Note: alright, you got me guys?. The chronological discrepancy in "two words" and the Kennedy paper should have been caught before I submitted it, but it wasn't. Humble apologies. Here's part two:
That night, I drive back to the High School and walk timidly into the gymnasium. It reeks of sweat and man. I inhale sharply, relishing the scent, and try to work the action into my natural gait.
I shell out the two bucks for admission to some pimply kid with a lockbox, seated behind a fold-up table just outside the gym doors. I find a seat near the floor, in the fifth row of the ground-floor bleachers. Everyone seated around me looks like they belong. I'm the pilgrim in an unholy land here. A thin little nerd--if sharply dressed at that--with glasses. I hunch over as much as I can while Sergeant Slaughter in front of me, with arms the size of Utah and his USMC tattoo on the back of a shaven head, cracks his neck noisily. Yeesh.
I look to the far side of the gym, and see a line of guys wearing grey-colored hoodies and sweatpants file in. That would be the wrestling team. Tyler leads the pack, and as the team reaches the bench he pulls off the hoodie to reveal a black singlet. He bends over, ass to the crowd, and pulls off the sweatpants. His legs look just as hot now. Black wrestling shoes with big white swooshes on the outsides; white socks bunched at the ankles make his calves look slightly bigger; black kneepads.
And on closer--discreet--inspection I see he's not wearing a cup. The light traces a faint outline of a soft cock angling to the floor against the fiber of his singlet. It must be aching for air, I silently joke to myself. Let me out, let me out. I must have air and blood. Let me be big again. He turns around, and fits a headpiece around his ears that his coach hands him, and I notice that the singlet is wedged up his crack. The muscles of his ass flex tight when he presses open palms on his lumbar, stretching his back. He bends over a minute later, touching fingers to toes, and the wedge disappears. The muscles and tendons of his thighs stand out as he stretches. If it weren't for the singlet, he'd be mooning the crowd.
And then it occurs to me. God, he's naked under there. Maybe...maybe he's putting on a show for the crowd. For me? Nah, John you can't be that lucky.
The announcer calls Tyler's name and that of his opponent from the other team. The two meet in the center of the ring, shake hands, and get into position: Tyler, a crouch, feet shoulder-length apart, with hands held at eye level. His opponent follows suit. The ref blows his whistle, and Tyler strikes immediately. He wrangles his opponent with an arm around the neck, brings him to the ground in a headlock, but keeps a loose footing. The opponent exploits it and overturns the headlock. He buries his head in Tyler's armpit. Tyler doesn't let him get an upper hand; he gets to one knee and lifts his opponent vertical in the air and slams him back down behind him. A suplex. In less than a second Tyler scrambles over top of his opponent. The opponent's too stunned by the suplex to know he's just been beaten.
Tyler stands. The ref raises his hand in the air, proclaiming him a victor to the cheering crowd. To a cheering me, who nonetheless claps quietly. Again: playing tough. Tyler slips hands underneath the straps of the singlet going over his shoulders, and pulls the upper half down revealing that sculpted chest. Sweaty with the exercise of manpower and determination. He returns to the bench. The matches go on.
Twenty minutes later, I'm still wondering why I'm here. Tyler made no effort to come see me after his match was done. I should've left then. Now, I make up my mind. I stand and inch my way out of the bleachers, squeaking out from the space Sergeant Slaughter up there took up with deltoids the size of Long Island. I make my way to the floor and I'm just about out of the gym when I feel a hand clasp down on my shoulder. I turn around to see its Tyler.
This isn't Tyler At School. This is Tyler At Work. His short hair is sweaty and matted in a few places. His face is red with exertion, despite the rest he's had since his match ended. It's still perfect. He's just wearing the hoodie, the bottom part of the singlet exposed and the outline of the cock just as it was before.
"Hey, what'd you think?" his voice is light. He seems happy to see me.
"Well, at the risk of jinxing it, you're looking good." I play frank with him. Yeah, look interested--patronizing but connected. "Might even make it to--what do they call it? State."
"Who knows?" he asks and smiles. "Are you leaving?"
"Well, I thought you were done. I mean--"
"Nah, I'm done for the night, only had the one qualifying match. I know you said you were only hanging out for my match, that's ok."
"Yeah."
"You still wanna go to Mickey D's?" he asks, pointing a hitchhiker's thumb behind him.
"Yeah, sure, whatever," I say absentmindedly.
"Great. I'm gonna go get changed."
"Alright, you...want me to wait or...?" Stupid question, John.
"Come on, sure, if you want."
So I follow him. We take the long way around the gym, so as not to interrupt the other matches going on. I walk a foot behind him and get the chance to watch his swagger down the hall. Each step flexes his ass and the singlet wedges again. We reach the locker room, on the far side of the gym, a few minutes later.
The locker room is big and empty and the walls are painted a boring and ugly gray. Windows with bars are on the wall to my left. Lockers line the walls from window to window following the cube shape of the room. It smells of sweat and ass, mixed together in a weirdly inviting scent. I find a spot near the door and lean against the wall. The air is thick with the odor of used gym socks, used towels in the canvas hamper over in the corner. Of used everything.
Tyler heads straight for his locker, pulling off his hoodie and pulling down the top part of his singlet to expose his chest--as he'd done before. He wheels the lock to his combination quickly and sits down on the bench in front of the locker. The aged wood creaks loudly as he does it. He kicks off his shoes, pulls off his socks; lets them rest on the cold concrete floor.
Tyler stands and wraps fingers around the waistline of the downturned singlet. Pulls it down, bends over as he's doing so. And his ass is exposed to the world again. Or to me. He massages his fingers into the flesh and cracks his neck. What a weird combination.
Trace amounts of hair are visible even from where I lean against the wall on the far side of the room. A tight and small pink hole is visible. Just flawless as everything else. As if the Gods that created him had done so with the express purpose of making him look like one of them: the Ideal Type, strong and virile, reeking masculinity and athleticism, with no physical flaws whatsoever.
I inhale quietly and slide my hands into my pockets, modestly fondling a growing cock. The odor of sweat and man is sweet to my senses. Calm yourself, Johnny-Gee. Think...clean thoughts. Have a stick of gum.
Tyler stands straight again and rubs his hands over the back of his neck. Wrestling makes a guy sore, I guess. He turns away from the locker and glances at me momentarily. I'm lucky enough to catch it and shift my gaze quickly to the window. His bare feet slap against the concrete as he walks down an adjacent hallway.
"I'll be with you in a sec," he says from the bathroom. "Gotta piss."
"Alright." I shrug. For a minute or two, I don't hear anything. I should. There should be a...I dunno, a trickling sound. The sound of his piss flowing into the toilet. But no. Nothing.
"Ty?"
I hear the toilet flush. Falsely, I'm relieved. And I return to my leaning spot. Tyler comes out of the bathroom a second later, one hand fondling his sack. "Yeah?"
"Nothing," I say. Tyler shrugs and returns to his locker. Pulls on plaid boxers, his chinos, and a wife-beater. Slips on the flip-flops and wraps a string of puca-shells around his neck. All those things meant to cover up...possibility.
Nothing. Yeah...right.
"You ready?"
Tyler speaking shocks me back to reality. I stand away from the wall.
"Yeah. Whenever you are."