Sophomore Year 11
It is hard for me to believe that we are now at Chapter 11 of this story. I started writing about my year boarding with a single dad and his two sons a few months ago, wondering if I'd even finish the first part. I just knew I felt compelled to share this time of highly charged eroticism that led me to discover a lot about myself.
In this chapter, Buck gives Hank a tour of the showers, and Hank makes a very powerful admission.
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This story—and many, many hours of reading pleasure—is due to the powerful inspiration of such great Nifty series as "Jockboy Adventures," "Bodybuilder Pussy," and "Locker Room Boys." I owe their authors an enormous debt.
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Sophomore Year 11
I followed Buck to the far-left corner of the fenced wall, where, directly below the half staircase leading from bedrooms to living room, another set connected the gym floor to the shower level that lay about four feet lower.
At the top of the stairs, to the immediate right, a square concrete pillar held a sign, "No shoes beyond this point." A slanted rack near the floor provided a spot to leave shoes, and above it, a shelf held a shallow basket filled with pairs of flip flops in clear plastic bags, each marked with size and, $1 per use.' As we kicked off our sneakers and tucked our socks inside, Buck looked at my feet and guessed, "Bout a size 12, right?" I nodded and he dug out a pair for each of us. "Keep em clean and we'll put em back in these bags and nobody will be the wiser." He winked, merrily holding a finger before his mouth as if telling a secret, making me chuckle and again feel special to receive insider treatment.
As we headed down the stairs, I looked around at a very bright, clean space. To my right stretched the half-solid, half-fence wall along the side of the room that opened to the gym. Nearest the stairs hung a double sink, and next to it, on top of a cabinet of similar height and depth, stacks of crisp white towels waited. A small stool sat just in front. Beyond the cabinet, also at the same height, the wall itself jutted out a similar distance, perhaps a bit more than a foot, creating a ledge just above the trough urinal that had so shocked me an hour ago.
I paused at the bottom of the stairs and noticed that extending about three feet from the half wall along this side of the room, the cement floor was raised a step, bringing it even closer to the gym level. The rest of the floor sloped gently towards a central drain. In the center of the back wall, between the urinal and the showers, was a door with a large, frosted glass panel that let in a bit of faint light.
From this vantage point, I now had a better view of the showers. The three shower heads looked about two or three feet apart from each other and the shower space itself I guessed might be about ten or twelve feet long. A low, wide wall separated the showers from the rest of the room. I assumed the wall's main function was to reduce splashes, but, oddly, it also looked like an inviting spot to rest.
The only way into the showers was at the end nearest me, and while the width of the space seemed adequate for showering, it struck me it would get a little tight for squeezing past other bathers. I remembered a similar set up in one of the pool locker rooms and how the bullies would purposefully take up the first showers to force their victims to run a gauntlet of their pinching, pantsing, and teasing.
To the left of showers, almost in front of us, two toilets sat side by side, with absolutely no partition for privacy or even to block loose spray from the showers. They shared a toilet paper dispenser on the wall between them. Being an extremely modest guy, I shuddered at the thought of ever having to use them.
In contrast to the cement surfaces everywhere else, the wall on my left was of cedar and towards the end of it, a cedar and glass door stood propped open. By the look and the woodsy aroma, I guessed it to be a sauna and the line of wood hooks at the exit I bet were for hanging towels and robes. To the left of the door a sign read "Shower Before Entering," with a simple illustration of a man in profile under a shower. Someone had taken a red marker and drawn an arrow aimed up at his butt. I giggled at the crudeness but had to admit the meaning was made clear.
Buck's eager pride of the space was unmistakable. "Ole Bill, I mean Mr. Bill," he crowed, "he helped us finish it all up like this. Could not've done it without his help. This was just an unfinished basement down here. And he had most of the ideas on how to set it up. Said he was modeling it after his favorite gym when he was a kid."
"He insisted we go all out on some stuff," Buck said as he stepped over to the sauna door. "I said, `Aww, do we really need to spend the price of a sauna?' and he made sure we got one of the biggest and the best." He stepped just inside the sauna door and turned as if to beckon me in. "Five guys can fit in here easy...and even more if they're friendly," he chuckled.
I joined him inside the now cool sauna. It was clean and smelled of wood and eucalyptus. On the wall to the immediate right of the door was a stove filled with lava rocks and beside it a wood bucket and ladle. Along the walls facing the door and to the left, two rows of benches formed an L.' Above the top bench in front of us hung a sign asking in bold print, Are you TPC clean?' Puzzled, I looked at Buck for an explanation.
"Oh, the `Tail Pipe Cleaner.' I'll show ya in a minute. Another great idea of from Mr. Bill." Buck gestured for me to sit on the low bench near the stove while he sprang up to the top bench on the side facing it. He brought his feet up level with his hips, wrapping his arms around his knees as he started talking about how the sauna worked. As I glanced up towards him, I saw that once again, his posture had brought the straps of his jock into view. I tried not to gape as he spoke.
"So, ya ever been in a sauna before? We get it real hot and it's a dry heat that makes ya sweat, and then ya pour water over those rocks there and it steams up like you wouldn't believe. Really cleans out the sinuses and loosens your muscles. And when you can't stand the heat any longer, you go take a cold shower and come back for more."
"Sounds... intense." I offered, trying to picture it all in my mind but distracted because, as he spoke, Buck had started absentmindedly running a finger back and forth under a leg strap, first on one side, then the other.
Not to mention that on the wall directly in front of me hung another of those anatomical charts, this one titled, `The Male Reproductive System.' In gentle colors and exquisite detail, the various parts of a man's inner midsection were illustrated and carefully labeled. In the top drawing, the view was frontal and the penis flaccid. The drawing below was in profile, with the penis erect, charting the path of semen, from the testicles to a large, gleaming drop poised at the tip of the swollen head.
It's not that I hadn't seen such illustrations before, briefly flashed on a screen during slide presentations at school on what they used to call The facts of life.' But I had never seen one so large and close-up, and displayed in such a way that invited, or almost insisted on close study and contemplation. Next to it a simple plaque read, He is richest who is content with his portion--Socrates.' That was certainly a thought-provoking quote, especially juxtaposed with the exhibit of the male sex organ. It occurred to me that this poster must start some very interesting conversations here in the sauna.
Seeing my interest, Buck hopped down from the bench to approach the poster. "This came from a guy who used to work out here til he moved to Scranton. A doctor. Said it's amazing how many guys really have no idea how their equipment works. Having this here gives em a chance to study it a bit and maybe talk about stuff that's on their mind."
"Y'know, a lotta guys worry that their dick's not big enough. I mean, every guy, at one point or another, has been in a locker room, or barracks or stag party and thought, `Jeez, that guy's got a longer dick, or a fatter dickhead, or bigger balls than me, or his balls hang lower, or his load is bigger or he shoots it farther or whatever.' We've all been there. And he starts to feel inadequate. And that can cause a guy problems. Big problems."
"So, somethin' like this poster is good to help em understand that, whatever God gave em, it's a goddamn miracle of nature and they should be grateful to have it. When they see up close just how complex and friggin' beautiful their `machinery' is, they gain a while new appreciation for it."
"Y'know, guys make fun of me all the time cuz I'm so relentless about wearing a jockstrap." And here he pulled down the waistband of his shorts while pulling up on the waistband of his jock to substantiate his point, "But truth is..." and here he cupped his balls in one hand and looked me in the eye, "these jewels are worth protectin'!"
"Y'know, I point to those two fine boys of mine and say, Hey, I been takin' good care of these nuts for years and look at what they produced. Then I tease Jack, sayin', No tellin' what kinda two-headed creature you gonna spawn with all the rockin' and knockin' your poor nuts go through!" Illustrating this last point, he tapped the bottom of his jock pouch making it jiggle. And with that, Buck laughingly headed out the sauna door, once again leaving me a bit dizzy.
By the time I caught up with him, Buck was halfway to the urinal, back to tour guide mode. "I said, One toilet's enough,' but Mr. Bill says, Nah, when a man's gotta go, he's gotta go!' and insisted on this trough big enough for five guys to piss at the same time...even more if they're friendly!" and he laughed again at his own wit. "But he was absolutely right. It's funny how guys love pissin' together."
I thought back to the literal pissing contests I'd witnessed at summer camps and in locker rooms and had to agree.
Standing by the urinal, Buck gestured over to the showers and toilets. "Mr. Bill also said we'd save money not botherin' with all those enclosures and partitions like they're starting to do nowadays. I thought it might all be too open, but the guys just love hangin' out down here. It's all like one big room. After workouts, they like to take their time with the steam and shower. So, we offer beer, massages, play some nice music, and they totally loosen up. Their pockets, too," he winked. "It's great."
"Some guys say it's where they feel most at home. A couple of buddies will be loungin' here," and he pointed to the low wall separating the showers, "and believe it or not, a couple will even hop up here to hang out," and he tapped the ledge above the urinal." They say it's the only place they can drink beer and piss it out without having to move!" Buck ribbed me with an elbow, he seemed to find this so hilarious. Then suddenly he turned very serious, "That's why no glass down here, ever! Only cans."
I nodded in vigorous agreement at this most sensible precaution.
As I looked around, I noted that on the ledge several magazines were strewn, one a muscle magazine and another open to a two-page spread of a naked woman. "Some guys just want a little inspiration to crank up the plumbing," Buck laughed, leaving me a little puzzled.
Remembering an earlier remark of his, I asked, "You said you give massages here?"
"Yeah," Buck explained, "we offer two kinds. One is oil massage. That's like traditional Swedish, and we got a nice little room for that off the gym that I can show you in a minute. And then we do soap massages right here." And he pats the seating wall, which as I look, is indeed wide enough—about 30 inches or so—for a man to comfortably lie on.
As if to illustrate this point, Buck swings his feet up and lies face up as though ready for a massage. "We soap em up and scrub em down and rinse em with hot water. It's more about relaxation than actual technique. You're kinda scrubbin' as much as rubbin', but the guys love it. Gets em really clean. And sometimes, when there's a group, one of em'll yell, Scrub party!' And they each take turns flat on the wall while the rest give `em a gang washin'. Not so much money but still, lotsa fun."
This did indeed remind me of the Roman bath print, and I started to imagine how such a scene might play out here in the showers. But Buck interrupted my thoughts. "So, you learn to do rub downs on any of your teams?"
"A little bit, nothing too complicated."
"Think ya could hit my shoulders for a sec?" Buck asked, flipping over to his stomach. "They are mighty tight."
Awkwardly, I stepped forward, and leant over his back, trying to remember what my swim coach had showed us. I placed my thumbs on either side of his neck and started kneading in small circles, moving outward towards his shoulders, and gingerly squeezing the muscles between the neck and the shoulder.
"Go ahead and squeeze hard." Buck commanded. I obeyed. "Dang, kid! That's great! You're a natural, great touch! Y'know, I gotta pay my boys two bucks to get a back rub." Then he laughed and added, "Butt rubs they do for free, the beasts!" Again, he left me unsure what to make of his words.
As I stood up and loosened my back a bit, I saw that right above the shower heads, a row of tiles had been fixed to the wall, in the center stretching out the phrase, "You are my friend." On either side the band continued with the word friend' displayed in various languages: kawan' amigo,' umngane,' and Freund,' among others. Some in scripts I didn't recognize I assumed said friend' in their respective languages. For me it was a surprising and comforting message to find in this type of communal shower where I had put up with a lot of hostile teasing because of my uncircumcised dick, my large butt, and my swollen nipples.
"Now," Buck changed the topic, "you were asking about the TPC, the tail pipe cleaner. Check this out." Buck briskly hopped over the low wall and bent to where it joined the shower floor, pointing to two pedals that lay a few feet apart. "So," and here he turned to imitate standing on the pedals, squatting with his feet just a few inches forward. His butt stuck out towards me mere inches from my face. "Like so, ok?" I stared, once again entranced as the flimsy fabric of his shorts stretched tight across this butt, bringing the straps of his jock into vibrant relief.
Rousing me from distraction, Buck popped back over to my side of the wall, and leaning over it, gave instructions. "Now, you press that pedal and I'll press this one here at the same time..." and doing so, a soft jet of water sprayed up from a faucet I had not seen that was aimed to hit a guy right on his asshole. As I stared a bit stupefied, the stream of water oscillated and sputtered.
"Mr. Bill saw these in Japan, I think it was," Buck enthused, "and said we should have one here. And I tell ya, it's been great, especially cuz a lotta guys like sittin' naked on the wood benches in the sauna and you don't want em smearing crap on em, right? That's just gross!" The whole situation had never occurred to me and I of course agreed that skid marks on communal benches were to be avoided at all costs.
"Some guys freak out when they first see it," Buck continued, "but once they use it, they love it. Some days, guys're lined up to get their turn, pushing and shoving. It's hilarious. But tell ya what, sure does get a fella clean, but good! And my boys love it. Dang! Can't keep Zack away from it. He'll play here for hours. And leave the floor sticky, too, so ya gotta keep an eye out."
I was once again astounded by this world that Buck guided me through. The very idea of guys spreading their assholes so publicly to wash them out struck me as preposterous. But, taking a moment to consider, it was not unlike the laundry system upstairs, which had shocked me at first, but upon some reflection made a lot of sense.
But, still astounding to me were the two toilets between the sauna and the showers. They sat in full view of all, with no enclosure or privacy. As we walked back past them, Buck bragged about them being some latest model with some added features. I'm sure my eyes bugged out and my jaw dropped open at the audacity of their placement.
"Like I said, Sailor, not a whole lot of privacy around here." Buck laughed. "No kidding, you'll be lifting with the guys and one of em just walks down here, drops trou and takes a dump while you're talking. Course, you probably saw a lot of that in the locker room, right? Bet this reminds you of your days on the team, right? Hanging out naked, shootin' the shit with your teammates? "
All afternoon, this had been building: the big confession that had been growing inside me for hours, this heavy load of shame that I carried with me.
"To be honest, sir" I answered, "I've never been all that comfortable getting naked around other guys."
There. I'd said it. On the one hand, I steeled myself for the barrage of condemnation I was sure would follow, but on the other, I couldn't help but feel relief as finally admitting the truth lifted a huge weight off my shoulders.