Sophomore Year 7
This is the seventh 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. The joy is in the journey, not the destination.
In this chapter, Buck further explains the operation and Hank's potential role in the household and helps Hank begin to overcome some of his insecurities about his body.
This is my first submission to Nifty, so your patience is appreciated. Life's unfolding is jumbled, and memory exacerbates the challenge of packaging the past into a tidy narrative. What began as a sincere attempt to chronicle past events has evolved into the child of multiple rearrangements and embellishments. Furthermore, the era of its setting, over half a century ago, is now long gone and may seem foreign and even implausible to the younger reader.
Send your thoughts and reactions, as well as your own memories in an email, I attempt to respond to all. Many thanks to those who have sent words of encouragement.
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Sophomore Year 7
I noticed that the gym floor from the `Jock Rack' to the back corner was covered with a large square wrestling mat surrounded on two sides by mirror panels fixed to the walls. From my limited time in wrestling, I guessed it was a fairly standard 10' X 10' size. A bright spotlight on the ceiling shone over the logo stenciled in the center: a silhouette of two muscular wrestlers locked in combat. I turned to Buck with a quizzical look.
"All guys love to wrestle. They just may not know it yet," he laughed. "Some guys like to wrestle me in their one-on-ones, and we will get down to it pretty good. Or two guys who were wrestling buds in school are lookin' for a spot they can keep in practice. Sometimes a match just starts outa the blue during group sessions."
"We've also had some luck organizing little wrestling tournaments, like with brackets and everything but keepin' it lighthearted. Makin' up our own crazy rules. Shit like two points for face-squats or nut grabs. Those can get to be lotsa fun and..." here he paused for emphasis, "we end up sellin' a good number of singlets!" Buck the businessman, I marveled. "Hey," he nudged me with his elbow, "we could use some help puttin' more of those together." Once again, Buck's words injected me with a heady dose of confusing images and emotions.
As he spoke, Buck slowly stepped around the mat, towards the back wall and I followed. "Also real popular are what we call exhibition matches. Jack was great at that. He'd bring over a bud or two and put on a show, and sometimes pull me or Billy in. Or both. We slide the benches over here for the spectators,' or just move the mats out to the middle of the room. Bust out a cooler of beer. Guys bet on their favorites. They'll even slip a little extra to get ya to pull a fast one they've cooked up. Jack and his buds will change their trunks or singlets each round. The guys go crazy for it. Hey, you did some wrestlin', right?"
"Oh," I stammered, "I'm outa practice and honest, my skills never got beyond pretty basic."
"Skill ain't the point, my little Quique." My mom was the only person who ever called me that, so it felt odd to hear it from an Anglo that I just met a few hours ago. I didn't mind it though. I actually kind of liked it, since I knew he was doing it with good-natured humor. That was part of Buck's odd charisma. Before you knew it, it was like you were under his spell. "It's all about puttin' on a show, and just havin' fun. I think you'd be a big hit if you were up for it ..."
I flashed on a mash up of the ugly duckling emerging as the swan and me emerging on stage as a famous wrestler to the cheers of adoring fans. Maybe it was a silly fantasy, but it excited me a little to picture it.
"Well..." I started, considering the possibility, then remembered, "But I don't have my singlet anymore. Last year this guy in the gym parking lot offered me $20 for it and rent was due..."
"$20?!!?" Buck looked at me astounded. "What a rip off! I know guys'd pay $100 for used team singlet, especially if ever worn in a match. Man, if I ever found out Jack had sold one of his singlets for a measly $20, I would burn his ass up but good!" The ease and frequency with which Buck brought up ass-whipping as a preferred response to so many situations made my own butt start to tingle a little.
His tone quieted. "Well, I'm pretty sure we can fix you up. Believe it or not, on top of this," he gestured around the gym, "I work half-time as assistant manager at that sporting goods store on Adams. I get employee discounts plus first dibs on any discontinued stock. They also let me keep any items I wear at work that they're trying to promote. So, a used singlet is not hard to come by around here. Pretty sweet, huh? And I meet a lot of potential "buddies" there, too."
"Really?" I was totally curious about how that worked.
"Yeah," he explained, shifting the rolled-up wife beater to his other shoulder, "every now and then a guy comes in the store cuz he's lookin' for somethin', but doesn't know what. These are guys used to play on a team or something and now without the thrills and the fellowship, life seems a little empty. So, he's thinkin' maybe a new jersey or a jockstrap or some running shoes is gonna help fill that void. But it won't."
"I can spot these guys a mile away. He'll stand there, checkin' out all the gear with this faraway look, like he's back in his glory days. So, I take a little extra time with him, tell him he looks like he used to play ball, I bet he was pretty good, y'know, that kinda thing. He starts complaining he's outa shape, how he set up weights in his garage but it's boring, and then I just casually mention I gotta gym in my basement and buddies comin' over to work out and hang and tell him he should come check it out and bam! A few of `em end up joining."
"That's amazing!" I exclaimed.
"Well," Buck continued, "I can always use more members, more buddies, I mean. Speakin' of which, I had these three Mexican guys come by last week to check out the gym. One of our buddies who works with em sent em. But they didn't speak much English and I speak even less Spanish, so we didn't get very far.".
"What makes you think they're Mexican?" I asked, a little sensitive about the tendency to clump all Latinos under that label and steeling myself to hear the usual barrage of offensive stereotypes.
"Well, at least, I think they were Mexican. One guy wore a cap with the Mexican flag on the front and their car had a little Virgen of Guadalupe flag hangin' from the rear-view mirror. And they seemed real cheerful and friendly, pokin' and teasin' each other and laughin' a lot. "
"Pretty good guess, then." I chuckled, impressed by his cultural awareness. I would later learn that Buck had made use of his time in the Navy to acquire what today might be called `intercultural competence.' He was not the narrow-minded bigot you might guess at first glance.
"They seemed like really great guys, and really impressed with our set up here. I just couldn't explain any of the details. Anyway, my buddy who works with `em said they're gonna come back next week and I was gonna ask him to be here cuz he speaks some Spanish, but if you was to take the room..." and he let that idea linger.
I flashed for moment on my dear departed uncle Enrique (yes, I was named for him) and the joy I used to feel working out and just hanging with him. I wondered about these three young possibly, probably Mexican men here in town to work for an American company but not speaking English. This was in the days before any significant Latino immigration had reached our region. Like I said, I pretty much grew up around Anglos. And a few African-Americans. I wondered how these young maybe Mexican men were adapting to their new town and was curious to meet them. I suppose part of me hoped that one of them would remind me of Uncle Quique.
"One thing I couldn't figure out," Buck interrupted my thoughts, " they kept mentioning their dad or dads while they were looking around."
"How do you know they were talking about their dads?" I asked puzzled.
"Well, padre' means father, right? And they kept pointin' at stuff and sayin' padre,' or kay padre,' or somethin' like buen padre.' They got real excited when they saw the sauna and showers. One guy pointed to em and said in English like Mexico, like Mexico.' So I guess it reminded them of a gym back home? And another thing they kept talkin' about sounded like `a pinchy way?" Does that make any sense?"
Buck's retelling of the conversation had me doubled over in laughter. As I regained my breath, I gasped, "Well, definitely sounds like they're Mexican alright. Padre' does mean father' but is also slang in Mexico for cool' so they were probably just admiring the set up here. And pinche gúey' is definitely Mexican and means something like `dumbass.' They were probably just play fighting with each other a little."
"Well, damn! Sailor Hank'd come in real handy around here, no doubt about that!" Seemingly impressed with my explanation, Buck seemed ready to wrap up that topic and moved a few steps further from the wrestling mat.
"Y'know, pretty much every guy wants to improve something about his physique," Buck turned towards the mirrored wall, and stepped into the pool of light from one of the ceiling spots. Handing me the damp wife beater off his shoulder, he said, "This was another great idea from Billy." I watched curious as he reached toward the wall and released two of the mirror panels, swinging each toward the center panel they flanked. Once angled, they created the type of three-way mirror found in clothing store dressing rooms. With his foot, Buck next slid a small, low platform, like a portable mini-stage, out of the dark to the center of the light, stepped up on it, and absentmindedly started inspecting himself.
"Whoa!" I snorted. The effect was remarkable. In nothing but his snug gym shorts, he appeared to be onstage at a muscle competition. Stunned, I shuffled backwards until I fell back onto a small chair to the side, completing the sensation of a spectator at an event. Buck was not at the level of a professional bodybuilder by any means, but his muscles were nonetheless far above average and very impressive to me, especially at such close range. From my vantage point, I could join him in studying his reflection in the mirrors or turn slightly and look at him directly.
"Maybe he wants to work on his arms..." Buck started striking poses I'd never seen before outside a men's physique magazine, flexing various muscles to illustrate his point. "or his lats...or his legs..." and here he pulled up his shorts by the waistband to further reveal his quad muscles. He seemed oblivious but I couldn't help but notice how it brought his jock pouch and its contents into even starker relief.
"Or his chest..." and he turned sideways to the mirror, facing me, and flexed his bare pecs, making his large nipples dance just above my face. I felt dizzy watching them. I went as if to scratch my nose, bringing his shirt up close to my face to sniff again the rich musk.
"Chest..." I repeated, slightly hypnotized by the sight and smell of so much testosterone.
"Haha, yeah, my chest," he laughed, and did a few pec bounces in the mirror. "Guys always comment on it. At the store, too." He took turns fondling each as he continued flexing them. "Fellahs'll sometimes come right up to me on the street asking how to get a chest like mine. I always get a kick outa that. Billy next door says I should tell `em what he always says, that I got these babies from having to nurse two boys by myself" and he cracked up, bending over in helpless laughter. After a minute, he recovered and quietly added, "Not totally untrue..."
Before I could ask him to elaborate on that intriguing point, Buck went on about his clients, or his `buddies,' here at the gym, noting that many were just lonely or felt ignored at home and came looking for attention and affirmation and a chance to loosen up around other guys, like in their youth. "So," he looked at me, startling me out of trance, "anything in particular you wanna work on? I could give you some pointers."
"Well," I hemmed for a sec, "I wouldn't mind working on my chest..." What I really hoped was to find a way to make my swollen nipples less obvious.
"Alright," he answered, "Step up here and take off that sweatshirt and let's get a look at what we'd be workin' with here."
I froze. I hated taking off my shirt in front of guys, I was so self-conscious about my chest, and especially in such a stage-like setting under a spotlight. I felt glued to the chair.
Buck's expression darkened. "I said get your butt up here, boy.' You do not want me to have to say it again, or I'll have that lazy butt over my knee before you can say ass-whoopin."
He did not have to tell me twice. I jumped to my feet. I had been well trained to obey coaches when they gave orders. Once I was beside him on the stage, Buck stepped forward to help pull the sweatshirt over my head, all previous signs of anger gone. He first took his wife beater that I'd been holding and lobbed it like a basketball into the corner.
I stood before him in just my jeans, trembling a little. "Whoa, now why we hidin' all that under this sack?" and he tossed my sweatshirt into the same dark corner, where it landed a bit over and a bit beside his own shirt. For some reason, the sight of our two shirts so intimately entwined struck me as oddly furtive and illicit.
Buck then started inspecting me, grabbing and probing my arms, shoulders, even my chest. I expected him to ask what was wrong with my nipples, but instead he gestured for me to look at myself in the mirror, raised his arms behind me in a double bicep flex and said, "Gimme one of these." I feebly attempted to imitate his pose, and thought I'd failed, but Buck said admiringly, "You got a lot to work with here, Sailor Hank."
"Now, try this." And he led me through a few basic bodybuilding poses. At first, I felt silly, like an imposter standing there in my jeans, the white waistband of my BVDs visible. But slowly I grew more confident. "Y'know, I wouldn't have you pegged for a distance runner. Those guys are usually all skin and bones. But our boy here got some serious meat on his frame. You wrestled, right? I can see you dominating on the mat, especially with these legs. Powerful," he muttered, slapping my thighs through the denim.
As I watched Buck's intimate inspection of me in the mirror, I felt outside myself, like I was looking at a stout young man I'd never met before. Perhaps that's what triggered a rare moment of outspoken bravery as I gestured towards a swollen nipple and said, "How can I fix these?"
Buck had just stepped off the platform and was gazing up at me from floor level. Hearing my question, he looked at me and then at my chest with a puzzled expression, not understanding my words. He stepped back up on stage to my side and moved my hand away, as though it might be covering what I was talking about and, still perplexed, continued inspecting. I was too tongue-tied to further verbalize it, so I raised my hand again and this time actually nudged my nipple with my thumb and said, "This."
Finally, Buck got the idea. "What?" he gently squeezed my other nipple, "that it bulges a little?" I nodded, speechless, caught between extreme embarrassment and the funny feeling his fingers on my nipple were giving me.
"Jeez, man!" he exclaimed, "That's just meat!" He seemed to sense my stress and want to ease it. "You are a meaty guy. Me too. We both are. Y'know, experts even got a name for our kind of build: `mesomorph.'"
"Mesomorph..." I echoed, silently mouthing the word.
"That's right. We meaty guys bulge everywhere. Everything looks swollen. Check out Superman next time. Guy's nips are always pokin' through his suit. Ya don't see him embarrassed, do ya'? And that Lois Lane don't seem to mind one bit. Betcha she's dyin' to get one of those super nips in her mouth and work it over."
Buck's bawdy, irreverent humor totally caught me off guard and made me bust out laughing. Buck too. "Super nips!" I repeated breathlessly, shaking my head as I slapped my thigh.
"Seriously," Buck's tone sobered, "guys always want a stand-out chest, a chest that gets noticed. Well, if it's gonna stand out, that means everything needs to stand out, including your nips. A Navy buddy used to say, "Nips are like the cherry on the cake." And he's right. Check out any really built guy with a great chest and you'll see most of `em's got stand out nips, too."
"Look at my chest, for example." and he stuck it out for my inspection while watching his reflection in the mirrors. "One of the things that makes it look so developed are my nips, see? Check `em out, they're way bigger than yours." With one hand he toggled and gently pinched his own nipple, and reached with the other to do the same to mine. "Definitely bigger," he concluded. "Now you," he took my hand and brought it to his chest. "See for yourself. Mine's bigger, right?"
I nodded assent as if drugged. All this naked closeness and touching while confronting some of my deepest anxieties definitely started to make me feel woozy. I couldn't believe I was basically fondling a grown man's engorged nipple. It did feel swollen, firm but yielding to my pressure. As if by reflex, I squeezed a little harder.
"Hey, slow down there, cowboy!" Buck gasped and gently removed my hand from his chest. "Jeez, you're almost as bad as my two boys!"