I’m 18, and my name’s Tyler. Growing up in a small town, s*x was a mystery wrapped in whispers—something the older kids snickered about, something my parents never mentioned beyond a stiff “birds and bees” talk when I was 12. I knew my body was changing—puberty hit me like a truck, leaving me with a deeper voice, patchy stubble, and a d**k that seemed to have a mind of its own. By 18, I was skinny, all elbows and knees, with a mop of brown hair and a c**k that, frankly, wasn’t much to brag about—maybe four inches hard, cut, and sensitive as hell. I didn’t know what m**********n was, not really, but I was about to find out, and once I did, it consumed me.
It started in the summer after high school, that restless stretch before college when days bled into each other. My parents were at work
