Sophomore Year 5
This is the fifth of a multipart story about my year boarding with a single dad and his two sons. It was a time of highly charged eroticism more than explicit sex and led me to discover a lot about myself. This story is a slow burner, taking its time to set the stage and to draw out the characters and their dynamic. This is my first submission to Nifty, so your patience is appreciated. Send your thoughts and reactions in an email, I attempt to respond to all. Many thanks to those who sent words of encouragement.
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Sophomore Year 5
I followed Buck into a large room with a cement floor. The last of the daylight seeped in through high windows down the wall to our right and across the far wall. Down the left side of the room, the vague shapes of weight racks and benches slowly emerged as my eyes adjusted to the dimness.
Buck reached around me to turn on a light, briefly pressing his still damp chest against me. The bristle tickled my shoulder. A line of small ceiling lamps came to life down the right side of the room. "Now, what you're looking at here is a full gym and it also keeps this family afloat. It's got everything those professional gyms offer, but it's a whole lot cheaper for the guys I train. Course," he lowered his voice conspiratorially and winked, "it's off the books, so we try to keep it quiet and let word of mouth do our advertising for free. That's why we try to give em something they can't get anywhere else, to keep the guys coming back for more."
Clearly, Buck had a keen mind for business. I had come expecting to find the typical dumb jock's basement weight set but instead was discovering a very clever operation.
"So, we never say client' or customer.' It's always buddy.' Like, We got buddies coming over today to work out.' Or Dad had some of his buddies over last night to play poker.' Got it? It's all about helping these guys feel like they did back in the day. See, they wanna forget their jobs and responsibilities for a few hours and hang out with their buds, like when they were in the army or on a sports team. We don't want em thinking they're just paying for a service. And don't get me wrong, they're a great bunch a guys, lotsa fun to hang out with."
I nodded in agreement, totally getting the idea. I remembered that incredible feeling of safety and support I got from being part of a team, and how I hungered for it after the bullying pushed me out. I think it was especially precious to guys like me, whose shyness kept us from easily fitting in. Sounds funny now, but some of my favorite stories back then were "The Ugly Duckling" and "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," tales where the oddball outcast transforms into the hero. And as I thought about it, I realized that I would also gladly pay to get that feeling back. If I had any money, that is.
"So," continued Buck, bringing me back to the moment, "fellah that takes the room gets full access to all this, plus I toss in a little training and some freebies. But he's gotta help out, too. I got a group of buddies comes in Tuesday and Thursday nights 5 to 8, and Saturday and Sunday mornings 7-10. I need help especially the last hour or so when they hit the showers and then afterwards for clean-up."
He went on, "I also train guys one-on-one but that's at random times and I usually don't need much help with them. Wednesday nights are poker and we're still working out best times for the pool games. So, think you could work with that? Maybe not all those times every week, but at least hit most of `em?"
"Well," I reviewed my situation, "I just dropped chemistry, so I'm down to three classes this term and they're all in the morning. And right now, at work they got me on lunch shift and usually one night on the weekends. That could change, but I could ask `em not to. Homework I kinda fit in whenever. So, schedule-wise I could probably help. But what is it you'd need me to do?"
Looking around him, he said, "One part is just basic housekeeping: sweeping, mopping, a little scrubbing, and straightening up. Plus some laundry, towels mainly. Keeping the shower room stocked with soap and toilet paper. Sometimes the guys get a little rowdy and leave the floors a mess, but it's usually not too bad. Trick is don't wait too long and let the stuff dry and harden."
Most of that sounded a lot like what I did at the restaurant and had been doing at home since I was old enough to hold a broom. The part about getting up spills before they dried and hardened was a little puzzling, but I figured I'd find out more when the time came.
"The other part is psychology, just helping keep a good mood going with the guys. Y'know, act happy to see em, give lotsa compliments, tell em they're looking buff, laugh at their jokes, be impressed by how much they're liftin', that kinda thing. You can do that, right? And like I said, most of the time, it's true. They're a great bunch of guys."
I nodded along, grasping the idea but wondering if my shyness would get in the way. "Would I have to start conversations?" Definitely not one of my strong suits. "And I'm just a kid. Is anybody even gonna notice me?"
"Listen, my litte Keykay," and he put an arm around my shoulder pulling me in close, "I'm gonna give you a little lesson in the male ego. Practically every guy walking this planet wants the same thing: to be noticed, to be wanted and to be part of something. Seriously. You give any one of these guys a big smile, say he's looking good, say he makes this place better when he's here and you have him eatin' outa your hand! OK, so you're not some big loud comedian. You're a very sweet kid," and here he gently chucked my chin, sending a little buzz up my spine, "so anything you say's gonna come off real sincere. You'd be like the son they always wanted but never had."
Since I'd grown up without a father around, Buck's words hit me funny. I'd started out today just looking for a roof over my head, but this place seemed to offer something more. It was stirring up feelings I thought I'd put to rest years ago and I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.
Buck then stepped back and faced me. "Now, you wanna start a conversation with these guys, you keep it light. Do not ask about work or family or girlfriends---could be a sore spot they'd sooner forget. Mention something cool you just saw: a ball game or the new Corvette or a girl with amazing tits. If they ask questions about it you can't answer, just keep saying, oh man, you gotta see it, you just gotta see it. You'll love it.' They'll take it from there. Another way to start is to offer em water. Or a beer after workout."
I had to admit, he did make it sound easier than I'd ever imagined. I was actually feeling a little eager to try some of this out.
"And another thing," Buck continued, "We go easy on em. Most guys get told what to do and what not to do all day long. These guys come here for a little recess and to blow off steam. Guy starts telling you how he screwed his wife three times last night, first, you know it's total b.s. but you act impressed and say, Damn, you the man, bro!' You see em pissing in the shower and horsing around, laugh along with it. You catch em jerkin' in the sauna, just say Shit, that's huge!' and then remind em to finish over a drain."
It was sometimes hard for me to tell when Buck was serious or kidding. I was about to ask if the guys really did those things, when the phone rang in the next room. "Let me get this. Can't afford to miss calls. You take a look around and I'll be back in a sec."
"Sure, no problem," I said, relieved at the chance to think over the conversation and to start inspecting by myself and at my own pace. As I watched him walk out of the room, I was struck by the small percentage of his body that was clothed. His small shorts and sneakers left what seemed like acres of skin exposed. I thought I would be uncomfortable walking around practically naked in front of strangers, but Buck seemed totally at ease.
"Buck here," I heard him answer the phone from the other room. "Hey, buddy! How's it going?" he responded enthusiastically. "Hey, that was a great session! I got a kick out of that. How `bout you? Man, you are making some real progress!" It was a perfect demonstration of his advice. He sounded so friendly and happy; I almost wished I were on the other end of the line myself. "Sure, what's up?" he asked.
While he listened to the caller's response, I glanced around this basement gym. The space was large and open but filled with a zillion things to look at. On the wall to the right, directly under one of the ceiling lights, an old glass display case looked like something from a store when I was a kid. Above it an old advertising poster featured a smiling young man from waist up in nothing but a football helmet and holding a jockstrap above his head with both hands like a trophy while celebratory confetti floated behind. Underneath, it read "Stay `Strapped for Victory!" At first glance, the ad seemed fairly innocuous, but then the implications started to dawn on me. The guy would be naked from the waist down because he had just stripped off the jock he'd worn in the game he just won, and that jock he was displaying so proudly was likely damp and reeking of his sweaty balls. Furthermore, the confetti in the background implied he was doing this in public, perhaps in front of fans. It struck me as funny, nostalgic, and pretty risqué all at the same time.
Inside the case on the top shelf sat one of those partial store mannequins, just waist to thigh, the kind used to display men's shorts or swimsuits. But this mannequin sported a frayed jockstrap, a bit yellowed by age and wear. The pouch protruded realistically, beyond the usual mannequin profile, leading me to suspect it was stuffed with something. I chuckled at that; it seemed like a high school stunt. On the waistband directly above the pouch, in very neat lettering, someone had written "Captain." I could see how this lighthearted approach to something that often made guys nervous would help set the mood Buck was aiming for.
On the second shelf sat a glass punch bowl filled to overflowing with a jumble of used jockstraps of various brands and shades of white. On the next shelf down were three neat stacks of what looked like a motley collection of used gym shorts. On the bottom shelf sat at least a dozen boxes of new jockstraps. A sign on the front read, "Shorts and jocks priced as marked."
Even during my years on the track or swim teams, I didn't think I'd ever seen so many jockstraps in one single place as I'd seen today since arriving at this house. "So, where does Buck get all this stuff and who buys it?" I wondered. "The `buddies' who come over to train and play poker and pool?"
As if on cue, Buck stuck his head in the doorway, gesturing with this free hand as if to say, `just a minute more' as he said into the phone, "Sure, we can absolutely fit you in this week. Tell me what you wanna focus on," and then disappeared back into the poolroom.
I next came to a row of old-school double tier lockers, once painted barn red and now scratched and dented. It looked like just about all the locker doors had neatly printed nametags of their occupants. About half the locker doors were open, revealing jumbles of athletic shoes, shorts and T shirts or tanks, but to my surprise, no jockstraps.
Several of the open locker doors had pictures taped on the inside, a familiar practice in high school. Most looked ripped out of magazines. A few flexing muscle men in tiny trunks alternated with a bare-chested action hero or two. More shocking to me were the few of naked women, some the tasteful airbrushed shots from Playboy, but a few others more explicit, showing vaginas, and one of two women fondling each other's breasts.
I had to admit that there was something slightly arousing about stumbling upon the erotic content. I moved closer for a better look as I heard Buck in the next room say, "Well, our Jackster has headed off to school, man. Over in Springfield. Yeah, studying massage. Really. Says he wants to get to be an expert at giving you those nice rubdowns. Make it his... specialty."
I froze at hearing this turn of phrase and looked up to see Buck leaning in the doorway, winking at his use of the expression.
"Yeah," he continued, "but I may have me a new assistant when you get here. Yeah, sweet little sailor kid, here for college." He kept smiling and silently laughing, winking at me as though I were in on his joke.
"Well, you'd have to behave yourself, y'know. He's real shy. Boy Scout type. Yeah, and I don't want you scaring him off." He laughed and with a final wink, disappeared again into the pool room, now talking quietly, and sounding serious.
Unaccustomed to being noticed, much less a topic of conversation among alpha males, I shook my head, unsure what to make of Buck's comments. Instead, I looked above the lockers to see along the entire length of the wall in between the high windows, more posters. Famous athletes alternated with musclemen and ads for sportwear. In between two ads for Bike jockstraps a poster showed a hand holding a strap over an open washing machine with a blunt red X' across the image. There was no text. The point was clear. What many coaches spent countless hours pleading this poster brought home in an instant. "Oughta mass produce those and sell `em," I mused.
In front of the lockers two wood benches sat end to end. Again, I was surprised to see several `Hustler' and similar adult men's magazines at one end. I was tempted to pick one up and page through it when Buck looked through the doorway, still on the phone.
"Ok, then, see ya Thursday at four, buddy. Meanwhile, keep em strapped, trust the pouch."
I'd never heard that expression but understood it immediately. It seemed an oddly intimate thing to say but it was also good-natured brotherly advice. It echoed in my mind as Buck hung up the phone and returned to my side, looking very pleased with himself about something.