Sophomore Year 16
In this chapter, young Hank visits Mr. Bill next door to deliver his mail, and without realizing it, undergoes inspection. On the way over, he has a chance to reflect on the day's experiences.
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Sophomore Year 16
I headed up the driveway at a trot, buzzed from all I'd experienced that day, not to mention the beer still sloshing in my belly. I wasn't much of a pothead, but I felt like I'd just toked on a joint of some potent marijuana. Under a sky full of cricket song and promise, the warm night air brushed against me like a velvety cat. Today's glimpse of a new Hank, dashing and bursting with bravado, spurred a swagger in my gate while I pretended the stars above were all admiring eyes.
With each step I took, the jock tugged at me softly, the gentle friction of the leg straps across my ass, and the pouch firmly yet fondly cupping my balls. The fit was perfect; secure enough to hold everything in place, yet supple enough to allow a gentle bounce. My balls even felt slightly pendulous as they swayed a bit back and forth.
Of course, I'd often heard `balls' used to signify bravery and daring, but I'd never really considered the direct link. Tonight, I felt bravery pulsing through my balls and flowing into them from the jock pouch holding them. I tried to imagine who else might have worn this jock, whose mighty balls had filled the very pouch now holding mine.
I know this now sounds crazy, but after the day I'd had, I was in a crazy state of mind. I cupped my hand around my balls to check if this was all just in my head, and I could have sworn they did feel bigger. I reached into the pouch to practice the `cup and lift' move I'd learned from Buck. I still can't believe the timid 19-year-old me was doing those things so freely out in the open, even if I was alone in the night.
Up until then, wearing a jockstrap had been about as exciting to me as wearing a seatbelt. But Buck was opening an entirely new dimension for me, revealing aspects of the garment, its meaning and its use, that I had never considered. He was making it slightly thrilling in some strange way.
I reached back and slid a finger up each leg of the shorts to flatten the straps. The gesture made me feel very manly. Each time I did it I enjoyed it a little more and wondered if I'd ever do it with as much natural ease as Buck.
You may be wondering how this could be the same Hank you met at the start of this tale. His chronic shyness and timidity had not totally vanished, of course. A complete personality change doesn't happen that quickly. The familiar voices of doubt merely loitered in the background waiting for the chance to re-emerge.
The further I got from Buck's and the closer I got to Mr. Bill's, the less confident I started to feel about delivering mail to a stranger, especially with my jockstrap so clearly visible under these white gym shorts. I slowed to a walk and glanced back longingly at the relative safety of Buck's house.
Making it worse was the cropped workout tee that Buck had lent me. It revealed much more skin than I was used to, and the mailbag slung across my shoulder would catch it every so many steps and pull it up even further. It seemed like the shirt of a braggart, and I had a terrible fear of calling attention to myself.
I don't think I had ever worn such a skimpy outfit in public before except in an organized sports competition when I would blend in among teammates wearing the same thing. Tonight, there was no one I could stand behind, no one else to draw attention away from me.
I slowed even further to reflect on all that had happened so far that day. I'd realized long before that growing up without any men in my life was likely why I'd always looked to coaches and teachers for what they'd call these days `validation from a father figure.' I craved their attention and approval and would strive to be the best behaved and most compliant boy in their charge. I could never understand my peers who seemed to enjoy irritating and rebelling against them. I tried hard to do just the opposite.
But my success rate was mixed. Often the men attracted to this line of work were alpha males themselves and drawn to the very alphas under their watch. While they sparred with the rebellious boys, I would slip under their radar. Being passive and compliant, I would easily disappear from view.
The laser-like focus of Buck's attention today was perhaps more than I had ever received, aside from my uncle, whom I missed every day. Buck seemed to take a sincere interest in me, in who I was as a person and where I was in my life journey. True, his sudden bursts of anger and physical aggression were a bit terrifying, but so far, they'd been short and immediately followed by a moment of warmth and affection.
Buck's eagerness to help me cultivate, express, and openly celebrate my masculinity was something unfamiliar and intoxicating. Yet it also forced me to face some of my deepest insecurities and anxieties and try to overcome them, which was terrifying. The prospect of living under his roof both excited and scared me at the same time. Once you've been bullied enough, it can be very difficult to let down your defenses.
Meanwhile, I had no idea what to expect of this Mr. Bill, whose name I'd heard a lot that day and who evidently played an important role in Buck's household. I'd gotten the impression that he was older, well off, and fondly respected by Buck and his sons. Much more than that was still a mystery.
I wondered what awaited me as I approached his house. A few windows glowed faintly from pale lights within. The open garage looked very neat and orderly as I passed through to the back door. As instructed, I knocked before opening it a crack and called, "Request permission to come aboard!"
A gruff voice from inside answered, "Permission granted." I found this intimidating because, even though Buck had christened me with the nickname `Sailor,' aside from sporadic contact with an uncle who was a Marine, I had virtually no military experience. I worried I might be setting myself up to get mocked in some way.
I entered cautiously, stepping into a dimly lit room. I could make out a line of coat hooks and a shoe rack on one side and a washer and dryer on the other. I also noted the same laundry system as next door: a basket for dirty laundry beside the washer and one for clean by the dryer. An odd temptation came over me to poke around the basket and check out its contents, but nerves kept me on good behavior.
Instead, I shifted my gaze forward to figure out my next step. I froze as I saw facing me a life-size image of a young athlete in workout clothes, an unexpected yet somehow affirming choice of artwork for a laundry room. He even wore an outfit oddly like mine. One millisecond later I realized it was my own shadowy reflection in a full-length mirror, yet another in the day's long series of disorienting moments.
Next to the mirror, a doorway opened on a hallway leading towards the back of the house. At the far end a golden light glowed from the next room. I walked towards it slowly, again smoothing out the leg straps and adjusting my shirt and shorts. Before entering I called, "Good evening, sir. I have your mail."
The gruff voice answered, "Proceed."
I stepped into a large comfortable den. In the far corner a leather recliner, much like the one next door, faced me, and in it lay a man, his top half hidden behind a newspaper. Even from across the room I could tell it was not the local rag, but one of those major ones, like from New York or Chicago.
A floor lamp beside his recliner was the only light source in the room. Aimed at the newspaper, and hence at me, its glare dazzled my eyes when I looked in his direction. I couldn't make out much more than just his silhouette. He looked slender and fit.
Meanwhile, the man in the recliner—I assumed this was Mr. Bill—showed no reaction to my presence. He remained engrossed in his reading which I was loathe to disturb, so I stood still and awaited instruction. Taking advantage of the moment, I surveyed the room.
To my left ran a wall of bookshelves, cabinets, and drawers held a large tv and a wet bar. The shelves and cabinets and drawers continued along the adjacent wall, interrupted by two windows and a very large mirror between, close to the foot of the recliner.
On the facing wall, sliding glass doors lead to the back yard, now in darkness. Slightly to my right, a leather sofa—also like the one next door—faced the room, and behind it an archway opened to a large kitchen and whatever lay beyond.
As though suddenly remembering his visitor, the man called, "Yes, well, you can set the mail there, in that basket on the bar." Seeing the spot he meant, I walked towards it. "Have a look, why don't you, and tell me what the postman has brought us today."
I couldn't place his accent. Unlike Buck, whose voice evoked the rough side of some rust belt city up north, this guy sounded more refined, for lack of a better word, like a character in one of those old movies where the men all wear tuxes and everyone sips champagne. Almost British.
Emptying the mail bag, I called out its contents: some routine bills, a few magazines, and a catalog of men's sportswear. "Hmm..." Mr. Bill mused, "anything look interesting? Zack will surely want a look at that catalog."
I set the mailbag on the floor and paged through the magazines, calling out the titles of articles. Nothing piqued his interest. The sportwear catalog promised a guide to the latest work out wear and a forecast for "next summer's hottest looks for the beach."
On the cover three muscle guys exercised in a gym and I was surprised to see one in shorts that revealed almost as much of his jockstrap underneath as those I was wearing. I wondered if this was just a coincidence or simple oversight or some sort of growing trend. That last struck me as unlikely.
"Very well," he resolved, "bring me the catalog then."
I stepped close and set the catalog on the small table by the recliner. With my head above the lamp's beam for a moment, I could see he was wearing a light cotton bathrobe, open, and a pair of light blue shorts similar to the ones I'd seen on the treadmill next door. They looked expensive. A fleeting twinge of envy hit from knowing how silky and lightweight they'd feel, cool and perfect for this very warm late summer weather.
He continued reading his newspaper. Much of his upper half remained hidden in shadow, but what I could see of his torso looked tanned and leathery, like someone who'd spent much of their life in the sun. The fabric of the shorts draped lazily over the contours of what lay inside, and I blushed when I realized how much of his intimate anatomy I could detect.
It felt impolite, even rude to have looked, although it also seemed one of the last things this gentleman would care about. Nevertheless, I quickly retreated a few steps, standing almost at attention at the foot of the recliner, as though awaiting further orders.
"So, you're Hank?" he finally asked as he turned a page. He still hadn't looked at me from what I could tell. I felt intimidated, like I was interrupting him, intruding on his solitude.
"Yessir!" I responded.
At that point, he lowered the paper and seemed to peer over it. He suddenly asked, "Are those Jack's Navy PT shorts?" He sounded surprised and I panicked, worried that I would be accused of thievery.
"Yessir, they are. He left them in his room and Buck told me to try them on right before I came over, sir."
He set aside the paper and seemed to look very intently. He reached down with one hand and yanked the lever bringing his chair upright while with the other he adjusted the lamp to aim its beam directly in front of him. With his head still in shadow, he pointed to a spot on the floor in front of him and said quietly, but leaving no doubt that it was an order, "Stand here."
I trembled a little as I complied, afraid he was going to scold me for the wearing something that wasn't mine. Instead, he pulled me even closer and started turning me around brusquely by the hips. His grip was strong, and I felt like a leaf in his hands. "Hmmm," he muttered as though to himself, "fit you almost better than Jack." Then with a quiet chuckle, "And he will not like that one bit."
I attempted to defend myself in a rush of words. "I tried to give them back to Mr. Buck as soon as I found them, sir, but he was the one who told me to try em on and he said I should just keep em on until my jeans are dry."
Mr. Bill did not seem to hear anything I said but continued his inspection, turning me this way and that, like Buck had done, tugging and tweaking here and there. "And the jockstrap you're wearing, you're aware that it's an all-cotton Bike #10, yes? Where did you come by such a piece?"
"Yessir, it is. Mr. Buck gave it to me, sir. He picked it out of a case to go with these shorts, sir. He's the one who told me to wear it. I wasn't trying to steal anything, sir."
"Striking combination." He muttered more to himself than to me, as though he hadn't heard anything I'd said. "Just striking. That Buck has outdone himself. And let's see," he turned me around to face him. "Yes, at six o'clock. Very wise."
I couldn't tell if he was joking, he sounded so earnest. I just knew that all this attention was once again gently igniting a warmth in the pit of my belly. "So," he shifted the topic, "you've come about Jack's room, correct?"
"Yessir."
"And what do you think so far?"
"Well, sir," still nervous, my words tumbled out, "It's a lot to take in. Don't think I've ever really been anywhere like it. The room's real nice, the whole house, really, and that gym downstairs is really something, and Buck seems really, well, he really takes an interest. I don't think I've ever met anybody like him. He's kinda like some of the coaches I've had but different. And he really seems to care about his boys, and---" I felt like an idiot for rambling on. I was tense and not used to talking.
"I see," Mr. Bill responded calmly, adjusting his chair to again recline. "Well, what do you say we get to know each other a bit? Perhaps a beer? Would you be so kind as to get us each one from the bar fridge there? Then we can have a nice little chat."
Part of me was reluctant to drink another beer. I was not much of a drinker back then and the first I'd had sort of went to my head. I felt dizzy, whether from the beer or the day's events or both. But given the extraordinary afternoon I'd had, I accepted.
The bar fridge was low, and I had to bend way over to dig out the beers from far back on the bottom shelf. It took me a minute because they were hidden behind soft drinks. I felt very awkward, knowing that I was directly in his line of vision and that if he was watching me, how clearly the straps must show through when I bent over like this.
I suddenly felt thirsty, and grabbing the bottles, quickly turned to head back towards Mr. Bill. "Church key top drawer to the right." he called, and I felt stupid that I was just going to walk back with them unopened. This, of course, was before the twist-off became common.
Prying off the caps, I returned and handed him a beer. He remained in his recliner but gestured for me to stay standing in front of him. It would probably look a little weird to someone peering in the window, like a military inspection or something, especially with the lamp still turned so his face was in shadow while I stood in a spotlight.
But I was used to this sort of dynamic, standing in front of coaches to receive lectures or instructions while they stayed comfortably seated behind their desks. I actually didn't mind it at all. As I said, I was always hungry for their attention.
Mr. Bill asked me many of the same questions that Buck had and seemed satisfied with my responses. A phone suddenly rang. I had not noticed it before since it sat in the dark on the shelf beside him. He picked it up and responded curtly to the caller: "yes," "no," "good," "makes sense," etc.
While he spoke, I observed his chest, now more visible than before. Though he was overall slimmer, his chest was large like Buck's though sagged very slightly as occurs with age. I couldn't help noticing that his nipples were also very large and prominent like Buck's, maybe even more so, but whereas Buck's pointed straight out forward, Mr. Bill's pointed more outward and down. They looked like they'd be difficult to hide under most shirts, although these men, unlike me, did not seem the least bit bashful about their bodies.
Glancing around at the shelves, I saw a lot of framed photographs, several of ships as well as other types of Navy regalia. When he hung up the phone, I asked, "Were you also in the Navy, sir?"
"Yes, I was, son. On that ship." and he pointed to one of the photos on the shelf. "So," changing the topic he asked, "how are you enjoying the fit of that jock strap? It's one of the classics, you know."
That morning I would have been mortified if a stranger had asked such a pointed question about a piece of intimate apparel. But after today, it felt much more...normal. Well, maybe not normal, but not so unexpected.
"It's kind of amazing, sir. Probably the nicest one I've ever worn. And it fits great. Kind of snug but then, not really tight. And it's not scratchy at all. It actually feels kind of soft but not at all loose."
"Oh, yes, with the kind of wear that one's had, the pouch becomes luxuriously smooth, like a warm handshake, as the old man used to say."
I was a little confused by his reaction. "Do you know this jock strap, sir?"
"Why, yes. It's mine." I stared at him, stunned into silence. "Buck must think a good bit of you to have chosen that one."
These two ideas together left me dumbfounded. Gathering my wits, I replied, "Well, he did say something about the caliber of manhood it had held and that I'd better show it proper respect."
"And what did you think when he told you that?"
"Well, to be honest, sir, at first, I didn't really understand what he was talking about. It didn't make much sense."
"And now...?" he asked.
"Well, sir, now that I've had a chance to think about it and about all the stuff Buck and I talked about today, and I've tried it on and seen how it fits, and how it feels to walk around in, plus had the chance to meet you, sir, well, it's...it's...well, sir, it's one hell of an honor to wear your jockstrap. Thank you, sir."
If anyone had told me that morning that by nighttime, I'd be saying something like that, I would have said they were crazy. I never could have imagined saying those words. But after the day I'd had, I felt different. I meant what I'd just told Mr. Bill. Perhaps as deeply as I'd ever meant anything.
A pause followed in which my words seemed to echo around the room. Finally, sounding very pleased, Mr. Bill moved us on to another topic. "So, you say you were on a swim team. Did you know I have a pool here?"
"Yes, sir," I heard a little about it."
"Would you like to see it, Sailor?"
I reddened a little at his use of Buck's nickname for me. It felt like I'd gained a bit of approval. "Yessir that would be great."
"Head out that door there. The light switch is to the left outside." He still didn't move from his recliner, and his face remained in shadow.
Opening the slider, I flipped on the light. A huge pool appeared like magic before me, surrounded by patio and lounge chairs and more than I could take in. "Wow!" I called back through the still open door, "this is amazing!"
"Yes, it seems awfully popular with the boys. Glad you like it." He replied, "It got lots of use this summer but now with Jack gone and Zack only here twice a month, it just sits. A bit sad, really. Say, would you care for a dip?"
"Actually, sir" I said, "I'd love to. But I don't wanna get chlorine on these shorts and especially not on your jock strap, sir. That would not show the proper respect."