Sophomore Year
Friday starts with a bang for Hank as Buck teaches him a fragrant lesson and then shares some life advice that leads Hank to reconsider some past events in a brand-new light.
With Hank's first weekend approaching and forty chapters under our belt, this may be an appropriate moment to pause and reflect on the experience of becoming a Nifty author and the considerable feedback from many wonderful readers.
One point that is never far from the surface is the distinction between erotica and pornography. Though always subjective and never exact, the difference is sometimes said to be that erotica intends to prompt sexual stimulation while pornography intends to prompt sexual release. And while erotica leans towards suggestion, employing inference, images and various subtleties to depict or imply sexual behavior, pornography tends towards direct descriptions in graphic and realistic terms.
Neither is superior to the other and both may be rendered very well or very poorly. However, as I reflect on the sexual fantasies, stories, and images that have shaped the telling of this story, I see they are clearly lodged in the erotica camp. Thus, the loyal reader who wrote, "this story has been metaphorically edging us for months," captured it perfectly. For those anxious for sexual release, I cannot promise when it will arrive, only that I will do my best to keep the journey stimulating.
Unceasing thanks to those whose correspondence continually inspires!
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Sophomore Year 40
Friday
My sleep was increasingly riled by vivid dreams of suffocation. As they built to a frantic crescendo, I woke to find Buck on top of me, pressing something damp over my face. A moment later I realized it must be his t-shirt. The very t-shirt that I'd spurted all over the night before, then tucked deep in the laundry basket, sure he wouldn't find it.
I struggled against him for a moment but that just made things worse. I relented under his weight and the furry friction of his body against mine, but gasped that he was squishing me, that I couldn't breathe.
"What?" he demanded undeterred, "Ya gotta thing for spurtin' into my underwear? You're as bad as Zack! But he's thirteen! What's your excuse?"
"Sorry, sir!" I mumbled through the soiled cloth and gasping for breath. "It was an accident. I didn't mean to." Buck lifted the shirt from my face, and I started to explain what had happened, but quickly realized that would incriminate me, admitting that I had filched the shirt off the dryer.
Necessity is the mother of invention as they say, and at that moment, I desperately needed to invent a plausible explanation. "I thought I was grabbing my own stuff outa there but got mixed up in the dark."
Buck seemed to soften a bit. "So why didn't ya turn on the light? Or grab a towel outa the bathroom? Or come ask me for a cumrag?" And he chuckled, "Lord knows I got plenty. Plus, I was bustin' a nut last night, too. We coulda had us a little nut party." He laughed, again leaving me dizzy.
"Y'know," he said, standing up beside the bed with the t-shirt in hand, "I was was lookin' for this shirt to wear today. `Couldn't remember where I'd left it." As he spoke, he held the shirt up, like evidence in a court case.
"And then I notice this new scent comin' from the laundry basket, so I go diggin' around to find the source, and lo and behold, it's my lost shirt, but newly christened with drops of sweet boy juice". At this point, Buck shocked me by pulling the shirt over his head.
He smoothed it over his torso as though checking to see if it still fit the same. It was much snugger on him than me of course, stretching especially tight across his pecs. The fabric was worn thin and supple, so his magnificent nipples stood out in proud profile. My state of fear was briefly interrupted by one of admiration and envy.
And then I realized that the soggy blobs of cum I'd creamed into the shirt the night before were now pressed right up against Buck's skin. I expected him to recoil in disgust, but he was calmly touching them with his fingertips.
After moistening his finger on several, he brought it to his nose and took a deep whiff, as though testing wine. "Mmmmm, very smooth," he said. "The second load's always a bit sweeter." As often happened, I couldn't tell if Buck was serious or joking.
"Here, see?" and he held his finger under my nose, lightly touching it. The moisture felt a little cool. "Take a sniff." I did tentatively. "Nice, huh?" I nodded, not sure if any other response was possible in that situation.
"Bet it tastes sweet, too. Here, open." And he held his finger in front of my mouth. Out of reflex I froze, my lips pressed tight. "Oh, don't be such a Boy Scout. It's not gonna hurtcha."
And to my amazement, Buck brought the finger to his own mouth, and looking me straight in the eye, opened wide and rolled it on his tongue. "Mmmmm," He hummed. "Not bad. Sweeter than mine, that's for damn sure."
Then he repeated rubbing his finger over the wet spots on the shirt and held it to me again. This time, my mouth was already agape in shock, so his finger entered easily and gently stroked my tongue. "See? Hankie cream kinda sweet." I gazed into his eyes as he purred, "Now close tight and suck it like a lollipop."
It may sound crazy, but that's exactly what I did. Sucking my juice off Buck's finger while he watched was an almost out of body experience. I was beginning to levitate when Buck quickly changed moods. He stood up straight and chirped, "But now I can't wear it today, can I, with all these boy scout spurts on it?"
"No worries, sir," I jumped in, not wanting this to spoil the mood. Trying to minimize the harm, I claimed, "you can hardly see them, the shirt being white and all. I bet nobody would notice."
"You really think so, Sailor? You think it'd be ok to wear out today, even if I'm gonna be around people?"
"Oh, absolutely, sir. It looks perfectly fine." I was lying through my teeth. True, the spots, being white on a white shirt, were not glaringly obvious, especially at a distance. But should anyone look closely, anyone who knew what they were looking at, well, it could be pretty embarrassing. But anything to save my skin.
"So, ya think I should feel totally comfortable wearin' this shirt today then?"
"Oh, yessir. Totally comfortable." I was starting to feel relief.
"Well, that's just great," he said. "And in that case," as he pulled the shirt over his head and tossed in onto me, "I think it's our little sailor boy who gets to wear this shirt today!"
Stunned, I stammered, "Oh, that's ok, sir, I was gonna wear..." I stopped short because, of course, I hadn't even planned as far as which side of the bed I was going to get out of, much less my wardrobe for the day.
"Oh, no," Buck was adamant, "I think after all the lovin' you been givin' this shirt, it'd get kinda lonely withoutcha. I mean, what kinda fella loves em and leaves em, huh? Not our Boy Scout here! Y'know, after you've had your fun with a girl, ya gotta take her out and show er you're not ashamed to be seen with er."
I rolled over, looking for my jockstrap or the briefs to put on so I could jump out of bed with Buck still in the room. I inadvertently pulled the sheet with me, exposing my bare ass to him. Whacking it with a stinging swat, Buck headed out the room, calling over his shoulder, "Now get ready. We leave in ten."
I got up and started getting dressed. I dug around some more in the sheets looking for my jockstrap but only found Mr. Akins' briefs. I pressed them to my nose to remember how glorious I'd felt the night before, then proudly hung them on the wall by the wrestling poster.
I finally located my jock under the pillow and chuckled to myself, "no wonder I had such sweet dreams."
Looking around for some socks, I came across Ethan's thong that had found its way into my laundry last year. He was the most careless roommate I ever had. His stuff was always getting mixed up with his roommates'.
Personally, as someone uncomfortable with the size of my butt, I'd always considered thongs pretty stupid. Ethan said he'd got it for a costume party or something. Anyway, it kind of gave me the creeps and I was eager to return it. I left it out on the dresser as a reminder to take it over to him that weekend.
I chose to wear the cutoffs again, kind of buzzed that if I sat with my legs spread, the pouch of my jock would be visible. Pulling on Buck's shirt and my sneakers, I checked myself out in the mirror. Looking in the cum-splattered glass at my cum-splattered shirt was a surreal moment.
I imagined that Jack's cum spurts were somehow linking with my cum spurts and that they communicating with each other, in some way connecting us. "The Cum Channel," I mused, chuckling to myself as I grabbed my backpack and headed for downstairs.
Passing the laundry closet in the hall, something caught my eye. The football pants Buck had bought me at Mel's lay on top of the dryer, freshly laundered, looking extra white and a bit shrunk. Buck had said he'd help me try them on and lace them up. I hoped we'd get to that this weekend.
Buck not only insisted that I wear the shirt but that he drive me to campus, I think to make sure I didn't try to pull a fast one along the way and change. In the car he asked, "So, what time ya getting' back from work today? I'm pickin' Zack up after school y'know so get ready for the tornado."
As we pulled up to the main campus gate, he turned to me and tugged at my shirt. "Now, anybody says anything, and trust me, it's only gonna be guys, just put your hands behind your head, give em a great big smile, and say, hey, wanna see what a real man smells like?"
I shook my head laughing, again amazed at Buck's freewheeling attitude about these things. At least he was back in a good mood.
"Nobody's gonna notice me, sir." I responded looking at my feet with perhaps a bit of false modesty. It was true that I used to disappear in a crowd, but the past few days I'd been drawing more and more attention.
"You kiddin'?" Buck reacted, "Everybody's gonna be checkin' out my boy here," and he ruffled my hair, "with his guns..." and he squeezed my bicep, "and his pecs," and he gently pinched my nip, "and those panzer tanks of his..." and he slid his hand under my butt, making me jump and squeal.
We both laughed for a delicious moment as the sweet echo of him calling me `his boy' buzzed in my ear. I looked him in the eye with what I'm sure was an expression of joy on my face. "Hey, c'mere." Buck lifted his arm, inviting a hug. Oblivious to the streams of pedestrians around us, I fell into his chest as though falling off a log.
"Ya lookin' so good these days, son, I gotta tell ya somethin'." And my heart started to swell, eager for the words of affection that would surely follow. Gently tucking my head under his chin and gently stoking my back, Buck cooed, "Now listen, Sailor Boy, some guy comes up to ya and offers to suck your dick, you tell `im twenty bucks. Minimum."
Stunned I sat bolt upright, looking at Buck in disbelief, sure I hadn't heard right. "What did you just say, sir?"
"Twenty-five if he wants ya to cum in his mouth. And don't ever take less than five, even if you're dyin' for some head, ok?" I stammered, unable to think of a response to these shocking instructions. "Even if yer balls're turnin' blue and you're horny as hell."
I lifted my hands in protest, but this advice had left me speechless.
"Hey, I'm just tellin' ya what every sailor learns his first shore leave. When you're packin' premium uncut beef like this," and he reached down and squeezed my dick with a wink, "don't be givin' it away to strangers, alright?"
Noting my incredulous expression, Buck said, "Oh, what? You never had some guy offer to blow ya?" I shook my head no.' "Nah, course not, with that altar-boy-Boy-Scout-Goodie-Two-Shoes-angel face of yours, they'd be afraid you'd run tell your mama." Buck laughed.
"But now you're startin' to strut around like a stallion," and he slapped my thigh, "and smellin' like pure testosterone," another nipple tweak. "Cocksuckers from miles around gonna be drawn to ya like bees to honey."
He peered out the windows at the passing crowd. "And always plenty of `em on a campus like this, huntin' for some young bulls to milk."
Before I could even begin to form a response in my mind, Buck pulled me close and planted a noisy kiss on the top of my head, "Now, git goin' or you'll be late for class." And next thing I knew, I was standing on the sidewalk, smelling the exhaust as his car pulled away.
Sometimes I couldn't tell when Buck was being serious or just kidding me. He loved to tease and would do so with the most serious expression on his face. I shook my head, deciding that his outrageous advice must have been some weird kind of joke, and headed off to class.
Buck was right about one thing though. Not one girl looked twice at my cum-splattered shirt that day. On the crowded walkway between classes a couple of guys noticed it and broke into big smiles, calling out things like, "Way to blow, dude!" and, "Now, there's some sharp shootin'!" One guy leaned in close as he passed and muttered, "Gotta learn to dodge that shit, man!" We both laughed.
Still, Buck's words echoed in my mind. I started to wonder if there really could be guys around campus looking for dicks to suck and pay for it. It seemed preposterous at first, but then I remembered my uncle alluding to civilians who hung around military bars willing to "pay for a little fun," though at the time I didn't know what that meant exactly.
Then I recalled one time my uncle took me to the beach. I was probably about fourteen or so, but not like the worldly fourteen-year olds of today. I was sheltered and naïve by comparison.
By the way, Uncle Hank' in Spanish is Tío Quique' but when I tried to say it as a little kid, it came out Tique'. We started writing it with English initials as T.K.'. And that just stuck. Sometimes I called him Tío' but often referred to him as T.K.'
So, anyway, I had never been to that particular beach before. It was near a couple of military bases. T.K. said it was his favorite beach. That was back when there'd be big changing rooms off the boardwalks with lockers and showers and even towel rentals. T.K. told me to just bring my suit with me from the car and we'd change inside. I hoped there'd be private cubicles.
Through a short dim hallway, we entered a cavernous room filled with what seemed like endless rows of benches. The sand dusting the cement floor hissed under our shoes, echoing like a brush on a snare drum, counterpoint to the hymn of splashing water from showers somewhere nearby.
Lockers lined the walls on two sides and from a small booth like at a movie theatre, a sleepy old man rented out locker keys and towels. Light poured in from windows high above us.
"Wow!" I exclaimed looking up, "it's like a church!"
My uncle snickered and patted my head affectionately, "Good call, Sobrino, it's definitely where some guys come to worship on their knees." Adults were often saying things that I didn't quite grasp, but a burst of laughter drew our attention to two guys seated towards the far end.
They exchanged smiles and nods with my uncle, evidently having heard his remark. They had laid out a large beach towel on their bench and sat at either end, facing each other naked with legs splayed wide as they smoked and chatted. I was amazed at their lack of modesty and tried not to stare.
Wet swimsuits turned inside out lay between them suggesting they had already been to the beach and were now taking their time savoring the cool shade inside while they got dressed to leave.
A third guy appeared in the wide doorway leading to the showers, also fully naked but dripping wet. Pulling a towel off a hook, he slowly started drying himself, his muscles flexing as he assumed various poses as though on a stage.
"How's the shower today?" my uncle called to him in easy comradery.
"Been hotter, that's for sure. Coulda used a little help." And he looked at his friends as though peeved.
"Had to take matters into your own hands, huh?" my uncle halfway laughed. I struggled to follow the joke.
"Yeah, sometimes that bar o' soap's your only friend on hand." By this time, he had walked back to his friends. Standing close between them, his privates swung at eye level as he toweled his hair.
"Well," joked one, slightly dodging a brush to his face, "at least it's clean for once."
The one standing laughed then turned and raised a foot on the next bench and leaned over to carefully dry his toes. His balls hung between his legs impressively, gently swaying with his movements.
With a gentle poke, the other guy seated chuckled, "And looks like these finally got washed so won't stink up the car like comin' here."
"Hey," the one standing called over his shoulder, "that hitchhiker didn't seem to mind." They all laughed and I realized they'd just been teasing each other.
Meanwhile, T.K. had led us to a bench just a few rows over where we set our bags down. I wished we'd sat further away from them, since I was shy and intimidated about changing in front of other guys.
Uncle Quique continued chatting with the guys so didn't seem to notice when I took out my suit and then modestly turned away. In practically a single motion I yanked off my underwear and pulled up my suit. If you had blinked, you'd have missed the fleeting glimpse of my butt. I'd had practice at this maneuver.
But T.K. stripped slowly bit by bit as he conversed with guys until he stood totally naked as he folded his underwear. I marveled at his cool confidence. I couldn't help but notice that while my uncle, like me, was uncut, all three of the other guys were circumcised. I wondered if they noticed and had any opinion on the matter.
"So, you guys been fishin'?" T.K. asked, turning back to tuck his socks and underwear in his bag. "Any luck?"
"Nah, nuthin's bitin'. Waste o' gas comin' out here today. May as well head home. Maybe stop at the Jolly Roger and see if anything's happenin' there."
"Jeez, and you guys look like ya know what you're doin'. Not even...?" and he nodded towards the showers, where water continued to splash.
"Nah, just sightseeers..."
"Well," and he put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me close to his naked hip. "I got my lucky charm with me today. No way I'm gonna have a bad day." I blushed.
"Yeah," one of them joked, "and ya got the right pole for catchin' a big one."
"Are we going fishing, Tío?" This was the first I'd heard of it.
"Depends, we'll have to see if anything's bitin'." Still stark naked, he bent down to pull his suit out of the bag then held it up. It was pale yellow, square cut with a bit of black trim up the sides and at the waist with an anchor emblem on the front leg.
I was dazzled but noticed it actually looked a little small compared to his frame. Nonetheless, as he stepped into it and pulled it up, it stretched and stretched.
"So, how's it look?" he asked me, striking a few poses. I stood speechless. He looked like a movie star from the cover of one of those Hollywood magazines, with his slender waist and lustrous black hair.
Then I was shocked to realize I could detect the shape and position of his dick and balls in the suit. His dick hung down the side of one leg while his balls settled just slightly off center to the other. I wondered if I should warn him, but no one else mentioned it, so I stayed quiet. I thought maybe I was the only weird one who would notice.
"Perfect for fishin' out there," laughed one of the guys and the others nodded in ascent or flashed a tumbs up in approval.
My own suit was nondescript. A navy-blue boxer style, long and baggy. Where my uncle's suit was definitely eye-catching, mine was perfect for hiding in a crowd, my modus operandi. Eyeing my boring suit, my uncle said, "Hey, we gotta get you somethin' a little more excitin', Sobrino, somethin' a little spicier."
"Yeah," called one of the guys from the bench, "a good-lookin' little stud like him deserves a good-lookin' suit." "Somethin' to really show `im off," agreed the other. "That's right," the guy standing added, "get that little man somethin' good for fishin'."
When I'd first seen them, I'd found these guys intimidating, but now they seemed very friendly. I marveled at the ease with which they lounged together still naked and seeming totally at home in this giant public space.
As we tucked our street clothes into our bags, my uncle opened his wallet and sighed as he took out the lone dollar bill it held. "Gonna need to get some more of this before we can getcha much of anything."
"Like from the bank?" I asked innocently.
"Uh, yeah, Sobrino," he paused and then laughingly mussed my hair, "like from the bank."
This was back before ubiquitous cell phones and credit cards, and most men's swimsuits had only one tiny pocket, called a coin or key pocket, that hung just inside the waistband. I wondered how my uncle would get the dollar bill to fit in it.
But my uncle neatly folded it and tucked it in his waistband, a little to the side, leaving about half in view. I thought that was pretty clever. Then he took a quarter from his bag to rent a lock and we stored the rest of our stuff in one of the lockers. These were more trusting times.
And so we strolled down the boardwalk, barefoot in just our suits and sunglasses, pausing to look in shop windows or lean on the railing to watch the surf and seagulls and beachgoers. The sun was tempered by a gentle breeze as high clouds scooted across the sky. I thought it was one of the best days ever.
And I wasn't the only one who seemed to think it was clever the way Uncle Quique had made up for no pockets by tucking his money at his waist. I noticed several guys stare at his suit appreciatively, and when a few of them saw that I was watching them, they'd give me wink.
Then I saw another guy on the boardwalk with a dollar bill tucked in at his waist. And then after a while another. And later another. These guys tended to look like my uncle: solid and self-assured with short hair and old-fashioned snug-fitting suits; most likely military men I figured.
Most were by themselves, but a few walked in pairs. This was back when most people smoked and one or two had their dollars folded up in the cellophane wrapper of a cigarette pack tucked in their waist. I thought that looked pretty cool, too.
I also noticed that some guys carried their dollar bill on one side and some on the other. A few had the money tucked in the center, right under their belly button. One guy even had a dollar tucked in the very back of his suit. The poor guy's suit was so old that a spot over one butt cheek had worn through.
I nudged my uncle and nodded in the guy's direction. "Jeez, Tío" I wondered, "isn't he tempting pickpockets like that?"
"Yeah," my uncle paused to stare for a moment as the guy sauntered away from us, "temptin' somethin', that's for sure." T.K. moved us along until we came to a noisy pub, "The Half Mast." Its front was a huge garage door raised open to the boardwalk. A merry cacophony of dinging and clanging rang from inside where a few men played at the pinball machines or foosball tables.
A line of stools along the bar sat almost halfway out the door offering the weary beachgoer momentary rest. At one end sipping a beer stood a distinguished-looking older fellow who smiled at us and said, "Good day there, Sailors." And to my uncle, "Fetching suit." T.K. smiled wide and nodded. The gentleman then added, "Looks expensive but worth it."
Since this was the same suit that I'd thought made him look like a glamorous movie star, the remark did not seem at all unusual to me. As I said, many grown-ups' remarks went right above my head.
When we got a few steps past him, my uncle stopped and said, "Oh, wait, I think I know that guy. I should go say hello." I waited a few minutes while they talked and then my uncle came back and handed me the dollar. "Go buy yourself a coke and whatever else you want. I'll be back in a bit."
"Where you going?" I asked him, more curious than anything.
"Uh, John there wants to, uh, try on my suit. Y'know, see if he wants to get one himself so he can go swimmin'." He turned to leave and then stopped to call, "And keep that dollar in your coin pocket. Don't tuck in your suit, ok? Don't want my sobrino losin' anything."
I was not a suspicious kid and saw nothing unusual in his behavior. Grown-ups were always doing things that didn't readily make sense. More than anything, I was excited to have a whole dollar to spend and felt very grown-up wandering all by myself along the boardwalk.
I browsed the shop windows, pondering how I might spend my dollar, which bought a lot more in those days. I passed ice cream and cotton candy vendors, gadget and gizmo stores, game arcades, and even paused at a men's clothing shop to eye the various swimsuits on display.
Most were the newer board short style but there were a few older fashioned square cuts, though nothing I found near as sharp as my uncle's suit. One mannequin even sported a man's bikini, quite scandalous in those days. My own suit seemed extremely plain and boring by comparison.
Something about all those colorful suits tickled a mischievous streak in me. Despite my uncle's warning, I succumbed to temptation and pulled the folded bill out of my coin pocket and tucked it into my waist.
I fancied myself one of the grown men I'd been watching on the boardwalk who carried their money that way. I imagined that it made me look grown up too, and like an old hand on boardwalk instead of a first-time visitor.
Yet, in no time, I started getting some odd attention. First, a few guys passing in pairs or small groups would see me then elbow each other making comments something about `chicken.' Since timidity and cowardice are often confused, I feared they were making fun of me.
Then a few older men stopped to ask me if I was working, which seemed a strange question considering I was just a kid hanging around the boardwalk barefoot in my swimsuit. When I would said `no' and try to explain that I was there with my uncle who had just gone off with a friend to let him try on his swimsuit and would be right back, the conversation would become very confused indeed.
I finally returned the bill to my little coin pocket so no one could see it and I went back to being an almost invisible kid in a crowd. Also, I thought if that was all the money we had, I shouldn't spend it yet. I ended up browsing a comic book stand until my uncle caught up with me a while later.
He had a huge smile on his face. "So, did your friend like the way it fit?" I asked.
My uncle chortled and threw an arm around my shoulder. "Oh, yeah, Sobrino. It was a little tight at first and took some squeezin', but he was real satisfied in the end, ya might say. Real happy. Now waddya say we go get us some lunch? And maybe after we'll see if we can't find ya a nice new swimsuit?"
"But Tío," I reminded him, "we don't have any money. That's why I didn't buy anything," and I handed him back the dollar bill.
"Ay, nene!" My uncle only called me `baby' when he was emotional. He looked really pained. "You were supposed to treat yourself for havin' to wait around for me." He took the dollar and wrapped it around two rolled up twenties he'd hidden in his suit. "But we'll make up for it!"
"Wow!" I marveled. That would be over two hundred dollars today. "Did you go by the bank?"
"Sure did! And cuz I'd made such a big deposit, I was able to get more cash than I thought. Ya might say we hit the jackpot today! Once again, the sobrino' brings me luck!"
Now years later, as I reflected on that day, I saw the events in a totally new light and new questions came to mind. Instead of the bank, had that forty dollars come from the gentleman at the bar? It hit me that trying on his suit would require them to both strip naked. My imagination reeled with fleeting images.
I next wondered if tucking a bill into your waist had been a signal that you were available, that you were "fishing"? Was that why those old men had approached asking if I was `working?' Were they looking to pay me to get naked with them?
And could there really be guys here on campus looking to give blow jobs and pay for it? And if so, was there some way to tell who they were, or did they just blend in with everybody else? And was Buck right that they might take some particular interest in me? What was it that attracted a cocksucker?
I was so used to passing through life unnoticed, the idea that some stranger might take any interest in me was more surprising than the possibility that cocksuckers were wandering campus and `hunting for young bulls to milk,' as Buck had put it.
These were the thoughts zipping around in my mind as I made my way to the next class and took a seat. The professor, Dr. Parker, was a tall, skinny, bookish type. He struck me as kind, and maybe a little timid, like me.
I tended to sit up front because he wrote on the board a lot and his writing was small. Also, the subject, math, was not super exciting to me and if I sat up close, I was less prone to distraction. However, today I was distracted by the thoughts Buck had planted in my mind.
As I thought `what does a cocksucker look like?' I watched the professor at the board and did my best to pay attention to the day's lesson. He always seemed a little nervous, repeating himself and constantly pushing his glasses up his nose. "Could he be one?" I wondered.
Once or twice, I noticed the professor glance at my shirt, once even losing his train of thought. I supposed that was when he figured out what the blotches were. Causing someone to lose their composure by evidence of my manhood gave me a curious tingle of power.
Feeling unusually brazen, while the professor was writing on the board, I nonchalantly slouched down and spread my legs wide, exposing a glimpse of my jock strap, curious to see his reaction. When he turned back towards the class and looked in my direction, he dropped his chalk. I suddenly felt like a cat with a mouse.
At the end of class, he called me to his desk and, leaning close very quietly said, `ah, Mr. Perez, about your shirt..."
"Yes, sir, Professor?" I stood at attention, deciding to act all eager and innocent.
"I'm not sure it's appropriate to wear something soiled in that manner..." His timid demeanor exceeded my own. It wasn't often that I was the bolder one in an encounter. It gave me a boost of confidence. I pretended to be one of those self-assured jocks I'd been around all my life.
"Oh, sorry, Professor," I thought fast, "I was in a hurry this morning and pulled it out of the laundry. It's my dad's workout shirt. He said these spots were just dried sweat. Him and his buds sure do sweat a lot."
"But actually..." and I pulled the bottom edge of the shirt up to my nose, flashing my torso at him, "I didn't think it stunk too bad. Do you think so, Professor?" I held it out for him to sniff.
It looked as if he was about to lean forward to take a whiff, but quickly became flustered and sat back in his seat. Regaining his composure he asked, "Mr. Perez, are you aware that your shorts are, uh, torn in a rather sensitive location?"
"No, sir," acting the innocent, I turned my back to him and bent over. "You mean somewhere in the back, sir?" I reached around and ran my hands over my ass, pretending to seek out the rip. There was a pause in which I could only hear his labored breathing.
"Uh, actually, Mr. Perez, the rip is more in the front. Well, not exactly the front; in the, uh, between the, uh, well, when you sit, you see, it ..."
Playing innocent, I sat in the nearest chair facing him, with my knees fairly close together. "Can you see it now, Professor?" I asked.
"No, Mr. Perez, it's when your legs are, well..."
I opened my knees just a few inches, knowing the hole would not yet be visible. "You mean like this, sir?"
"Not quite, Mr. Perez, but when you, uh, increase the distance between them..."
"Like this, sir?" and I barely spread them a few inches more, mercilessly teasing the man. I had no idea where this devilish impishness came from, but I was having a blast.
"Well, earlier, Mr. Perez, in class, the way you were seated..."
"Oh, you mean like this, sir?" and I opened my knees another few inches. We kept at this a few more times. I was torturing the poor man who could not bring himself to speak clearly on what he meant.
He seemed to both regret ever bringing up this matter but also completely unable to disengage now that it was started. Finally, I spread my knees wide enough to know my jock pouch was showing through the hole in the denim.
"There, Mr. Perez, you should know that when you assume that posture, one can see your, uh, undergarment."
I pretended not to remember what `undergarment' I was wearing and reached down and poked at my balls through the exposed portion of the jock pouch. Prof. Parker's gaze was riveted on the spot.
I'd never experienced this sort of control over someone by simply exposing myself. It was intoxicating.
"Oh, good thing I'm wearin' somethin' under there today, sir. A lotta days I'm just freeballin', y'know, goin' commando. Nothin' between me and my jeans except a little breeze now and then. Now, that woulda been quite a sight for ya, huh, Professor?"
"No doubt." The professor sat speechless and immobile. I kept my legs spread wide and while the Prof. Parker seemed to have trouble keeping his eyes away, he did not ask me to close them.
"'Course my dad don't like me freeballin'." I continued, "This is his jockstrap. He gave it to me and makes me wear it. Bike #10. Says it's one of the finest jock straps on the market. Do you have a favorite jock strap, Professor? Maybe a Duke? I know a lotta older guys really like them."
The professor looked off in the distance for a moment and his expression softened. "I believe the last time I owned one was when I played basketball in high school." He paused a moment. "No idea what happened to it."
I could see that he was warming to the topic. "Well, ya oughta get a new one, Proff. I love wearing mine. Even though my dad won't let me wash it, says I gotta make it my own. Tell ya what, you should head down to that sporting goods store on Monroe and ask for Buck Bryant, that's my dad. He knows just about everything there is to know about jock straps, and he's always helpin' guys find just what they're lookin' for."
"Buck Bryant?" he sounded slightly confused. "So, I assume he is not your, uh, I mean that he is your, uh, step-father, Mr. Perez?"
"The best dad in the whole world, Professor. I wouldn't trade `im for anything!" I wasn't sure where this bit of theatre was coming from, but once I started pretending, I didn't want to stop.
"Well, that is touching, Mr. Perez." Students started dribbling in for the next class, so Prof. Parker began loading his notebook and papers into his briefcase. "Perhaps I shall pay a visit to Mr. Bryant and see if I might trade some guidance on, uh, athletic supporters for a bit of, um, laundry advice."
"You do that, sir. You won't be sorry!" I walked out of that classroom with a huge smile on my face, amazed at how cooly I'd handled that and fairly sure I'd be getting a decent grade.
By assertively displaying the cum-splattered shirt and my jock pouch - some of the most explicit evidence of my manhood - I had dominated the interaction and manipulated the outcome to my advantage. I felt like I had entered a brave new world.
I was actually kind of hoping I might run into Chip before I left campus, thinking he would get a huge kick out of the shirt, since he'd worn one to class the day before that he had used to wipe his load off his pal's chest. "Like a butler," he'd described it.
I caught the bus to work and threw on my apron before any of the guys noticed anything. We were not supposed to wear sleeveless shirts while doing food prep, but I'd gotten away with it before. Still, I was a little nervous I might get called out. Fortunately, since I was a good worker and minded my own business, they tended to leave me alone.
I bummed a ride home from Lupe, one of the guys from Mexico who worked the kitchen with me. He was very nice but even more naïve and clueless than me. He kept sniffing and saying, "Damn, güey, what's that smell? What you spill on you today? Smells like my old man, like I'm back in Piedra Gorda." I didn't have the heart to tell him.