From: jerryg@pacbell.net (Jerry Gaither)
Subject: JOCKSTRAPS ON PARADE
Date: Tue, 10 Dec 1996 07:17:17 GMT

                      JOCKSTRAPS ON PARADE
                      A High School Memory
                         by Jack Walker
 
     JOCKSTRAPS ON PARADE.  That's the way that I thought of the
high school locker room. Every afternoon hundreds of guys would
report to the gym, shed the dress clothes that my high school
required, and pack their post-pubescent cocks and balls into
jockstraps.

     Jockstraps pulled me through many days.  I dreaded football
practice, two hours with sadistic coaches under the hot sun
driving steam off the newly mowed grass.  I hated practice.  But
I loved the jockstraps.
 
                           * * *
 
     The first jockstrap that I touched was my older brother's.
He was a wrestler in high school when I was twelve.  When I found
his jock in the clothes hamper I was enthralled -- touching the
magic straps gave me an instant erection.  I took off my clothes
and encased my hard cock in the cotton and elastic pouch that
only hours earlier had been containing my brother's big cock.  I
was in heaven.  I had a constant hard-on for the rest of the day.
That night I didn't take off the jock when I got into bed.  I
wrapped my hand around my dick and jacked off inside the ribbed
pouch shooting my boy load into the fabric.  Sleep was
interrupted three more times that night to repeat this joy.

     During the next week I hardly ever took off my new prize.
Repeated jacking-off left the pouch stained with dozens of spurts
of come.  With my first jockstrap, my masturbatory creativity was
limited, but I did learn an important lesson: not everyone is a
jockstrap worshipper.

     David, the boy next door, and I were best friends.  We used
to beat off together.  For almost two years we had played with
each other's peckers and discovered coming at each other's hand.
When we climbed into the tree house in my backyard where we'd
whacked off countless times before, I told David that I had a
surprise.  He asked me if it was a new magazine (I often let him
look at my father's Playboys).  I said, no, that it was something
better.  Then I pulled down my pants to reveal the come-stained
jock I was wearing.  I asked if he wanted to put it on.  His lack
of enthusiasm confused me.  How could he not be turned on by so
magnificent a garment?

     I went ahead and jacked off into the jockstrap while David
worked on his spit-slickened stick.  Finally we shot into the
paper towels we kept in the tree house.  We silently dressed.  I
never showed him my jockstrap again.

     The next jock I discovered a few months later while looking
over the prep school I was to enter that fall.  In the basement
of one of the academic buildings I found a wadded up Bike brand
size large jockstrap.  My dick popped up with an instant salute.
Luckily, I was alone so I could stuff the wondrous elastic into
my jeans pocket.  My impatience grew with the school tour as I
itched to get home behind my bedroom door to inspect my
acquisition.

     Hours later, finally home, I satisfied my curiosity and
relieved my aching groin.  The jock had the number 75 written on
the wide waistband in indelible ink.  I pulled my brother's high
school year book off the shelf (he went to the same prep school)
to see if I could identify the owner.  Number 75 on the football
team was a 220 pound blond hunk named Mike who played on the
offensive line.  So the size large made sense.  Careful
inspection of the ribbed pouch further confirmed ownership, for
interwoven in the fabric were several curly blond hairs.

     Pleased with my detective work, I jacked off into Mike's
jock while staring at his picture in the yearbook, trying to
imagine how his cock and balls swelled the jockstrap now wrapped
around my 13 year old dick.  When I came, I was almost frightened
by the intensity of the orgasm.

     The jism-drenched jock made me proud -- I had stained a
stranger's most intimate piece of clothing with my most private
juice.  He had sex with me without even knowing it.

     After pulling on my clothes, I did something that I later
learned never to do: I washed Mike's jockstrap.  Cleanliness may
be next to godliness, but being next to Mike's sweat and piss
stains would have been heaven on earth.
 
                           * * *
 
     Everyone at my school from the 7th through the 12th grades
was required to take afternoon athletics.  While my size
compensated for my lack of enthusiasm on the playing field, no
one could say that I didn't give 110% in the locker room.

     Usually the junior high teams came in from practice a few
minutes ahead of the varsity squads, and many of the younger guys
didn't like being on stage -- the shy seventh grader with his
hairless, pencil-thin cock and tight little nuggets, or the ninth
grader who almost stood inside his locker while changing.  Many
didn't even bother taking showers, which was, of course, a
disappointment.

     Just as we younger guys were leaving the locker room, the
older jocks would be coming in.  This created a timing problem
for those of us who wanted to watch.  Often I would dawdle
around, dressing deliberately slowly.  Sometimes I took a second
shower in the other shower room.  And many times I "accidently"
left my watch or wallet or books in my locker, forcing me to
retrieve them while the big guys were in there.  Anything not to
miss the show.

     And what a show it was!  About the time a guy's cock is
fully developed and pubic bush filled out nice and thick, he
develops a swagger and bravado around other naked males that is
remarkable in that almost no one admits, or perhaps realizes,
that it is going on.  But for those of us who lived for the
spectacle, there was no mistaking that we were witness to an
erotic dance.  Even at that young age I knew where the best seats
in the house were, silently applauded my favorite players,
identified the preferred routines of many of the exhibitionists,
and later I even took part in the choreography.

     There was Terry, a senior whose locker was among those of
much younger guys.  All of us were envious of his enormous
equipment, especially his truly tremendous balls.  He obliged us
with his slow, very thorough towel-offs.  He dried his balls
again and again, making sure we all noticed.  Terry was real
friendly, too.  His big white teeth and heavy low-hangers won my
barely adolescent heart.

     John, a wrestler just a little older than I, was the most
blatant exhibitionist.  He would pull down his shorts just enough
to let his long, slender cock flop out, then he'd parade around
the locker room, collecting a clean towel, getting some water,
horsing around with friends.  No one mentioned, nor seemed to
think it odd, that his shorts were at mid-thigh.  Sometimes John
would get naked and climb on top of a row of lockers to swat the
heads of unsuspecting jocks on the other side.  The ceiling was
low, so he had to crawl on his hands and knees on top of the
lockers which afforded a delectable view of his fifteen year old
asshole, either sweaty from wrestling practice or rosebud-fresh
from the shower.  Even then, I knew that I wanted to bury my face
in his proffered buttocks.

     Then there was Frank, who bragged that he had the school's
biggest cock.  He would take his lollipop monster on a slow,
deliberate walking tour, talking and clowning with friends from
one end of the locker room to the other.  His showers lasted
twenty minutes, as he paid careful attention to lathering his
well-developed chest, muscular legs, the crack of his hairless
ass, and his long dong.  He was unabashedly proud of his great
body and big dick.

     But Frank's wasn't the longest dick.  Having surveyed every
cock that flopped into view in the locker room, I knew that
Alan, another wrestler, had the longest prick at school.  His
dick must have been nine inches soft.  And he wasn't shy about
showing it off.  He'd climb onto the roofs of cars (belonging to
other seniors) in the gym parking lot, unzip his pants, and haul
out the one-eyed anaconda.  Then he's slide feet first and face
down on the windshield, letting his cock drag across the glass.
Everyone thought that it was a great stunt, especially if the
car contained visiting girls from our sister school.  Alan never
got in any trouble for waving his dick outdoors.

     Some guys loved to go back into the wrestling room after
practice and grapple naked.  Suits in the swimming pool were
considered sissified.  Though never explicitly stated, there was
tremendous pressure to show cock.  That was fine by me.

     After athletics, I boarded a school bus for home.  Mine was
the last stop.  The next to last guy off was Clay, one year older
than I, slender and blond.  He and I would sit on opposite sides
of the aisle showing off our erections pressing through our
pants.  We never said or did anything, but after he got off, I
often beat my meat, spilling my come on the back of the seat in
front of me.  The driver was oblivious to it all.

     Once home I had the chance for some serious masturbation.
After being teased by dozens of exhibitionistic teenagers,
strutting their newly muscular bodies and recently developed
cocks just beyond my reach, my dick was ready for more release
than one shot on the bus offered.  Sometimes I'd whack off six or
eight times in an evening with visions of the afternoon's show
prancing through my head.

     To capture the fantasy I began to draw my favorite cocks.
How they looked soft, how I imagined they looked hard.  How they
looked packaged in a jockstrap.  I drew carefully to scale and
labeled each cock sketch with the owner's name.

     These sketches were a great turn on.  Although not very
professional by any standard, they recreated the voyeuristic
feeling of watching particular guys' cocks.  With the drawings, I
was in control.  Alan was at my command.  Frank performed for me.
I treated my sketches with great care, and was careful to lock
them away, lest Mom find them and freak.  As much a treasure as
they were, I lost interest in them when I decided on something
better, something that brought part of a guy's sexuality right
into my hands. I became a jockstrap thief.
 
                           * * *
 
     My first two jockstraps I had discovered by accident.  The
next one I stole.

     Keith was a lanky, lean runner with muscular legs and a shy
smile.  His locker was one of four in a corner behind a partition, 
removed from the main locker room area.  One afternoon, I was 
looking for my friend Ned whose locker was next to Keith's.  
I didn't find Ned, but I did discover Keith's jockstrap lying on 
the wooden bench, his locker open.  He was in the shower.  The still 
warm, sweaty pouch mesmerized me.  Without thinking, I snatched the 
jock and stuffed it into my book bag and hustled out of the gym to 
wait for the bus.  I guarded the book bag carefully, feeling as though 
there were suspicious eyes all around.


     Once home, locked safely in my bedroom I reviewed Keith's
jockstrap.  It was a Bauer and Black, size small.  It must have
fit snugly.  It was still damp with Keith's sweat, and I couldn't
help sniffing it.  Wow!  I had the smell, the sight, and the feel
of Keith right there in my face.  I ended up jerking off wildly
with the waistband around my head, my nose buried where hours
earlier Keith's dick had been cradled.

     I became a jockstrap junkie.  After a few days, the novelty
of Keith's Bauer and Black waned -- I wanted more.

     Swiping jockstraps was easy -- there was always an unguarded
locker, or a pile of unattended clothes left while the owner
fetched a towel or showered.  The challenge was managing to snag
a particular jockstrap; an unidentified jockstrap carried little
erotic significance.  I spent frustrating hours waiting for Mark
to return from track practice, or for guys to clear out from near
Bill's unlocked locker.  My watching and waiting had to be done
very carefully -- it would be hard to explain how other guys'
jocks found their way into my coat pockets.

     After several weeks my collection had grown to half a dozen.
All had grown stiff with my come as I jacked off into them
incessantly.

     My favorite way to masturbate was to put on all the jocks I
owned at the same time -- starting with the small swimmer's pouch
and ending up with Mike's (#75), which I'd had for two years.
The feeling of having my dick encased in six other peoples' jocks
was fantastic.  I rubbed my hands over my padded crotch, enjoying
the feeling of the thick mound.  Next, I peeled off the outer
jock and sniffed it and chewed on the pouch while I continued to
rub my trapped dick.  I could smell and taste one guy's crotch in
my face, while I could imagine I was feeling another guy's
jock-protected dick as my hand caressed my prick through the
layers of the remaining jockstraps.  One by one I peeled them
away, feeling, tasting, and smelling a parade of high school
athletes right there in my bedroom.  When I finally slipped out
of the last jock, I piled them all on my belly and drenched them
with come.

     At school, whenever I passed one of my sex "partners" in the
hall, or sat next to him in class, I became aroused.  These guys,
through their jockstraps, had let me lick at their dicks, sniff
at their balls, and shoot my juice into them.

     I soon discovered that I could greatly increase my catch of
jocks by visiting the gym in the evenings and on weekends when
the locker rooms were almost empty.  I took up tennis largely as
a reason to frequent the athletic area during those times.  After
playing, I could wander into the locker room knowing that if I
were discovered, I had a legitimate excuse for being there.
First, I'd make the rounds to see if any of my yet uncaptured
favorites had left their lockers unlocked.  This was often the
case, especially with the football team's lockers which were like
wooden stand-up trunks, sometimes difficult and cumbersome to
close and lock.

     If all locks were secure, I had other methods. Some metal
lockers were missing some of the little rivets that held the
sheet metal sides and tops on. With a little coaxing, a corner
could sometimes be bent to allow access to a locker at the end of
an aisle.  Sometimes one could enter a locker from the unlocked
one behind it.

     But the best weapon in the hunt was a straightened coat
hanger.  Most of the lockers had metal grate doors with holes
about an inch square, which was usually large enough to allow a
jock to be pulled through after hooked with the coat hanger.
Sometimes, though, a jock jammed half-way through the door, or
someone interrupted my work.  I wondered what the owner thought
the next day discovering his jockstrap pulled half-way through
his locker door?

     These off hour safaris netted dozens of jockstraps.  I had
to clean out a storage trunk at home that could hold all of them.
Of course, I had to keep them locked up.  They would have been
even harder to explain than my earlier drawings.

     No one at school seemed to notice the missing underwear.
Only once did I hear one of my victims shout, "Some jock stole my
jock!"  If he'd only known what I was doing with it!
 
                           * * *
 
     There were other games that I played with jockstraps.  I
exchanged jocks with Mark the track and field star whose locker
was next to mine.  It was a turn on for the next few weeks to
watch him pull MY jock over his big floppy dick.  It was also
exciting to run the risk of his noticing that I was wearing his
jock (A Bike Pro, size medium).  Later, after jacking off
repeatedly into his jock, I switched them again.  Now, I could
enjoy the thought of my come crusts riding Mark's cock and balls.
He never noticed.

     There was also jockstrap roulette.  When I retrieved jocks
that I had no desire in keeping, I would return them to the wrong
lockers -- a sort of gay matchmaker, pairing each jock with a new
cock.

     One of the nice spinoffs of my jockstrap collection was the
pubic hair collection that it made possible.  Whenever I found
curly hairs caught in the ribbing of a newly acquired jock pouch,
I carefully removed them and placed them in a labeled envelope.
Matched pubic hair and jockstrap sets were particularly valuable
masturbation aids.  I would roll the hairs on my tongue while I
beat off into the jock.  After I came, I would return the pubic
prizes to their envelopes.
 
                           * * *
 
     When college time came and I had to leave home, I had a
problem.  I couldn't pack dozens of jockstraps to share with my
new roommates.  Nor could I leave them behind for my parents to
find.  College meant breaking old ties, saying goodbye to many
old friends.  No farewell was more difficult than parting with my
jockstraps.

     One afternoon in early September when my parents were at
work, I dug a shallow pit in the gravel of the floor of our
garage.  I loaded all the jocks into a plastic bag, took them to
the garage, and emptied them into the pit.  As a final send-off,
I stood over them and jacked off onto them one last time.  Then,
I set fire to them.

     The nylon, cotton, and elastic burned readily soon leaving
nothing but ashes and a few black chars.  These I scattered in
the woods behind our house.  I cried as I raked the gravel back
into place.

     The ritualism of this purification by fire was realized only
later.  And only later did I realize that those jocks would have
brought some good prices, financing a significant part of that
first semester.  But I never could have sold them -- they were
old trusted friends, who had lent warmth and companionship to my
adolescence.
 
                           E N D