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Jack Edwards
Jack Edwards

Teens Fuck In Socks

Wearing only socks might not cover anything significant, but it can add a layer of mystery that spices up even the dullest of sex lives. [Read: 30 mind-blowing ways to spice up your relationship tonight]

teens fuck in socks

Apparently, there's a deep divide when it comes to wearing socks during sex. Some people are hardcore #TeamSocks, while others are adamantly against it. There's a few who are in-between for the issue, but generally, this topic is pretty polarizing.

Pros to keeping them on include warmth, avoiding any unpleasant smells, hiding any potentially unruly toenails (it happens), and appealing to your partner (sock fetishes are thing!). Also, one study found that women who wear socks during sex are more likely to orgasm.

"I was actually hooking up with my friend and his feet were super cold (because he wasn't wearing socks) and it would really bother me when I could feel that," Jenny, 21, tells Elite Daily. She prefers wearing socks when having sex to keep her feet warm and to prevent her feet from touching the sheets. "I need to be as comfortable as possible in order to be able to focus on enjoying sex."

In a 2012 Dutch study, it was found that before wearing socks, 50 percent of the women reached orgasms. When wearing socks, 80 percent of the women did. Gert Holstege, M.D., Ph.D., head of the study, explained that wearing socks helps a woman feel more comfortable, less anxious and cold, leading to more orgasms.

Jenny, who prefers wearing socks during sex, doesn't necessarily think the added layer helps her orgasm. "I do know that they're supposed to help and while I don't think I've noticed a difference, there could be a little mental thing going on there because I know it's supposed to help, like a placebo," she says.

"[A] man who is naked except for his socks is not a very sexy sight," Reddit user bombthedisco said. "Plain and simple. I don't care who the man is. Even Chris Hemsworth would look silly in just socks."

Some people have a sock fetish, liking knee- or thigh- socks on their partner. Various users on Reddit claimed they love when their partner wears socks to bed, so sometimes it can add to the sex appeal of someone rather than detract.

"I was fucking in front of her," Karen screams. She better watch the curses in front of the ref, but he's distracted. The girl from the other team's stretched out on the ground crying. Her coach is checking her out. I walk over. She can't move her leg; I thought I heard a snap when she fell. I send my manager down to get help, and lead my team away, over to the bench.

Karen's got the ball. One of their girls grabs her around the waist. Everyone hears Karen. "Get the fuck offa me." She knocks the girl to the ground, and jumps on her and begins punching her head. Well, she lasted a while before losing it. The ref whistles. The red card's on the ground. The other team has jumped on top of Karen. Mary, Laura, and Steph are running to join in the bunch. The other girls on my team keep back. They are wusses. I grab onto Mary and Laura's shirts. "No." I scream at the other coach. "Control your girls." The ref is pulling them away. I grab Karen around the waist and pull her back. The girl on the ground's face is bleeding. Karen's twisting and turning, trying to get back to her. "Hey, hey," I yell into her ear, tripping backwards. She's strong. I'm strong. Maybe not as strong as I used to be, but strong enough to pull her back.

I drive home, practically eating my cigarette. Fucking person in front of me is driving too fucking slow. I honk and spit my cigarette out the window. So, I shouldn't smoke. Kill me early. But what's it matter? I played soccer like Karen Morley. I played basketball. I light another. Maybe I shouldn't have played her. I probably shouldn't have. I should've known she couldn't resist the pressure. I knew it. How old is she? What, all of fourteen. A freshman. The light's turned green, and the car in front of me hasn't moved. I push my hand down on the horn and hold it. The boy in the back turns around and gives me the finger. I give it back. He's probably all of ten. Goddammit. I haven't gotten drunk in years, but I want to. What did Karen yell as she left the field? "Fucking wasted." I used to do that. We'd hang out on the playground, shooting hoop. My father could kill me, I didn't care. But I was smart, yeah, I was smart. I went to college. I got out of there. I got a job. I could play basketball, but what did it matter? It wouldn't get me a job.

I'm home, and I have nothing in the house to drink. Of course not, I don't drink, so I go to the store for a six-pack. I wonder what they do at night, those girls who lay sprawled on the grass comfortably and spray each other with water. They throw their heads back and aim the hose to the back of their throat, and then when enough's gone down to restore their lost fluid, they turn it on each other and douse them. So much fun. So carefree. I wish somebody would douse me with water. I wish I could lay on grass and stare up at nothing but the blue sky. I wish I could get on the soccer field with them, run between the white lines and care about nothing at all except to kick the fucking ball into the fucking net.

They're so predictable. Team psychology is easy. If she sucked, they wouldn't give a fuck. I let her play. I tell their coach to watch his players. He's a bigger asshole than ever. "Can't control the girls' emotions," he says.

One slow day Anthony slid in on one side of the booth where most of the girls were sitting drinking coffee. He sat brown elbows on the pink tabletop, surrounded on all sides by tentative teen femininity; under the table, all those nubile legs twitching from by the proximity of his tanned calves rising boldly out of white athletic socks. This one time, Anthony told them, he had gotten really close to fucking a dog. This was in the late eighties, he was young then but had already mostly gotten over punk and was in a kind of black-leather purple-velvet state of transition. Unemployed, he had developed a serious smack problem and was living in a trailer in his aunt's backyard in Los Angeles, think Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Under the Bridge." The girls nodded seriously. His aunt had this pretty little dog, like a miniature collie or something, that also lived in the backyard. So then the aunt went out of town, leaving Anthony in charge of the dog, and Anthony went on a major binge, didn't eat or leave the trailer for a week, was alternating cocaine with the heroin just to keep things interesting. At some point in the middle of it he dragged himself to the door of the trailer and leaned there surveying the yard, wild-eyed and delirious. The collie came bounding over like she was happy to see him. She started nuzzling Anthony's feet and he thought, what a nice-looking dog, and the next thought that came to him along with an erection was: no one would ever know. There were lemon trees in the backyard and as he stroked the dog he stared at the half-rotten lemons lying on the ground. They, too, seemed plump with erotic significance. But I didn't do it, concluded Anthony, I got paranoid or something, like afraid the dog would bite me maybe. He sat back against the springy plastic upholstery, crossed both arms over his chest and grinned rakishly through his chipped incisor. 041b061a72


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