "Sit down," he said.

I did.

He sat and looked at me. "I'm going to ask you to trust me. I know we don't know each other and I know there is no reason for you to do so, but I'm going to ask you to anyway."

I just stared at him.

"I graduated from Stanford." He stared at me. "Years ago, I went into your dad's dealership looking to buy a car. He and I got to talking. Well, being the great guy he is he gave me a great deal on a new car. As it turns out, he's done the same for most of the coaching staff here."

I could feel my face burning hot with embarrassment. What had my dad told him, I wondered.

"I'm going to let you see something that I've not shown anyone else." He pulled out a picture from his desk drawer. He moved it toward me. I glanced at it. It was of a boy in a swimsuit. A very skinny boy. "That's me," he said.

I looked at the picture again and then at him. "I was sixteen in that picture." I looked at it again. He said, "I didn't hit puberty until I was almost seventeen and then it hit hard. I had a growth spurt, put on muscle, got pubic and underarm hair and my voice changed."

I felt tears sitting on the lids of my eyes.

"I know what you're going through. I know how painful and scary it is and how guys can bully and taunt."

I nodded.

"The reason that I had your schedule changed is that I'm going to ask you to do something. You're one of the brightest boys in your class, but not the most athletic."

"Me? Athletic?" I said.

"I want you to workout with the gymnastics team."

"Who me?"

"You won't make the team this year, and maybe not your junior year, but I can almost promise you that if you do what I say and workout as much as I suggest, you'll make the team your senior year and you'll letter in gymnastics."

"But I'm like the most uncoordinated person I know. I trip going up steps."

"You won't be if you do what I say."

I shook my head. "I don't know. I'm not good at stuff."

"You will be if you let me coach you. I know you're scared. I know you're embarrassed about your body. But I'm offering you a chance to change that. I promise you that puberty will happen."

"I don't know."

"Give it a try. We'll work on strength and flexibility. That will be our focus. When you're feeling more confident we'll start you on the rings, the high bar, floor exercises or whatever you find interesting."

I was fighting not to cry.

"I know you must be feeling like you're in a deep dark hole. I'm offering you a way out. If you work hard, I think you'll quickly see light. If you can let yourself trust me, I'll do everything I can to make this work."

I put my hands to my face and cried. "I'm scared I'll look stupid and they'll laugh and make fun of me."

"That won't happen. Some of those boys have been doing gymnastics since they were nine or ten. Some have just started. But they all have had the same concerns and fears."

"I'll try it," I said. "But,"

"Give it a few weeks. A month. And then we'll reevaluate."

I nodded.

He put a gym bag on the desk. "Your dad got you what you need." He opened the bag. This is what you'll wear to workout. We workout for two hours. Then the showers."

I glanced at him. Tension in my face pulled my mouth to a frown.

"I or one of the other coaches will be in the shower room handing out towels. Grab a towel, go to your locker and strip down, wrap yourself in your towel, come to the shower room, rinse off, dry off, I'll give you a clean towel, wrap it around yourself and get to your locker and get dressed. One of us will be there, everyday. No one will give you any grief."

I sighed and nodded.

I changed and went to the gym with my arms tightly wrapped around my chest. Guys were stretching. The coach motioned me over toward him. "Jordan, this is Chris and Jack. They're seniors who first started gymnastics when they were freshman, so they know the drill. They know you're a sophomore and that you have your work cut out for you. Chris will show you the stretches and the exercises. Jack is going to start a notebook for you. He's good at drawing. They'll explain what you should do each morning and night at home and then what we'll do here. We work out here in the gym on Tuesdays and Thursdays and on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays we work out in the weight room."

I wanted to leave but I didn't.

Chris and Jack were great. We stretched and then did sit up, push up and pull ups and then more strength exercises. I was really bad but no one made fun of me. Chris said, "You're doing better than I did when I started. Hang in there and you'll do a lot better before long."

I decided I liked Chris.

I did shower and Chris and Jack showered beside me. The coach was close by handing out towels.

When I got home I called my father. At one point during the workout, I thought I'd be really angry at him, but by the time I talked to him I wasn't. I told him that I really didn't think it would work. I was sure I'd never be any good. He asked me to give it as much of a chance and work as hard at it as I do my studies. I very reluctantly agreed.

The next day Coach Wilson called me into his office at the end of the workout. He asked me to strip to my jockstrap. He took out a tape measure and measured every part of my body. "We'll do this again in June," he said. I went to the showers.

I hated the idea of doing exercises when I got up in the morning and before I went to bed, but I did. The hope that I might actually have a regular teen boys body helped me through each workout. Coach Wilson was always encouraging and each week asked if I was having any trouble or if anyone was giving me grief. Chris and Jack were kind and worked with me in the weight room. I can't say that I wasn't very self-conscious, but soon I just focused I what I had to do and forgot about being the weakest guy in the room.

I began to notice that my cock was changing and that my balls seemed larger and my scrotum looser. Then I noticed hair, it was light but it was there. Then it happened. One night when that feeling happened after rubbing my cock, instead of a few drops of sticky water, a stream of white thick goo shot out of my cock. I was surprised and aware that it hurt a little. I had my first orgasm and came all over my chest. I stared at it and my still hard cock. I touched the cum. I moved it around my chest and over my cock. I was so happy that I wanted to run through the house and yell, "I got cum. My balls are working."

But instead I lay in bed and started stroking my cock using my cum. I wondered if it always hurt when it shot out. Stroking with my cum felt amazing. It didn't take long before I shot another load. It wasn't as thick, but there was a lot of cum and it didn't hurt. I smelled it. I played with it between my fingers. Then I had the urge to taste it. It tasted strange but not bad. I got up and showered. While in the shower I couldn't help but stroke my cock again. It felt incredible.

When I woke, I showered before school. I jerked off again. When I came I had to lean against the wall because my legs almost gave out from under me. Cum hit the shower wall.

My end of semester grades were all As. I was doing pretty good in gymnastics and I was no longer rushing out of the shower. One day Coach Wilson said to me as he handed me a towel, "I told you things would change."

I smiled and nodded but felt so happy that I almost cried. "Thank you," I said.

I no longer wrapped the towel around me tightly as I walked to and from the shower. Like other guys, I proudly let my cock swing as I walked. And yes, I measured it. It wasn't six inches long anymore when it was hard. I was seven inches and thicker.

I didn't make the team that year. I didn't expect to. But I went to all the meets and cheered for all the guys. I wasn't on the team, but I was part of the team.

We did a body measurement in June. I had grown almost four inches. I gained twenty pounds and it was all muscle. I wasn't bulky, but lean and defined.

That summer I got a job working in the service department of one of my dad's dealerships. I was a "go for" and they ran me ragged. I loved it. I felt like one of the guys.

In my junior year I put on ten more pounds and grew two more inches. I was almost six foot tall and I had abs. Yes, a six pack. I had pubic hair that I actually started trimming. Yes, years of wishing that I'd grow hair and then I trimmed. I liked trimming because it made my meaty soft cock look even bigger than it was. When I started trimming, Coach Wilson looked at me, smiled and shook his head. I laughed.

My senior year, I made the team. I was more flexible than most of the guys. The coach said that a lot of it is stretching, but it's also genetics. My events were floor exercises Ð tumbling - and the high bar. I had a lot of shoulder strength, long arms, and was tall.

I did well. I lettered. But what mattered to me more than anything else was that I had friends. Having a big cock Ð almost eight inches Ð and pubic hair and being tall and lean was great, but having friends meant more to me than anything else.

I applied to colleges. I applied to Stanford, but had no real hope of getting in. One of the letters of recommendation was from Coach Wilson. To my surprised, I was accepted. The first person I told and thanked was my dad. Things between my sisters and me never got better. And there was never a good relationship between my mother and me. I kept telling myself that I didn't care, but there were times that it hurt.

My first day back at school after I found out I was accepted to Stanford, I walked to the gym the first thing that morning. I walked into the gym office and said, "I was accepted to Stanford." He smiled. He put out his hand. I opened my arms. We hugged. "Thank you," I said. Tears filled my eyes. "You changed my life. Thank you."

I stepped back and wiped my eyes. He said, "No, you changed your life. I offered you a chance to do that and you with courage took advantage of an opportunity. Never forget that."

I nodded.

The other coaches in the office shook my hand and congratulated me.

"I don't care what you say," I said. "If it weren't for you I would have still reached puberty, but I would never be where I am today. Thank you."

Coach Wilson became like a second dad. I trusted him and talked to him about everything. Well, almost everything. One afternoon after a workout he asked with whom I was going to the prom. He caught me off guard. I stammered. "You're not going?" he said.

"Ah, no. It's really not my thing," I said.

He looked at me, nodded and then walked away. My stomach churned. One thing about he and I talking was that he got to know me well and I'm not a very good liar. He had jokingly said things to me in the past about the lucky girls I dated. I just laughed. I had wondered in the past if he was wondering why I wasn't dating. He seemed never to give it a second thought. This time seemed different.

Several days later, he in a more serious way asked again about the prom. "Is there a reason why you're not going?"

I stared and shrugged.

He said, "I remember how hard it was to have confidence and not worry about being rejected." Hearing him talk like that always surprised me. I couldn't imagine him not being confident and self-assured. He said, "It comes from us starting puberty late. But you've got to see yourself for who you are now, not who you were two or three years ago."

"I know coach."

He stared at me. "You said it wasn't your thing."

"Can't we just let this go?" I said.

He nodded. I started to walk away. "Jordan," he called out.

I turned and walked back to him.

"You trust me, don't you?"

"More than anyone," I said.

"You know I would never judge you."

I sighed. I felt sick. I had never said the words out loud.

"I," I couldn't say it.

"Jordan, if you're not attracted to girls and attracted to guys instead, that's okay with me. You're a good boy and that's all that matters. It's character, not who you fall in love with."

My chest quivered as I breathed in. "No one knows," I said.

"Well, no one will heard it from me. But please know that that's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm not ashamed. I just remember how alone I felt and how people teased and stuff like that and now they don't. I'm scared that they'll start again and I'll be alone again."

"Not alone. If people who are your friends reject you because you're gay then they were never friends." I stared at the floor. He said, "I know that's easy to say and hard to live. It took me years to believe I could survive." I looked at him wondering what he was saying. He said, "I trust you also. And that has to stay between you and me."

I stared at him. "You're saying you're." He nodded. "I'll never tell anyone," I said. "No one knows?"

"None of the students know, but the people I work with know."

"The other coaches know?" He nodded. "They're okay with it?"

He smiled. "That surprises you?"

"Yes."

"They are all friends and very supportive of me and my partner. But I do understand your reluctance and I'm not sure if I were you that I'd do anything differently."

My head was spinning.

"You should tell your father," he said. "He's fine with it. My partner Gary has bought cars from your dad, too."

"He knows he's your partner?"

"Yes. Gary is big into cars and he and your dad love talking cars when we get together."

"My dad," I said. I was surprised, but when I thought about it, I wasn't. I could not remember my dad ever saying anything against LGBT people.

I worked the summer before I went to Stanford. My dad had given each of my sisters a car. I had been saving the money I earned working summers. I asked him if I could buy a used car from the lot. He'd have to help me with my insurance. He said, "I'd like you not to have a car your freshman year. It will be a distraction and I think you need to focus on your studies. Being at Stanford and living in the dorms will be enough of a challenge. Let's talk about it next year."

More to come?..

I hope you are enjoying the story. Thank you for reading along.

dannyd