Confessions of a Football Manager Part III: The Roar of the Showers, The Smell of the Jocks

Note: In an effort to tie up a few loose ends, this is the final part in a series about my experiences as a high school football manager. As a reminder, football manager is just a fancy way of saying ball boy or towel boy. I guess they found those terms demeaning; odd, considering the titles that were bandied about back in those days.

Being a football manager at such an early time in my physical and emotional development exposed me to a lot of adult and adolescent dicks which probably warped my mind in ways that Catholicism never could or would. I knew I was gay very early in life. It terrified me, but because I hadn’t put it into context with what I’d been exposed to in the real world, it remained this unnamed terror, running just beneath the surface of everything I did, coloring my experiences without overtly informing them. That changed the first time I stepped into a locker room in 6th grade. At the time, my mind struggled to deal with all those naked, screaming boys, none of whom I thought of in a sexual way. Rather, I only saw them in terms of their propensity for cruelty, grossness and popularity. Each day was like a game of verbal dodge ball with their taunts and ridicule providing the sting normally derived from the smack of those strange red rubber inflatable balls against bare skin. There was a hysteria trapped within the confines of that steam-filled shower room that repulsed and terrified me. The experience has marred my ability to appreciate the voice of any pre-pubescent boy; to my ears they all sound like fingernails on a chalk board.

Of course, what I was actually struggling with was my own nakedness in relation to theirs. I didn’t want to be judged and it was in that moment that I dealt with and experienced for the first time the concept of my own body as viewed through the eyes of others. Suddenly the size of my penis and its lack of development became something to focus on and contemplate. Unlike most boys my age, I did not participate in any kind of sexual play. That was dirty and something that would have to be confessed and not wanting to have to talk of such things even in the relative anonymity of the confessional, I avoided these activities as best I could by playing naïve or stupid – which, in hindsight, wasn’t much of an act; I really was naïve and stupid about all things sexual. That’s why I didn’t share the abundant glee with which so many of my classmates abandoned their gym clothes and ran naked towards the roar of the showers. So traumatized was I by this experience that I chose, for the first time in my life, to skip a class and hide out in the library rather than face another episode of enforced group nakedness. The librarian was only too happy to accept my help re-shelving books, but after a few weeks the Phys Ed teacher, who also happened to be my home room teacher at the time, caught on. He kept me after school one day and asked my why I wasn’t attending gym class. It was an awkward conversation, mainly because I stared at the floor the entire time, too numb to speak. I remember how he blushed as he struggled to find the right words. His ineptitude laid the groundwork for a major man crush on my part that flourishes to this day. Finally he gave up and told me that I had to attend gym class and that he expected me to be there from now on.

Needless to say, my appreciation of locker rooms changed dramatically once I became a football manager. At first, I don’t think this was due to any change in my own body’s maturation, for I didn’t figure out how to masturbate until I started babysitting which put me in contact with a book called “Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex* (But Were Afraid to Ask)” and I’m pretty sure that did not occur until I had taken a series of babysitting classes sponsored by our church. Needless to say, one of the things they failed to cover in those classes was the consequences of snooping through people’s underwear drawers and bookshelves. Since I was the only boy who had ever taken the class, I assume that is why it wasn’t part of the curricula – snooping probably wasn’t considered something girls did, but then, at the time, sex was also something girls that age didn’t do – and we all know now that simply wasn’t true. I think my new appreciation of the locker room had something to do with being exposed to all that untethered, well-developed dick swinging in my face on a daily basis - mesmerizing, hypnotizing and tantalizing my future sexual self. Keep in mind, in 7th grade I had yet to experience a real growth spurt, so that is pretty much where my eyes hit at the time – right at cock level (or at least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it).

If you happened to have read parts I and II of this series you know that during my first year as a football manager, I was treated as a golden boy, I think in part because I still was still a child and all my over-the-top enthusiasm and eagerness to please was viewed as sweetness and not with a jaundiced eye. I remember developing these weird crushes on guys who were seniors that year – but my yearning was just that, a type of emotional desire. I had an older brother whom I viewed as gross and evil, so I think whatever was lacking in my relationship with him transferred to these older boys. That year, other than appreciating their worked out bodies and the plethora of different dick types, there wasn’t anything sexual per se going on in my head.

One guy, a very ruddy, Hispanic with a pristine body and a hefty cock, once came on game night and confessed to me that he had forgotten his jock strap at home. He asked me if I would run and pick it up for him. Without missing a beat, I said yes, and was on my way. His mother opened the screen door just a crack and passed the jockstrap to me. She had placed it in a brown paper bag the size one would normally use for school lunches. There was something dirty and secretive about the jock strap – not just his, but in general. I remember the way the salesmen teased me when I walked into the only mens shop in town to ask for my first jock. One of them asked what size. Dumbfounded, I shrugged and said small. Much to my embarrassment, they all burst out laughing. This must be some kind of ritual with salesmen who run the only mens shops in small towns - that, or it’s their own means of entertainment because I believe this same thing has probably happened to countless others. After picking up the jock at his house, I returned to the locker room and handed it to him and that was the end of it. Except it wasn’t. I think that’s when my fascination with jock straps and underwear began. Next year? I was constantly checking out whatever jock or underwear happened to be hanging in any guy’s locker. I’d even go so far as to strip and try them on. That I was not caught doing this is kind of a minor miracle.

It was in 8th grade that everything got intense, no doubt thanks to my new hobbies: theatre and masturbation. In a way the two will be forever entwined in my mind, and, if you think about it, in another, bigger way, they sit side by side like a pair of twins. Theatre people have become synonymous in my brain for world class wankers – but that’s another topic for another post (maybe). Masturbation was an activity I picked up over the summer and carried me into the 8th grade. It’s discovery - timed with the fact that I was now the football manager who got to decide if I wanted to be outside with the team during practice or inside by myself snooping about in unlocked lockers and the unexplored crevices of the school (guess which I chose?) - probably had a lot to do with my preoccupation. That year and for the remainder of my high school years, I seemed to make it my mission to spray baby-batter wherever and whenever I could. I was not intentionally intrusive with my endeavors – in fact, just the opposite, as leaving any evidence of my activities occurred not as part of my pleasure, but more due to my naivety. In retrospect? I left a lot of DNA all over the place. It just never occurred to me that anyone would know what it was. I viewed semen as a substance with the same properties as water and assumed it would evaporate. Of course it doesn’t… and it didn’t, but no one ever said anything to me about it because it was something one simply didn’t talk about – partly because it was gross and partly because it was taboo. Also, in all likelihood, while they might have had their suspicions, there was no way to tie me to the offending deposits. Even so, I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize to all the janitors who had to deal with the crusty carpets, gooey urinals, and stained concrete, wooden and linoleum floors I left in my wake. Even if wet wipes had existed at the time I probably wouldn’t have known enough to use them. While making my life pleasant it was not my intention to make yours unpleasant. My bad. I owe you all a blow job (but only the cute ones).

Yep, from the start of my freshman year of high school, it was all hands on deck - or dick, as the case may be. My fantasies were infused with the sights and smells provided by the locker room, the players and the coaches. I was in an almost constant state of arousal and this enthusiasm bled into the rest of my life, school and church, as I managed to sexualize just about everything I came in contact with. In one of the previous posts, I listed several of my all time favorite jerk-off spots at my high school. I have to say, looking back on all the masturbating I did, I’m amazed I still have any dick left – though I do remember a couple of times when I had no choice but to take a serious break or risk having to seek medical attention.

In those same posts I covered my interactions and obsession with the coaches. I had an equal yen for the players, who were not without their charms. The ones that fascinated me the most were the popular guys; the ones who eventually would be nominated for homecoming king. These guys came from well respected families and/or were prized for their athletic abilities. Bottom line? They were cute guys and even cuter naked. There was something very macho in their posing and preening in the locker room and the athletic equipment they wore seemed to add even more testosterone to the fire. I never saw any of the players with a hard-ons, though I did catch two coaches with semi-hard-ons. One was a redhead who blushed like there was no tomorrow. They both winced with shame the moment they realized I saw them, but who wouldn’t? Throughout my entire career as a football manager, I only got yelled at once for staring at a dude’s dick. That was by one of the quarterbacks after a really bad game and performance. As he, naked, handed me his equipment, I could tell that he was already pissed off; the rage evident in his eyes as he approached. He spat at me, “What are you looking at?” Fortunately, no one else was around at the time, but it still stung and, of course, I knew exactly what he was talking about. Not that it prevented me from using the image of him for the purposes of getting off. If anything, that experience added fuel to the fire for that particular fantasy. After yelling at me, I always imagined him wrestling me to the floor and having his way with me right there in equipment room.

My experiences as an athlete also lent a certain authenticity to my masturbatory fantasies. I played basketball and then joined the track team for one season just so I could earn my school letter. As a member of these teams I gained a different point of view, mainly because I was standing naked right next to other naked guys as I slid on my jock strap. My time playing basketball was a blur of bench warming, preceded and followed by mind-numbingly boring hours of practice. Track, on the other hand, had its moments. As the fates would have it, I ended up being assigned the two-mile run with two dudes who also just happened to have two of the largest dongs in the school. Unfortunately, these large appendages were also attached to a couple of the biggest doofuses in the school. And that is one of the weird things about the guys with the really, really big dicks: either these guys acted like big dicks – as in snotty and mean, or they were total doofuses.

Let’s deal with the snotty, mean ones, first. There were two at my school. These two dudes both had fly-away blonde hair and a permanent sneer on their kisser. Their faces were as angular and mean as their bodies. Their dicks, on the other hand hung, full, pendulous, and succulent, offset by a pair of low hangers that could cause one’s mouth to water. They were total fuckheads and you risked permanent psychological scars if you flew anywhere near their tempting flame. Another thing they had in common? Drugs. By senior year they were both total burn-outs and embarrassments to their families, but no worries – they got laid a lot, I am sure.

The two dudes I ran the two-mile with? Not so lucky. One, a tall, square-headed, blonde Frankenstein, gave off the vibe of a future serial rapist, while the other, a short, squat, meaty redhead, confounded any intention I might have had to be nice to him by bombarding me with a billion questions about everything under the sun. In fact, he rarely shut up, unless I literally screamed at him. He was a total social nit wit, but then again, considering that the other guy had that sexual predator vibe going for him, I guess you could say they both were. They were a year younger than me and I outran both of them at our very first track meet. That would be the last time. After that, he of the Frankenstein head took the sport rather seriously, managing to best me for the rest of the season. The three of us always ran together during practice, taking turns setting the pace. My only entertainment, other than being in the locker room with them, came on those days when one of them would forget their jock and run commando. On those days I seemed to have no trouble keeping apace. Size-queen? Guilty. Size-wise? They made the snotty mean ones look like average johnsons. Seriously? I have never encountered such big, fat pieces of meat in my life, except in porno films. I’m sure, in spite of their lack of social skills, that both have managed to marry at least once and make their wives very, very happy – or, in the case of the taller of the two, have a plentiful career as a porn star (he kind of had that Donnie Wahlberg/Dirk Diggler thing going for him). I spent many a night jerking off, creating imaginary scenarios in which we would have to go to a state meet and stay overnight in a hotel room, sharing a queen-sized bed, or how one of them might invite me for a sleepover (at an age when sleepovers were very over). In either case the sheets would end up very crusty by morning.

As for the other members of the track team, they were all easy on the eyes. I think it was due to all that enforced running. I remember a time when one of the cutest members of the team, a dude with a body that looked like it was carved out of marble, placed a catcher’s mask over his private parts and proceeded to gleefully run around the locker room naked, doing this odd little cowboy dance. Another time, I and a teammate with whom I had very little interaction returned to the locker room midway through a practice because we had some event to go to. We were alone in the locker room. He stripped naked and lay down on the bench that ran parallel with our lockers. He kept talking to me as I undressed. I went to shower and when I returned, he was still lying there, all exposed. He continued to talk to me as I dressed, looking sexy as hell as he languidly posed there. I think he wanted me to do something, but, despite my many fantasies, I was a total coward when it came to reality and the moment passed.

In the end, it’s my time as a teammate that I treasure most. Being a football manager had its prurient, salacious components, but if you recall from my previous posts, that all ended rather badly once the golden child was no longer so golden or much of a child. Of the two, I recommend being a member of an athletic team. Had I discovered track in 7th grade, I’m sure my high school years would have played out differently. Perhaps then I wouldn’t have been attracted to theatre, which is what finally ended my time as a football manager once and for all due to scheduling conflicts – not that the sign wasn’t already on the door (as in, exit here). At the time, I was only too happy to put all that football nonsense behind me and do something else – something less subservient and more about developing me. That said? Sure wish it had been track. I loved running. Still do.

To this day I love working out and using the locker room at my gym. It’s an activity that I find very sensual and rewarding. I’m sure my formative years have a lot to do with that. That and my fondness for jock straps. And on occasion, the men who wear them.

All said, it was pretty much heaven for a future gay sex addict.

Though I still feel sorry for those janitors.