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


John Wood

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