Date: Sat, 8 Feb 2014 17:00:56 -0800 (PST)
From: Locker Jock <jocks_n_socks2002@yahoo.com>
Subject: "Bike Jockstrap Tracer Stripes: A Lockerrom Game"

In the decades which have passed since these true events happened, many
aspects of life have changed.  Hopefully, for the better, since gays and
lesbians enjoy more freedom today to express their romance and sexuality
outwardly and with fewer occasions for discrimination.  We all hope that
one day, all discrimination will be eliminated.  As many of you know, 30
years ago, such freedom was yet to be manifested, and many of us chose
nooks and crannies out of the public eye where we could engage in
expressions of sexuality.

For many of us, the nooks and
 crannies were located in the locker rooms at our schools and colleges and
local YMCA.  At the time, rows of high lockers, with metal doors and
 creaking hinges, and cavernous shower areas with multi-head spigots
 permitted many of us an opportunity to catch a glimpse and even act upon a
wink.

For a few of us, the low level of security allowed access to the locker
rooms after hours, and there, in the perceived safety of a quiet place in
which it was perfectly natural to be naked, we could indulge in our
fantasies.

Thanks to the financial sacrifices and encouragement of my parents, I was
able to attend a private college.  I was not especially athletic, but
managed to
 secure a part-time job (to offset the expenses of college) in the athletic
department.  The official position was "manager", but as all of
 you know who have ever served that capacity, the duties run the gamut from
laundry to equipment room to scheduling to driving team vans.  Thankfully,
the members of the athletic staff and the players themselves
 appreciated my hard work and efficiency, and contrary to some stereotypes,
I was neither mocked as a nerd nor demeaned
 in my job.  I was grateful for the weekly paycheck, and while I took my
 responsibilities very seriously, I did have a good time.

Our college was all-male, and the old gymnasium complex reflected that
ambiance.  The swimming pool was enclosed, and was clothing optional;
swimsuits were only worn for public meets.  Inside the locker room area,
 there was still an aura of safety and security.  Instead of metal lockers
with locks, all of the varsity teams had individual wooden stalls for the
players.  They left all of their gear, with extra sets of
 kit and uniforms, hanging in the stalls and crammed into the cubbies.

The
 main locker room still consisted of long benches with changing hooks upon
which the guys left their street clothes.  Imagine leaving watches and keys
and wallets just hanging on a hook in a building with no locks!  But,
nothing ever seemed to be missing after practice.  As I said,
 things have certainly changed over the past decades.

In the central corridor, there was a large tank where I was stationed
before and after practice.  Varsity and non-varsity players (including the
ROTC
 cadets on campus and the faculty) walked up to the counter window, and
would receive a rolled "kit" according to their size.  The kit consisted
 of standard issue white shorts, gray t-shirt, natural color sweat socks
 (which were either cotton or wool, depending on the time of year), and of
course, a jockstrap.  These were washed in a common laundry, and sorted
into large bins inside the tank.  It was my job to quickly wrap up the kit
for each player in a white towel, and hand it to them as they
 went into the locker room.

After practice, there were large bins
 inside each of the rooms into which the players would toss their wet,
soiled, and sweaty gear.  I tried to encourage the concept of sorting, and
even labeled
 several bins for "socks" and "jocks" and "towels", but by in large, I was
lucky if the players would take the time to dump everything even near the
bins!  Very often, they would leave the dirty kit lying all over the floor
in front of the hooks or stalls.  It was therefore my job
 to scamper around each of the rooms, collecting all of the gear to be
washed.  And back then, no one even heard of wearing protective gloves to
do any of this work!

I would collect all of the laundry, and would proceed to do multiple cycles
of wash and dry in the industrial size machines in the gym.  After several
washings and dryings, though, the sizes which were marked inside the shorts
and t-shirts became irrelevant.  So, I would guesstimate the sizes by
grouping similar fits into various piles.

At that time, Bike Athletic Company devised
 a system to assist the many gyms which purchased cartons of jockstraps for
the teams.
 Bike sewed red tracer stripes into the waistband to indicate the waist
size: one stripe for Small, two stripes for Medium, three stripes for
Large, and four stripes for Extra-Large.  As the jockstraps came out of the
dryer, they could quickly be sorted by simply counting the number of
 stripes sewn into the waistband.

My story involves these tracer stripes.

By
 my senior year at college, I was well known in the athletic department,
 and owing to my position as the only equipment manager and gym launderer,
I was given a set of keys to the gym and various rooms.  I arranged my
class and homework schedules so I could collect part of the laundry right
after practice, throw it into the machines, go to the library, and then
return to the gym after 9 to finish the remainder of the laundry while
sorting and folding the earlier loads.  By that time, the weight room was
closed, the basketball courts dark, the cleaning crew had
 finished, and the offices were closed.  If one of the coaches happened to
come into the building, I could hear the series of heavy doors open and
close, but most nights, I was alone.

I was also a very horny guy, and being quietly gay, developed a fetish for
jockstraps and the guys who wear them.  My job in the athletic department
could not have been more appropriate for my fetish, and while I never stole
anything, I
 did take advantage of the privacy of the night in the gym.

I developed a game for myself called "stroke the stripe".

I
 would enter into one of the varsity locker rooms where I had not collected
the dirty laundry yet, and would start at the first locker stall.  As soon
as I spotted the jockstrap in the pile, I would start to
 stroke my cock, counting out the strokes: 5 for a small, 10 for a medium,
15 for a large, and 20 for either an extra-large or a cup.  After counting
out the strokes, I would
 move to the next locker, and repeat the same procedure of looking for the
jock, and stroking against the number of stripes, pinching my nipples and
yanking my balls.  The game was to see how many lockers I could visit
before I came.  I would always try to cum into one of the wet, sweaty
jockstraps in the locker, and then would wisk all of the gear away into the
laundry before anyone detected what had happened.

I
 developed this game my second year, and spent countless late nights in the
gym, searching for jockstraps, positioning myself in front of the locker,
counting off the strokes, and cumming in globs.

In the spring of my senior year, I was still playing stroke the stripe.
One night, the skies opened on my way to the gym, and even though I had an
umbrella, by the time I arrived there (the gym was clear across the campus
from the library), I was soaked.  I decided to take off all my wet clothes
and throw them into
 the dryer, and in the meantime, strap on a jock and dry socks, shorts and
a t-shirt, and get to the two jobs at hand: finishing the team laundry and
stroking the jock stripes.

The storm was getting worse, and the bolts of lightening lit up the dark
night.  Worst of all was the thunder - the rumble and then the loud
explosion which shook the
 entire building.  The sound was deafening at times, and actually the next
morning, the campus was littered with huge branches and downed power lines.

I had filled the machines with laundry, and went down the hall to the
varsity baseball locker room.  The storm was howling, and the windows were
rattling.  I stripped down to just my jockstrap and socks, and started the
game.  I had gone down one aisle of
 lockers, and had turned into the next.  Baseball players all wore cups,
 so there was a lot of extra stroking, but I kept slowing the pace to see
how far I could get before
 shooting.  I was so engrossed in the game, and my cock was so engorged by
the edging, and the thunder was so loud that ... I did not hear the door
slam.

I froze.

My shorts and t-shirt were on a bench in the other aisle.

My eyes were shut, but my hand was wrapped around my throbbing cock which
was yanked out of the side of the jock pouch.

Maybe,
 I thought - I hoped - it was just the wind.  Maybe, I thought - I hoped
 - someone had gone into the main locker room next door.

I opened my eyes.

Standing
 at the end of the line of lockers, soaked and dripping water into a puddle
around his feet, was the assistant baseball coach.  Our eyes locked.  The
coach had gone out for a run, and was caught in the cold rain, and now I
was caught in hot water and could not run away.

"I
 saw the lights on in the locker room, and stopped in to see if there was a
problem," he said.  He was wearing his
 baseball cap, t-shirt and shorts, and was standing in his sopping socks
 holding his running shoes.  He added, "Is there a problem?"

Turning
 away a little, I managed to cram my raging hard-on back into the jock
pouch, and trying to distract him, started to collect the dirty laundry
from the lockers and off the floor.  "No, Coach, no problems" I said as I
 clutched the gear in front of me, and headed for the door.

"Are you throwing the laundry into the machine?" he asked.  "Yes, Coach,
right now" I answered.  "Wait a minute," he said, and began to strip off
 his own wet gear.

"As long as you are doing a load, throw these in too."  With that, he
peeled off his shirt and shorts, and standing in
 his jockstrap, placed his hand on my shoulder to take off his socks.  He
placed all of the gear onto the pile in my hands.  His jockstrap had been
wadded up into a pretzel, and he made a point of putting on the
 top of the pile, right under my nose.

"When you dump that into the washer, bring me a set of dry gear.  I'll be
in my office."  With that, he sauntered buck naked out of the varsity
locker room, and disappeared into the coaches' offices.

I waited for a minute, and quickly put on the shorts and t-shirt and
running shoes which I had left in the other aisle of lockers.  I gathered
up all of the laundry, and hurried to the machines.  As I passed the
coaches' office, I could hear the shower going.  My hope was that my own
street clothes would be dry and that I could get dressed, drop the dry gear
into the outer office, and leave the building without an incident.

I rushed into
 the laundry area, threw the load into the washer, and decided that I
better grab my clothes and high-tail it back to my dorm without taking the
time to change in the gym.  But, I remembered that the coach had demanded a
dry kit,
 and I did not want to risk incurring any more wrath if I failed to comply
with that request.  So, I grabbed my clothes in one hand, went to
 the equipment room to assemble a kit wrap, and headed for the office.

As
 I got closer, though, the silence was deafening.  Coach had finished his
shower, and when I opened the door, he was toweling off, waiting for
 his new kit - and for me.

"What were you doing in the locker room so late at night?" he asked as he
unwrapped the kit towel and pulled the jockstrap up over his still damp
cock.

"I needed to finish up the team's laundry" I said.

"Do you always do the team's laundry wearing just a jockstrap?" he asked as
he slipped on his shorts and reached for his socks.

I was caught.

"No,
 Coach" I lied.  "Like you, I was out running and got caught in the rain.
I was soaked, and took off my wet clothes to throw into the laundry with
everyone else's
 gear."

"Really?" he said.  Before I could move, he reached down and grabbed my
socks.  "If you were soaked in the rain, how come your socks are bone
dry?!"

"Strip!  Strip now!  Down to your jock, the way I saw you jacking off in
the varsity locker room!  Move it!"

I
 was in shock.  I must have hesitated too long because the coach moved over
so fast, grabbed my shorts, and shucked them down to my ankles.

"I said strip!" he barked.  "Now!"

"Okay, okay" I whimpered, to which the coach yelled "And it's 'Yes, Sir'
from now on, not 'okay'.  You got that?!"

"Yes,
 Sir" I answered as I took off my t-shirt.  I was reaching down to untie
 the shoe laces when the coach yelled again.  "Who told you to take off
your shoes?  You're in a shit load of trouble, and the FIRST thing you are
going to learn is how to follow orders.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, Coach" I
 replied.

The coach lunged forward, grabbed my crotch, and squeezed my balls with a
vice grip, "I am not going to tell you again!  It is 'Sir, Yes, Sir'.  Now
repeat it!"

My balls were twisting in
 the grip, and I blurted out, "Sir! Yes, Sir!"  With that, he released my
crotch, and repeated his order, "I said strip off your shorts and shirt!"

I answered "Sir, Yes, Sir!" and dropped my shorts and took off my t-shirt.
I was now standing in my jockstrap, socks and running shoes.  My heart was
racing, and the thunder was shaking the building.

At that moment, Coach pulled open a drawer in his desk,
 and taking out a wooden fraternity paddle, with perforated holes, he
wacked it loudly on the desk.

"So, let's recap" he started.  "You
 were in the varsity locker room after hours.  You were stripped down to
 your jockstrap.  You were jacking your meat in front of a pile of sweaty
 laundry.  And you lied about going out for a run in the rain."

There
 was nothing that I could say or do to calm the coach down or to get out
 of any punishment.  "Sir, all of that is correct, Sir", I said.

"What
 were you thinking, whacking off in a locker room?  Did you think that no
one would catch you?  Do you have some fetish about jockstraps?"

Coach just glared at me.  Anything that I said would be inappropriate, so I
decided to tell the truth.

"Coach,
 Sir, I am truly sorry.  I am sorry that I was in the varsity locker room.
I am sorry that I was jacking off.  I am sorry that you had to see me doing
that.  I am sorry that I lied to you about going out for a run.  I honestly
thought that I was alone, and yes, Sir, I do have a fetish for jockstraps."
I just looked down at my sneakers and said, "Sir, do what you think is
right to punish me.  I deserve it,
 Sir."

My sentiments were sincere, and my act of contrition was honest, but the
Coach was unimpressed.

"Apology
 accepted," he said.  "Now, your punishment is going to start.  You've told
the truth about your jockstrap fetish, but you lied about the run.
 So, we're going to use one to correct the other.  Follow me!"

Coach
 grabbed the paddle, adjusted his cap, opened the door of the office into
the hallway, and started to walk.  He turned and saw me hesitate.  "I said
move it!" he screamed, and his voice echoed all over the gym.  "You were
not so afraid to be strapped in a public locker room, so you better not be
afraid to be jocked up in the rest of the gym.  Hustle up!"

I sheepishly walked down the hallway, wearing just a jockstrap, white socks
and running shoes.  Coach kept walking in front of me.  He was wearing the
dry kit of jock and socks, shorts and t-shirt, running shoes
 and baseball cap.  It was quite obvious where we were headed: to the back
doors which let out to the stadium and running track.

I stopped walking when Coach reached for the door.  "You have just two
choices," he said.  "You and I can take care of this situation here, now
 and privately.  Or, I am going to report you to the Athletic Director and
the Campus Police.  You have one minute to make your decision."

Putting
 aside the embarrassment of answering to the Athletic Director and to the
Campus Police, I knew that my actions would result in an immediate
expulsion from college.  I was the first person in my family to go to
college, and I was a Dean's List student.  The campus was so small that
everyone knew everyone else - and consequently, news like this would fly
 around the campus so quickly that even if I were not expelled, I would not
be able to show my face.

"Sir.  I must accept your
 punishment.  I have no choice.  I do not want to complicate things for me
and my family.  Please do not report me, Sir."

"Outside!" he said, as he pushed the door open, and we both stepped out
into the dark and the rain.

"Whenever
 a real varsity player fucks up, he is ordered to run laps.  You were
caught fucking a varsity jockstrap, and now it's your turn to run laps.
 Do you understand?!"

"Yes, Sir!" I said.

Coach looked down at my feet.  "Take off those running shoes!  They're too
good for you.  Take them off and leave them inside.  Now!"

I did not even waste the time to unlace them, I was so petrified, and just
yanked the shoes off and dropped them in the hallway.  Coach opened the
door, and a
 blast of cold air and rain hit me.  "Get used to it!  You're going for the
run that you never took."  He gestured for me to exit in front of him, and
as I did,
 he hauled off and spanked my ass with a broad smack of the paddle.

"That
 is your first lesson for the night.  We have only just begun" he said.
 "What is your response?!"  All I could mutter was the trite expression,
 "Sir, thank you, sir, may I have another one, Sir."  With that, Coach
planted another hard smack on my cheeks.  "And what do you say to that?!"
I repeated my response, and Coach repeated the smack.  "Now get
 out there.  Move it!"

We walked to the edge of the running track.  The rain was coming down,
although being springtime, it was not as cold as I feared.  The track had
no lights, and with the exception of
 an occasional burst of lightning, the area was essential pitch black.  The
track was made out of pounded clay, and circled around the football field.
It had been raining for several hours, and I could see not only the
accumulation of water on the track but also
 puddles of water at the edges of the grass field.

"Front and center!"  "Sir, yes, Sir!"  Digging the paddle into my chest, he
ordered me: "You are going to run ten laps around the field, for starters."

I acknowledged the order, and stepped onto the track, clad in just my jock
and socks.

"Where
 do you think you're going?" asked the coach.  "Sir?" I asked.  "Get down
on the field and stretch out before you begin your run!"

With
 a "Yes, Sir", I stepped onto the grass and sat down into a puddle of mud.
The cold water tickled my open ass, and within a few moments, I could feel
the slime all over the back of my legs and cheeks.  As I stretched, the mud
scratched and itched, and my socks became saturated with muddy water.  I
did the best that I could, and standing up, took my
 place at the entrance of the track.

"Ten laps.  Knees up.  No slacking in your pace.  Do you
 understand?!"

"Sir, yes, Sir!" and with that, Coach placed a loud, broad smack across my
ass, and I set out.  My socked feet were no match for the rain and mud, and
I kept slipping and sliding as I made my
 way down the track.

As I turned the quarter, I noticed that Coach was walking at the midline,
across the field.  He positioned himself as I was approaching the
half-point.  Yelling at me to keep my pace up, he reached out with his
paddle as I passed by, and placed another swat on my soaked cheeks.

This ordeal continued through the ten laps.  I continued the run, kicking
water and mud all over my naked body, and struggled to stay in a straight
line because of the slippery track.  At each half-point, Coach was waiting
for me, and at each half-point, I was spanked.

At the end of the run, I was ordered to stop.  "Now it's time for some
calisthenics.  100 jumping jacks.  Count 'em out in
 4's.  Begin!"

"One, two, three, One.  One, two, three, Two" Coach stepped right into my
face, and grabbing my soaked jock pouch, squeezed my balls, and screamed
"Louder!"  He kept a vice grip on my jock while I pumped out the jumping
jacks in the rain.

Not content, he spanked my ass and ordered me down for push-ups.  My hands
sunk into the mud, and my toes slid across the wet grass as I assumed the
position.  "50 push-ups, and count 'em out!"

"Down-up, One" at which point, Coach had straddled me from behind, and
administered a swat each time I returned to the up position.

By this point, I was pretty beat.  I was stripped to a jockstrap and socks,
forced to run
 in the rain, spanked and manhandled, and put through a series of grueling
calisthenics.  But, Coach was still not content.  "Roll over!  50 sit-ups!
Count 'em out!"

The muddy slime was oozing up the
 Y of my jock, plastering both my balls and my ass-hole.  I was cold and
 winded, and the sit-ups were pretty sloppy.  But, I somehow managed to eke
out 50, and then collapsed on my back into the soggy grass.

"Get
 up!" he yelled.  "Time to hit the showers."  I was relieved, and sounding
off "Sir, yes, Sir!" I gladly headed back off the field to the door of the
gym.  Coach followed behind me, sloshing through the puddles, and when we
both reached the door, he grabbed a hold of the back of my jockstrap
waistband.

"When you get inside, I want you to hustle to the equipment room and
arrange two sets of dry kit: one for
 me and one for you.  Deposit the set for me in my office, and take your
 set to the showers.  Wait for me there.  Move it!"  I walked as quickly
 as I could down the hallway.  My socks were soaked, and I kept sliding on
the waxed linoleum floor.  I got to the equipment room,
 assembled two kit sets, took one to the office and then went into the main
locker room.  I knew enough not to get into the shower without Coach's
permission, so I just stood there and waited.

To my surprise, Coach entered the locker room, still wearing his drenched
gear, and walked over to the main showers.  It was strange because the
coaches had their own private showers.  He peeled off the wet gear as I
just stood and watched.

Coach took off his cap and whistle, then his soaked t-shirt.  He sat on one
of the shower benches, and unlaced his running shoes.  He took off his
socks, and then dropped his shorts.  Clad in just a wet jockstrap, he
entered the tile area of the showers.

"Get in here."  I started to take off my socks when he yelled "No one told
you to get undressed!"  So, I walked into the shower
 area in my muddy socks and equally muddy jockstrap.

The showers were
 constructed with a single column, and each column held four shower heads.
Coach turned on two, one for himself and one for me, side by side.  The
steam felt so good, but I waited for my orders.

"Get over here" he said.  He pushed me under the stream of hot water, and
grabbing a bar of soap, began to gently lather me.  I was in disbelief: a
 few moments earlier, Coach had waled on my ass with his paddle, and had
 clenched my balls in his vice grip.  Now, he was ever so gently soaping
 my nipples, making them hard.

Between the warm water and the caressing of my nipples, I started to get
hard.  My cock began to stiffen inside the jock pouch, and at first, the
residual of mud grains scratched against my swelling head and piss slit.
Coach just continued to soap and lather and manipulate my nipples, and as
soon as I threw my head back to say "aah", he slid the soap bar into the
side of the pouch,
 and started to
 lather up my cock.

Soaping up his hands, he pushed me aside from
 the shower spray, and coming from behind, locked on hand on my left
nipple, and then yanked my cock out of the side of the pouch. He
simultaneously jacked my cock and pinched my nipple, and now and again
would slide his hand down to cup my balls and massage my sac.  At the same
time, he nuzzled his own jock pouch into my ass crack, and started to pound
into me.  The coarse material of the pouch created a tingling sensation
around my pucker, and I felt myself shudder.

Coach started to nibble on my ear lobes, and as I turned my head, he
planted a
 deep french kiss.  Our tongues were locked, and Coach kept jacking my cock
while pressing into my ass.

I could not control myself any longer.  I could not say anything because I
was in the middle of a kiss,
 and as I exploded, my knees buckled and I shook violently.  My cum spewed
ten feet away, and Coach
 kept jacking my cock as globs of cum erupted all over the shower floor.

Satisfied
 for the moment, Coach said that we should finish showering.  We both
stripped off our jockstraps, showered, and toweled dry.

"So, explain this game to me" Coach asked.  I told him about the tracer
stripes in the jock waistbands, and the counting system.  "Are you a JV
wannabe, or are you really cut out to be Varsity?" he asked.  I did not
understand the question.  He said, "Well, it seems to me that a JV can only
make it halfway around the locker room.  So which one do you think you
are?"  He cracked a smile.  Having regained some of my composure - and
being something of a smart-ass - I answered him: "Well, Coach, I know that
I am varsity, but the real question is whether you are able to
 coach a varsity team."  I also smiled.  "Jocks on!" he said, and we went
back into the baseball locker
 room.

After that, for the rest of the semester, Coach and I rendezvoused every
night at the gym.  We would strap on our jocks, stroke the stripes around
the varsity locker room, edging and competing to see which one of us could
sustain the longest hard-on before cumming.  We went out for strip-down
runs, and invented new games for the weight room and the equipment room.

Sure, the first night was
 tough.  It was tough to get caught, tough to be punished, and tough to be
put through all of the grueling workout.  But, in the end, no one got
 hurt, and really, Coach and I became life-long companions.

So, to all those guys who have stroked jockstrap tracer stripes in the
locker room, and to all those guys who have enjoyed a positive experience
with their coaches, I salute you, wish you the best of health, and look
forward to hearing from you!

jocks_n_socks2002 at yahoo dot com