A Major Middle School Mistake

I remember the first day of middle school. I was a sixth grader, really impressed with myself. I had left elementary school behind. I mean, there I was changing classes at every bell with a mob of other kids congesting the hall-ways, just like they did in high school.

I was headed for the third class of the morning, carrying an armload of books and hunting a certain room number when I passed a boys' restroom. "Outstanding," I thought. "I don't have to raise my hand and ask my teacher for permission to leave the room and go to the bathroom. I can do it between classes if I need to. "What freedom!"

"Might as well pee," I told myself, and gave the door a shove. It was a major mistake.


Three hulking eighth-graders owned that restroom. When I opened the door they were doing their best to humiliate a couple of frightened sixth-graders just like me. I walked right into their hands.

The "big" boys were forcing the new guys to stand at the urinal with their dicks exposed while the bullies looked and laughed and made fun of their diminutive peters. They ordered the young guys to piss or stop pissing, and kicked them in the rear if they couldn't choke the flow off immediately. I stopped dead, holding the door partway open. One of the big guys grabbed me, pulled me into the middle of the room and knocked my books to the floor. Then he commanded me to open my zipper so they could inspect me.  I tried to make a run for the door, but all three of the eighth-graders had hold of me. One of them gave my balls a hard squeeze, saying "Think you're hot shit or something?"

Because I had tried to run away they now concentrated all their hateful attention on me. In short order they had my jeans and briefs down around my ankles and were laughing at my dick. My entire crotch was in plain view while they checked me for hair. One suggested that I needed to exercise my cock more - and could practice on him. I don't know what else they had in mind, because one of the other sixth-graders made a sudden dash out the door.

"Crap!" One of the bullies yelled. "He's gonna get a teacher." All three of them jumped and ran. Yet they left with a cringing warning..."We're not through with you and your tiny little peter," I was informed of certain doom as they headed out. "One word and you're dead meat," another guy said. "This is how we take care of little dick boys that come into the eighth-grade shitter."

When they were gone the other sixth-grader backed away from the urinal, looking shell-shocked. "You okay?" I asked him.

"I...I..umm  pissed on myself," he told me, "and I gotta go to class with wet pants."

At lunch I was looking for a place to put down my tray. There was an empty seat opposite that same poor kid who had wet himself in the bathroom melee. We kind of looked at each other, acknowledging something that we didn't want to talk about.

It took us several days, but we became friends. I hate to thank those eighth-grade bullies for anything, but because they got a charge out of ambushing sixth-graders in the restroom, I made my first junior high pal.

The two of us had been through hell together, so to speak, and as we got more comfortable around each other it seemed just natural that we continue to let each other see the offended part of our anatomy. It was friendship, it was therapy, it was intimate happiness as we exchanged soothing touches and let our dicks spring up stiffly. It was the beginning of something good.

Martin