Phil, Part 3

That was the last time that Phil and I had any kind of sex on the bus.  One
major factor had intervened, one I stupidly had not foreseen: Phil, just
turning 16, got his driver's license! His dad let him drive the family
pickup truck to school. I think, even had I realized what was going to
happen, I'd still have been disappointed that Phil would so easily forsake
me and our clandestine sex.  As it was, I was confused and deeply bereft as
each day he failed to show up on the bus. Finally, the third day, I asked
him in class what had happened: "I don't have to ride the stupid bus
anymore," he bragged. What about ME, my mind railed.

His access to an automobile changed far more than riding the bus: Phil,
always popular because he was a naturally coordinated athlete and handsome,
attracted girls easier than I could (in those days) In a few weeks he
started taking out Mary Rae, the sexiest girl in the class next younger,
and while we still rubbed legs in some classes, he really appeared less
interested in me all around.

My disappointment was fierce and my sexual frustration so intense that I
looked around for any other likely participant.  Of course, I couldn't find
anybody.  Stumbling around on my own big feet was the kiss of death when it
came to associating with any of the cooler-looking boys in my class.  Of
course, Phil was THE coolest, and nobody could really compare, anyway.

I still had to take P.E.---Phil had graduated out of that as well because
he had basketball or football practice every day.  Phil used a gym bag, and
carried his gear with him.  One day as I was walking down the hallway in
our school, I looked up and noticed his gym bag sitting on TOP of his
hallway locker.  This started a pattern in my life which was to continue
for several years.  As I write about it, I'm not particularly proud of it,
but, well, I'm just telling it as it was.

Once I'd seen it, my will to resist was lost.  Every daydream had me
opening that bag, finding that jockstrap I'd touched that time in the
bus...  I became so distracted I could scarcely string two thoughts
together.  I was terribly afraid that if I made a motion in the direction
of that bag, somebody would see me and my goose would be cooked.  I had
such guilt that I assumed everybody could see it just by looking at me.

But my lust gave me no relief even after jacking off.  As I walked down the
hallway on a bathroom break, I prayed a silent prayer: "Please, LET HIS BAG
BE THERE!"  And there it was!  With a quick look up and down the hallway,
and my heart pounding painfully that somebody might emerge at any moment
from any one of the classrooms, I grabbed the bag and set it on the floor.
I had the zipper open in half a heartbeat, and in moments had abstracted
Phil's well-worn jockstrap.  My cock was swollen to painful girth, had been
for an hour in preparation for this flagrant act.  I quickly took the
yellowed mesh treasure and tucked it under the waistband of my jeans; the
combination of my own bulging apparatus, and the mounded strap must have
made me look like I was strangely pregnant or, to any knowledgeable young
man, horny and hard in the worst possible way!  I again prayed that no one
would see me as I walked to the nearest boy's bathroom.

Once there, I raced to pull off shoes and jeans, and my own undershorts.  I
pulled his jockstrap up my legs, over my thighs, and oh, oh, oh....into
place.  My cock was tightly held by the fabric which only hours before had
held Phil's.  Oh, shit, it felt SO good.  I clutched myself through the
mesh pouch, rubbing myself up and down the same way I'd done to Phil that
last time in the bus. My eyes closed, my breathing heavy, I rubbed faster
and faster, until I knew that I was on the verge of squirting.  I pulled
the fabric away in terror lest I squirt into his jockstrap and then he'd
know that I'd been fooling around with his equipment (and he'd know exactly
who, of course; I was subject to "magic thinking" in those days!).  I shot
across the cubicle and plastered the metal door with my cum, big long wet
drools of it.

My penis flagging, after hours of excited planning and almost painful
erection, I knew I had to be back quickly.  I reversed the whole procedure
and raced down the hall again, looking behind me for any witness as I
returned the purloined jock.  I jammed it into place and returned quickly
to the classroom---as it turns out, a "civics" class that I shared with
Phil.

I nudged my way into place beside him.  That day he had his right leg
thrown far into the space between our desks, and I slung my own out, making
calf-to-thigh contact with him.  He pushed back against me briefly, never
looking my way; and my mind whirred.  What would you THINK, Phil, I said to
myself, if you only knew what I'd just done!  A tiny surge of guilt
suffused my veins, more than outweighed by a newfound assertiveness.  I'd
taken something from this cocky handsome youth that he didn't even know
he'd given me!

I walked along the remainder of that afternoon wishing I'd kept his jock
on.  Somehow, I'd have found a way to return it the last period (that was
really risky: a single foiled return attempt, and he'd take his gym bag to
practice without it, and immediately know what had happened, so I thought.
He'd know he had to lock it up after that!)  Having once felt the delicious
sensations of wearing his most intimate clothing, I knew that I must wear
it a whole day, longer even if I could.  When I wore Phil's jockstrap, it
was magic: I was as big and sexy and strong as Phil, and my singular
uncoordination didn't bother me at all.

The next morning, I was at his bag again, repeating the procedure, but this
time, I left it on after my j.o. session in the bathroom, and in civics
class later that day, sat thigh-to-thigh with the handsomest guy alive,
knowing that I was WEARING HIS JOCKSTRAP!  And he didn't have a clue!  My
penis was fully erect the whole time.  I even think I caught the corner of
Phil's eye as he swept his gaze across me and I caught a tiny upturn at the
corner of his mouth.

Later on, though, it became obvious that Phil was having sex with Mary Rae:
a number of his offhand comments in the bathroom (when there were other
guys around to whom to brag) told me details that I lapped up like a dry
sponge, even though my heart was jealous in the lavish extreme of youthful
lust.  I made a few attempts to play squirrel with him, but this was a
different, even more self-assured Phil, who suddenly didn't need this
outlet.

_________________________________________________________________


English composition class, I'm a senior, and the teacher is also the small
school's coach.  Stephen Andersen..  A Swede, and not in the "big dumb
Swede" mode, either.  Here was a Swede in the big blond, lanky and
beautiful category, at least that's what I thought later. (Think, readers,
of one of those tennis players, that's what he looked like to me).

At the moment, however, I was blissfully unaware of any attraction to him.
At least not physically.  I WAS attracted to the fact that I was good, damn
it, I was GOOD at writing, and Stephen was real fan as well as teacher, who
encouraged me each and every step of the way.  I have no accurate
recollection of how much older he might have been: probably he was 28 or
30, I was what, oh, 17 at the time? I basked in his attention, and wrote my
heart out for him.  What he didn't know was that I also wrote a journal and
several autobiographical stories with more sexual detail in them than I'd
want anybody else to see.

"John," he said softly as he handed back my latest story, marked with a big
red "A" on the front, "if you'd stay after class...  no, um, could you
possibly drop by at the end of the day?  I'd like to talk to you about
something..."

"Sure, Coach."  We all called him coach.  One of the titles which small
schools with small vision elevate to the status of godhood.  I would go to
the appointment with an open, glad heart, thinking that he was going to
give me his usual cheerleading, something I'd finally learned to expect
from him, and something which I very sorely needed.

Things had happened to me in the three years: I'd grown taller: I now
topped out 6'1" and filled out a bit, though destined to stay slender.  I
had broad shoulders, and some muscles, and had stopped tripping on myself,
though my feet had only grown bigger.  My love affair with Phil's big feet
had not really flagged, but one day I woke up and realized that in fact, we
wore the same size!  Of course, my mother, never remitting in her
mis-directed zeal, continued to refuse to allow me to wear what I wished to
wear.  High topped white sneakers were as good as I ever got while in
highschool.  Strange that I liked them, because I was less-than-inclined to
join the jocks in any pursuit of any organized team sport, and sneakers
were, ultimately, jocks' shoes.

I'd grown to be better looking, a feature which I grudgingly accepted as
true when a few of the attractive gals around began to look my way.  I'd
even dated a bit.  And, yes, I'll admit, enjoyed smooching, in a kind of
distracted way.  I liked girls' breasts; I was far too timid to go for them
in our clinches, though occasionally their owners led me on and I touched
them.  I liked the smaller, conical ones with the firm upstanding nipples,
and I enjoyed it when girls let me rub their nipples and got off on it.

I also knew that I had a good brain, and began to apply myself to
schoolwork, to the encouragement of a few of my teachers, though I'll never
remember my highschool with any fondness, since the only real approbation
came to the athletes.  Whether or not I could have balanced a spinning
basketball on my forefinger was never-to-be-discovered, for those years in
which I'd been teased and bullied by the athletes of my class robbed me of
ever wanting to try..

My mind was virtually always in turmoil with the paradoxical
anger/resentment and frustrated sexual attraction to the very same male
jock caste.  It was nothing more than the re-enactment of my love-hate
relationship with Phil.

"Uh, John, have a seat..."  Coach Andersen, Stephen, said to me.
Immediately I sensed a change of tone in him, and I knew something was
afield.  He fidgeted a bit in his chair, and threw his long legs out into
the aisle.  Stephen had sized 13 feet, and characteristically wore big
white Converse hi-tops.  I never found them attractive.  He leveled his big
blue gaze at me, finally, and I knew that there was a mixed herald there:
something good and something bad.  I'd never known him to react to me with
anything less than good humor and warmth.  Today, there was a tension that
immediately made me cringe and regress, instantly, into the old guilt
feelings I'd perfected during years of harassment from my peers.

"I may as well be blunt..."  Uh-oh.  This was going to be terrible, I knew.
He was going to leave! He was going to tell me that he'd taken another
position someplace else.  I can't tell you the wash of utter desperation
that flooded my gut as that thought took over.  My gaze plummeted to the
floor, and I became the dispirited, slumped-shouldered lad he'd picked up
two years ago.

"Here," he said, gently, and touched me on the shoulder, then did something
which nobody had ever done to me before.  He reached across and tucked his
huge hand under my chin and lifted it up, until my gaze once more was aimed
at his face, though he could do nothing about my eyes, which stuck to the
floor.  "John, come on, look at me!"

I did, reluctantly.  It didn't relieve the pounding of my heart, the
suddenly hopeless rattling of my chest.  "What?" I asked, finally,
petulantly, I knew.

"I found two stories when you handed in the last assignment...."  He
reached into the drawer of his desk and brought out another one, which he
laid carefully, respectfully in front of me.  I looked down, only to be
mortified!  I'd given him the nearly autobiographical story of an
apocryphal youth, who'd done many of the same things I'd done with Phil.
My name had been changed, but not Phil's.  I must have bunched it together
with the plainer tale on top.  (Freud said there were no accidents, but I
didn't know that then!)  I blushed furiously, and now my gaze was RIVETED
to the boards at my feet.

"I couldn't hand this back to you during the class, for obvious reasons."
Stephen continued. "I think I know that you wouldn't want the other guys to
see it."  At this point, he stretched himself even further out, his stomach
flat and firm, and leaned back, both of his big hands tucked behind his
neck and his gaze went up to the ceiling as he took a big breath.  "I've
got to tell you, that of the two stories, this one was the better...."

"Better?...."  I sounded rather dumb, even to myself.  What did he mean,
'better'?  It was my first frankly gay story, and I couldn't imagine any
other healthy red-blooded American male being anything other than repulsed
by it.  Stephen, like Phil, was almost my paragon of big-healthy (in mind,
body and spirit) maleness. (Compared to those two, I saw myself as weak and
confused, to say nothing of sexually corrupt).  Stephen, I knew, was
married, and had two kids.  I'd seen 'em on a couple of occasions, and
envied them their father, at least.  For that matter as I thought about it,
I envied them their mother, too, who was also Swedish-looking, and the
archetype of the somewhat harried suburban housewife, with clean but
wind-blown hair, looking a bit frazzled with the pressures of
child-rearing, running the big station wagon around with them inside, all
that kind of thing.

Coach interrupted my thoughts: "Yeah, better.  The school board might not
agree, but I think it was beautifully written, and well, to tell you the
truth, moving.  I felt for your 'hero' and that's the mark of a good
story."  Now Stephen's gaze swept by mine every few seconds, but his eye
contact was scarcely better than mine, as I peeked upwards only when I
suspected he wouldn't be looking.  "To tell you the truth, I wanted to give
you extra credit, you know, another "A"--to let you know how much I liked
the story.  But I couldn't figure out how to do it."

"It's okay."  I said, miserable.  For now, unlike Phil, who 'might' still
have had some illusions regarding my sexual orientation, Stephen could have
absolutely NO doubt.  For I'd told all in this piece.  How in the hell
could I picked this story up at the same time as the other?  The hand-in
piece was about 10 pages long, the sex one at least 25.  How?  How?  It HAD
to have been like picking up the local phonebook!

"I debated," Coach went on, "I thought to myself that I could just take the
story and keep it.  You'd miss it, of course, but maybe you wouldn't know
what happened to it.  Then I thought what THAT would feel like: not knowing
where it'd gone, who might read it. I knew I had to give it back to you,
and I knew I had to mention it to you...."  He cleared his throat, and I
could hear the strain, "and of course I wondered whether you INTENDED to
hand it in to me..."

"Thank you," I lied.  I wished he'd thrown it away and NEVER mentioned it
to me.  Ever!  Then I realized that he'd posed another question, one I
hadn't yet answered.  He waited in silence.  I bit my lip. "I didn't plan
for ANYbody to ever see that..." I whispered.  "I'm ashamed."

"Don't be ashamed!" and I could hear Stephen's voice reaching out to me
with heartfelt emotion.  "I debated with myself for 3 days, heck I didn't
even sleep that well last night, wondering whether I'd shame you by handing
it back to you.  I didn't WANT that, not at all."

"How can I feel any other way?" I said, bitterly, too loudly, and very
angry at him.  He should have torn it up, pretended it'd never come to him!

"Because you wrote a true story, didn't you?"  Coach suddenly realized that
he'd given away that he knew exactly who it'd been written about....  My
gaze suddenly headed southward again, and my face flamed crimson.  "I mean,
when you tell the truth, you should never be really ashamed."

"Can I go?"  I suddenly stood up and, looking away, fidgeted in place.  My
discomfort level was so intense I couldn't tolerate another second of this.
I HAD to leave!

"I'd rather you didn't leave like this...." Stephen said softly.  "I know
what you feel like..."  and too late, he added the "...I think."

I sat back down, my legs incapable of carrying me away gracefully in any
case.  I looked back at his big eyes and straight nose for half a second to
see what was going on there.  His own face had I flushed as bright red as
my own!  If the "I know..." hadn't given him away, the blush would surely
have anyway.

"I suppose I may as well tell you, now...." he said, unhappy, but I think
trying to make a point which he felt was valuable to me.  (I realized years
later how hard that much have been for Coach, and will be grateful until
the end of my days.)  ".....I am not a complete stranger to some of the
feelings you wrote about.  I don't act on any of them, of course.  I'm a
married man, and I love my wife and kids, and I love my job.  But, I'm
being honest with you, just because I know what you feel like right now,
and I need you to know that I understand, and that I do not criticize you."

I was hushed to silence.  Part of me wanted to thank him profusely, and
another was suddenly filled by a disapproval so intense that I hated myself
for it.  Coach was a big, masculine and very handsome guy (and this was the
first time I ever admitted that to myself; I think I "saw" him for the
first time that moment) who was 'supposed' to be as straight as all
out-of-doors. One of the pillars of my existence was threatening collapse.

I rushed away from his classroom, then, and stayed away from school for two
days, faking illness with my mother, who was too harried to question me
very much anyway.  I dreaded the moment when I had to face him again.

When I did, I could not meet his eyes.  Our pleasure with each other had
evaporated, and he seemed as miserable and unhappy as I felt.  He rushed to
fill the classroom with words, and I, probably alone, knew that he was
straining to make sense, but much of it was skimming whatever conscious
thoughts came to the top of his brain.  I knew, because it was the way I
was thinking every moment I was awake, which these days was half the night
as well.  We both were utterly immersed in what had happened, unable to get
past it.

"John," he said to me, "could you come back here before you go home this
afternoon?"

"Do I have to?" I asked.  I couldn't believe I'd said that.  My deference
for his teacher role had gone, too, and my answer had the pissy-ness I
could/might have only used for peers.  I suddenly realized that we HAD
become peers.  We shared a dirty secret.  He wasn't any better adjusted
than I was!

"Yes, you do!"  He finally said, more forcibly.

I came back, my heart beating its anxious 120, my heart in my throat, and
hoping for ??  I couldn't look at him.

"Thank you," he said, straining obviously.  "I didn't think you'd come."

"I came."

"Of course.  You're here."  He laughed an empty, meaningless chuckle,
somewhere back in the back of his chest.  "We have to talk, though."

"Yeah... " Meaning, no we don't.  I said it, "Why?"

"Because, you and I, we had a good thing going.  I've watched you for 2
years now, and I've liked everything I saw: you were serious, you tried
hard, you kept trying when I could tell you had major self-esteem problems.
You've really started feeling better about yourself.  I could tell that.
And your writing was the key that really began to open things up.  I was
able to encourage that.  I helped you."

"Yes."  I admitted his words were true, but it was the first time I'd seen
things from his macro view.  I'd not linked my writing, and his
encouragement, to the slow increase of my self-esteem.

"After I read your wonderful story, I fully understood: well, I mean, I got
a much fuller understanding of all that had been going on...  I mean, in
your life."

"I can imagine," I said drily, unhappily.

"I wanted to tell you that," he said.  "But then it got all distorted.  And
instead of helping you, it obviously did something really bad. And you
looked like you never wanted to speak to me again. What happened?"

"It's all right.  Nothing happened..."  I said, wishing only that this
conversation would end.

"Don't tell me that CRAP!" he suddenly yelled at me.  I startled like he'd
slapped me.  Which, in a way, he had.

"Okay, you told me you were gay, too.  I couldn't believe YOU of all people
could be gay!  I mean, look at you.  You're a coach, you have a wife and
kids, I mean, how could YOU of all people be gay?" My voice, I realized,
was near tears. I was accusing him of dereliction of duty: the duty to
remain my hero, dustless, shining, perfect.

"It just happens.  I'm no more responsible for mine than you are for
yours..."  He said.  I think at that moment he believed it, but every other
moment he probably doubted.  Or maybe he believed it FOR ME, not for
himself.

"Well, I don't like it!" I wailed, suddenly, putting words to the guilt
that had plagued me for years.

"Would you like to see the school counselor?"  He said, I know, trying to
be as supportive as possible.  I think he knew I could never afford a
private counselor.  Ms. Gibbs was hardly a figure to inspire any
confidence.  I think he realized this as soon as the image appeared before
his own eyes, and he knew we were both thinking it.  We both burst out
laughing.  "I can see your point..." he admitted.  "There ARE good
counselors for this sort of thing but I reckon she might not be anybody's
first pick..."

"I TRY to talk myself out of it...." I protested, sensing that he thought
that a counselor would be able to accomplish what I'd never been able to
budge myself.

"Oh, no," he said, shocked at what he determined my interpretation to be,
"I didn't mean THAT! I don't think anybody can be talked into or out of the
way they just ARE!  No, I meant talking to somebody who understands would
be a way to become more comfortable with the way you are. Uh, the way 'we'
are, I guess I should say, huh?"

"In that case," I said, with all the temerity of the world and the naivete,
too, "You'd be the perfect counselor, right?"

"Uh, well..." Stephen thought a long time, and started to say something
several times before the words would come out.  "Uh, no, I don't think that
would be a good idea..."

"Why not?" I felt rejected anew.  My previous letdown at learning my hero
was flawed, in a way which I considered to be morally reprehensible, had
been completely, if temporarily, replaced by my old exuberance for him: I'd
'counsel' with him, whatever that meant.  We were a perfect pair. When he
said 'no' I felt as bereft as I had when I thought he was going to tell me
he was leaving.

"Let me just say that it wouldn't be wise for me to adopt that role with
you."  Stephen was choosing his words carefully.

"But you could, couldn't you?  I mean, they'd LET you, wouldn't they?  A
Coach can counsel kids, can't he?"

"Sure, it can happen."  He realized he should have said something else, for
I renewed my "reasonable" insistence with him..

"Then you COULD."  I said it as a fact.  "But you WON'T!"  My anger and
rejection was right there, lying on the surface of my words, waiting for
his reaction.

"I really can't..." he hedged.

"Why NOT?  Give me one reason.  One REASONABLE reason!"  My voice once
again had risen and I think he suddenly feared I might be heard in the hall
outside.

"I have my own issues.  I think that would mean that I would be a rotten
counselor for you."

"What better than a man with a wheelchair to help another who's just
learned he has got to use one?"  I felt righteous and my logic was
infallible.

"That's not what I meant."

"What DID you mean?" I said, with all the accusation heaped in my mind.  I
knew that if he was going to weasel out of being my friend, then I was
going to demand a very high payment for it, indeed.  He was going to have
to tell me outright that he didn't WANT to!  Then I'd hate him forever.
That 's what I thought.  It's what I expected, and what I sought, to be
rejected cleanly.

"I just meant...."  his voice faded and he looked away, twisted his neck
and reddened, then finally, gathering himself, looked back at me squarely.
"I meant that I find you attractive, VERY attractive, and therefore I
cannot serve as your counselor!"  He looked immediately away, and I could
see that the defiance rapidly fled, and was replaced by an aura of utter
desperation and perhaps frustration, too.

I was struck just as though by lightning.  What was he saying?  He found ME
attractive?  The thought had never once traipsed across my awareness. It
changed everything in my life.

I think all I said was a rather dull, "Oh." I could not get out of the room
fast enough.

But several things began to happen, not that Coach was immediately aware,
nor that I told him: 1) the feeling that he'd let me down by being
less-than-perfect slowly dissolved, 2) the embarrassment of his knowing ALL
of my sexual peccadillos turned into a freeing feeling: at least there was
now one other human who knew the worst about me, and who didn't obviously
despise me. Because he'd been my mentor, and now knew "all"--it was as
though every one of my eggs had been put into his basket.

But the major thing that happened was a complete paradigm shift towards
him: blinded to him as long as he was only an older teacher, now I took
another look at him as a man, and decided readily that he was an enormously
attractive one.  And he had said, openly, that he was attracted to me....

I have to admit that I began to flirt with him.  I tried not to be obvious,
but when he'd look up, he'd see me looking at him.  At first he blushed,
but after awhile he looked back, sometimes. Other times, he'd pointedly
look away, a frown on his face, as though telling me to be careful!  It
didn't put me off, because I began to sense his attraction to me, and it
gave me strength.  Also, I interpreted it (accurately, it turned out) that
he often had to avoid an overt show of affection for me for fear of being
observed.  Once in awhile, I'd look up and catch his eyes on me.  That left
me excited and horny. I knew I wanted much much more with him.

When I went up to his desk to ask him something, and I found myself doing
this far more often than I needed... I would put a hand on his shoulder,
and feel his muscles rippling there.  The first time I did this, I felt him
jerk and tremble, and I was overjoyed.  One time, playing loose and
assertive, I put my hand on his thigh.  I thought I made it look casual,
but his disapproval was immediate and direct.  He got up and stalked to the
other side of the room.

My own sexual frustration built over a month, as I played with his
attention and lusted after him day and night.  I'd never seen Stephen nude,
but I vowed to find a way.  For such a large, tall man, my mind endlessly
wondered how big he was "down there."

He was unfailingly kind to me, and despite my taunting him cruelly (I
didn't see it that way, then; he'd told me he was attracted, so I was
showing him that I was, too), he continued to encourage my writing.  One
day, I wrote another story, this one a thinly veiled account of a love
between a student and a teacher.  And it was turned in underneath an
assignment, just like the first. The reaction was immediate and harsh:

"Don't do that again!" he warned me, after he'd told me to come around at
the end of the day.

"I thought you liked the first one..." I said, feigning more innocence than
I felt, but still a bit perplexed at his reaction.  After all, if he really
was attracted, then this should have been fodder for a little solitary
j.o. session for him.  I knew it had been for me as I wrote it.

"I did, and this one was interesting, too, but that's not it, not it at
all..."

"I guess I'm missing something..." I responded, no longer feeling any
student-to-teacher awe.  I'm sure I treated him with less respect than he
was due.  This man was obviously embattled with his own emotions for me,
and it made us equals in some sort of way.  I think that I'd already lost
my mentor, and now subconsciously I was trying to pick up far more.

"Look, you and I both know that any hint of any kind of relationship
between us is the death knell for my teaching career here, and possibly
anywhere else.  More than that, it's just not right.  If anybody found that
story you wrote, there'd be impossible questions to answer.  I'd have to
lie and say that this was a stupid student crush, but any more, I doubt
anybody'd believe me.  I was really wrong to say anything at all to you
when I did.  I'm sorry I trusted you like that."

I was hurt to the quick.  I was trying to show my real attraction to him,
thinking that it would please him.  But I was hurting him.  A part of my
mind's eye could see that.  But it humiliated me, made me feel a bit naive
and clueless, if not overtly stupid, and that made me angry, too.

I resolved that hereafter, things between us would be as cool and aloof as
I could possibly make them.  Overnight I turned into a stranger.  I offered
him nothing spontaneous in class, turned in all of my homework, and
accepted my "A's" without glancing in his direction.

If anything, when I did chance to peek up at him, I could see it was
driving him crazy.  He seemed rattled, could scarcely concentrate on what
he was saying, looked thinner (which only helped his appearance, in my
opinion), and harried.  I began to think he must not be sleeping at night,
at all.  If I had to do it all again, over, knowing what I know now, I'd
have left school.  He deserved it, more even. But my selfish sex-starved
adolescence was hell-bent on having him.  And I sensed he would topple.  I
dreamed night-and-day of that first time I would see him, and hold him.  My
hands would run down under his athletic warm-up suit and find his huge
genitals, and then he'd be all mine.

Two weeks went by, and Coach was obviously having trouble holding it
together.  He stood at my desk on that last day of our teacher-student
relationship, the last day of the semester and said "How about dropping by
this afternoon so we can have a chat?"

"I didn't think you wanted that anymore...."  I answered, coyly, but
cruelly, twisting the screw.  I think that I was punishing him for all the
harshness I'd received from jocks my whole life.

"I know it's the craziest thing I've ever done, but I need to talk to
you...."

"Okay," I said, flippantly.  "Same time, same station...."

He sat opposite me in a student desk, holding his head in one hand, whose
fingers trembled slightly.

"Look, I can't have anything like that to do with you...  It would be the
end of me, I could lose everything.  AND it isn't right...."

"You said that.  But nobody would EVER find out.  I'm not about to tell
anybody, even if they twist my arm all the way off."

"I'm sure you wouldn't, but these things never stay under wraps...."  he
was desperate to talk himself out of whatever it was he was thinking.

"How could anybody find out?"  I asked, thinking that I was logical and
that nobody ever would.

"For one thing, they might just take a look at you, or at me, for
Chrissakes!  I doubt anybody who took a serious look would have any
lingering doubts!"

"Well, don't they have to have some kind of proof or something?"  I was
perplexed.  Surely nobody could tell just by LOOKING!

"Yeah, in a pig's eye."

I sat quietly, for if he was making this decision, I didn't know what to
say.  I felt immensely empowered, that this strong handsome man was so torn
up about me.  I didn't want him to lose everything: here was the first
adult that'd treated me fair and square from the first to the last.  But I
needed something for ME, too.  I was a selfish bastard, a tiny part of my
head told me.

"Your first story," he said, "was it true?  Or was it like, uh, a
fantasy..."

"It was true."  I said, eyeing him keenly.

"Shit.  You and Phil?  You did those things you wrote, on the bus."

"Well, yeah, just those two times. He's not interested anymore, since he's
found women..."  I tried to make it sound like he'd found heroin, or pot,
or something equally addictive and equally destructive.

"Well, I mean, are you still interested?  I mean, in, uh....."  He was
sweating now, and he wiped his brow with a shaking hand "....ah, shit, I
shouldn't be having this conversation..."

"In Phil, or in you?" I prompted him.

"In Phil.  I mean, like, in his stuff, you know..."

"Yeah." I said, softly, for I was, still, though I hadn't touched anything
owned by Phil in at least a year.

"You could like, uh, come down to the locker room during one of the games.
I could give you a key...."

I realized what was happening: Coach was willing to become complicitous in
my sexual fantasy-acting-out.  What would that do for him, though?  I only
had to wait for him to tell me, though.

"I'd, uh, like to read more about it..."  he stammered.

"I could do that," I said, thinking that any sexual activity, however
removed from real skin-to-skin sex between us, would nevertheless be better
than anything I'd had these days.  And, I sensed that this would be the
opening wedge.  That he'd give in, eventually.

"I mean, this is ALL that can ever happen between us....  I could be fired
in an instant if anything else ever really happened.  And, more than that,
it's 'just not right.'" (A phrase he kept repeating in his misery, I
think.)

So, I did it.  I took the copied key he leant me, and I went down to the
locker room the next basketball game and found Phil's locker standing open;
I took his undershorts, his jeans, his socks, his boots, and I put them all
on.  I was wearing ALL of Phil's clothes, and I was doing it with Coach's
encouragement.  I hid myself in the shower's stall, and stuck my cock out
of Phil's fly---both of them, his Jockey's and his Levi's---and whacked
off.  I looked down at myself, wearing Phil's tall lace-up boots, and his
tight-fitting jeans, and felt sexier, and more powerful than I'd ever felt
in my life.  It was thought I had taken on all of Phil's persona by wearing
his second skin.

That night, later, I wrote it all down, how I felt, what I did, and handed
it to Stephen (I liked calling him that in my mind), in a sealed
business-sized envelope.  He looked away, took it like it was a hot coal,
one that he dreaded and yet could not tell himself to avoid, no matter the
cost.

Two days later, he asked me to stay late.

"That was a good story," he said, his eyes looking around the room,
anywhere but at me.  "It was, er, pretty hot."

"You ever get off on wearing another guy's clothes?"  I asked, feeling
curious but more just wanting the conversation to get to more sexual
material.

"Not really.  But it's enough that you do."

"Is it?"

"It's pretty good..." he corrected.

"What would make it better?"  I was emboldened, still feeling powerful, now
made more so by his obvious sexuality steaming forth for us both to see.
Finally directly in the open.

"I wish I could see you, sometime..." he said, finally.  "I mean, uh, like,
well, doing something you found sexy."

"Could you come down during a game?"

"'Fraid not."

"I didn't think so.  Then, how?"

"Would you, uh, I hate to ask you this.  It's okay if you said you didn't
want to, but..."

"But what?  Say it!"  I thought that no matter what he asked, I'd do it.  I
wanted to just go over and touch him right now.  But I sensed strongly that
he'd never allow that.  I didn't want to try it and be rejected.

"I could, uh, like leave you some of, uh, my things..."

I had to confess, the thought had never entered my mind, but it was
suddenly there, and part of the pleasure was the sheer thought of it, and
another was the thought that it'd please him.  But I felt it was a bit of a
dance.  He thought that this was my ultimate sexual turn-on.  And it had
been, for awhile, back when Phil occupied all of my mind.  Now, it was much
less so.  But Coach still believed it, nothing I'd written had made it out
less so.  Therefore, he wanted me to get off, and tell him about it.

"I, uh, I mean, you, could, uh...."  he licked dry lips.  "You could like
wear some of my stuff, like you wrote about, and wear it like to class?  I
mean, we'd BOTH know you were wearing it, right?"

"Sure."  I was firmly erect, now, playing this powerful sexual game with a
big, powerful sexual male. No kid like my peers, this was a full-grown,
potent man. One who'd sired two kids of his own, was married.  None of
those things detracted from my sense of his ultimate sexual potency.

'In the locker room during tonight's game?" He suggested.

I slipped into the pitch black room and twisted the lock behind me, and
flipped the overhead fluorescents on, their brightness searing my eyes.  I
smelled the sweaty room and the dampness of the showers beyond.  I quickly
made my way into Coach's office, where on top of his desk sat a brown paper
bag.  I did not know what he'd left for me.  My heart was pummeling the
inside of my chest, and my hormones were raging.

I opened the bag and looked down.  There, as I'd expected, lay a jockstrap,
heavy and not old, but obviously worn.  I picked it up and smelled it: it
was faintly sweaty, but the pouch was slightly stiffened.  My mind raced.
Had Coach given me a jockstrap he'd cum in?  I smelled again.  The odors of
the room mixed everything up.  I couldn't tell.

I quickly doffed my own shoes and jeans, and after taking off my own jock,
I suddenly threw it into the bag.  I wondered whether he'd be turned on or
off?  He'd said it didn't do anything for him.  What if he hated the idea?
What if he'd never deign to wear anything after me?  I decided that come
what may, I'd leave it.

We agreed that I could not see him after the game.

I put my clothes back on, now snuggled by Coach's strap, held in his
leftover cum, probably.

I went back into the locker room, and was shocked to see the tumbler on the
door moving!  Shit!  Coach had never told me that I could get caught down
here.  What would I say?  I raced back into his office, closing the door as
quietly as I could behind me.  I had no idea whether the intruder would
have seen me or not.  I was terrified, overwhelmed with the old guilt.  I
should not be here!  I should not have ever agreed to do this!

Crap!  My luck was utterly gone.  The office door was being opened, too!

Coach stood in front of me, looking me up and down.  "I told the guys I had
to go to the john, would be right back..."

"You scared the holy bejeesus out of me!" I complained, not really angry,
but immensely relieved, and overjoyed to see him actually there.

"I wanted to see if you'd do it."  As though that made sense.

"Do it?  Do what?"

"You know, put it on."

"Oh, I did."

"Great!  You gonna come see the rest of the game?  Sit close to the bench.
I can see you there, huh?  And know."

"Sure."  I said, then paused, then emboldened, cleared my throat.  "Say,
Coach, did you, uh, like leave a little present IN the jock?"

"I wondered if you'd notice..."  he laughed.  "Did you like it, or did it
turn you off?"

"Oh, no, I LIKED it!"  I gushed.

"Great!"  He was using the same adjective over and over again.  He was as
nervous as I was, worse maybe.

"I gotta get back," he said, quickly.

"I left you a little present in return..."  I said, suddenly overwhelmed
with a feeling like the kid who brings the teacher an apple only to
discover it has a wormhole in one side, too late.  I didn't think this man
would/could be interested in this little gambit.

"You did?"  Coach said, intensely.  He went directly to the back and pulled
out my jockstrap.

"It's okay.  You said you weren't into that kind of thing...."

"But in this case, I am!" he said.  I didn't know whether he was telling
the truth or trying to make me feel good.  "I think I'll just put it on
right now..."

Which is how I came to see Coach the first time.  He quickly sat on the
corner of his desk and unlaced then kicked off one shoe after the other,
and then pulled down his athletic warm-up pants..  He had another jock on,
as I knew he would, and then he pulled it off, throwing it at my face and
giggling, and he was nude from the waist down.  His cock was decidedly
bigger than Phil's or mine had ever been, and halfway erect.  He pulled my
jock on and snuggled it up into place, and then wiggled his ass in an
elaborate parody of a hula-dance or something.  Then he had his
sweat-trousers up, his shoes back on and was out of the room again almost
before I could catch my breath.  He locked the door behind him.

Coach's still-warm, still damp jockstrap was in my hands.  Something about
the immediacy of it, and the vision of his enormous, even half-hard, cock,
caused me to shove the fabric to my nose and grasp myself down below.
That's all it took.  My cock shots its load into Coach's pouch.  His seed
and mine were one with each other.

          Continued in Part 4