Coming of Age

Football Season

When Mike, Johnny, and I got back from Hawaii, Dad told us how pleased he had been with Eddie and Carlos, the two farm hands we had hired. It was a relief, because I had only two more weeks at home before I was scheduled to go to my first football camp.

Football camp literally was a camp, which is to say that it was held at a conference center in the woods near Fort Hood in Killeen, Texas. The practice field divided the camp into two sections. One had buildings that resembled a motel, and the other had cabins resembling a military base. You can guess which one they put us in. We were assigned by classes in four cabins (more like bunkhouses), each containing four bunk beds.

The training was rigorous in the Texas summer heat and humidity. By the end of the first day, we were all exhausted, but it was a good exhaustion. I had put in long, hard days at the farm, so I could take it better than some of the guys, even some of the seniors who had been playing football for three years or more, but I had never before felt the sense of accomplishment that I did at football camp. In time, I would come to realize that my work on the farm deserved just as much appreciation as my work at football camp, but at the moment, I was in sweat heaven.

The “motel” section on the other side of the practice field had private or semi-private showers, but our side of the camp had one big community shower, much like our locker room back at school.

I was always razzed as a kid. The other boys would call me Smirky Murphy, Murph the Smurf, and worse. It was all verbal, never physical. As long as my brother Mike was around, they wouldn’t dare touch me, and even after Mike went away to college, his legacy was enough to keep me safe from physical bullying.

Back then, I just took the name-calling and internalized it. I didn’t know how to punch back verbally without escalating things. Johnny changed that in me. Name-calling became not an insult, but a way of male bonding.

At school, before I met Johnny, I was too self-conscious to change in front of the guys, let alone shower with them. I would go off to the most remote corner of the room and change with my back to anybody nearby. But my experiences with Johnny (and, of course, the two Swedes) built up my self-assurance. When my teammates hit the showers at the end of the first day of training camp, I had no qualms about joining them.

As I was undressing, Hershel Morgan hollered from the showers, “Hey, Murphy, are you still fucking those pretty little sheep?”

“Well,” I shot back, “It’s better than those ugly cows you’ve been dating.”

Morgan seemed stunned at first, but Johnny laughed hysterically and the other guys followed suit, pointing fingers at Morgan, and punching him in the arm with their fists. “I guess he told you, Morgan,” said one guy. “Way to go, Murphy,” said another. And then even Morgan had to laugh.

Then Czynski asked, “Murphy, is it difficult to keep those sheep satisfied?”

“No harder than keeping your mama satisfied,” I quipped. I thought Czynski was going to charge right at me and beat the shit out of me for that one, but he stopped short, glared at me, and cracked up, as did all the other guys.

At that point, I pulled down my gym shorts and exposed my huge cock to them for the first time.  I tried nobly to keep my eyes off their dicks as I entered the showers, but they didn’t have any qualms about staring at mine, which, even flaccid, was bigger than any of theirs—much bigger, in fact.  Nobody said anything, but they all gawked. Johnny was the only one who didn’t seem shocked because, of course, he had seen it many times before. I think he got a kick, though, out of watching everyone else’s reaction.

Hightower finally broke the awkward silence as I stepped into the shower with the jocks. Pointing straight at my dick, he asked, “Murphy, aren’t you a little big for those poor little sheep?” “Yeah,” I bemoaned, “I guess I’m gonna hafta start hunting for some bigger ass.” And with that, I aimed my big cock directly at him and shook it.

The reactions came out in rapid succession:

“Oh, my gawd, Hightower, you better run.”

“Yeah, Hightower, he’s liable to kill you with that big thing.”

“It’s hunting season, Hightower, and you’re about to become somebody’s trophy.”

And all the guys grabbed their dicks and started aiming them at Hightower.

Hightower and I laughed along with everyone else, but I soon realized that my little stunt may not have been such a great idea. My cock started to rise, and I thought I would die, but then I noticed that Johnny was starting to pop a boner too, and then Morgan, and even Hightower. Finally, Hightower raised his hand in a kind of salute and shouted, “Circle jerk!”

“Circle jerk!” repeated Johnny.

And then everyone joined in a chant, “Circle jerk! Circle jerk. Circle jerk!”

I wasn’t the first one to shoot, but I wasn’t the last one either. I did shoot the farthest, though, and that won me some additional admiration from the guys. It was a shame to see all that delicious nectar go down the drain, but a couple of shots from somewhere did hit my feet and legs. More importantly, in that moment, I felt something that I had never really felt before. It could be described as orgasmic, but not sexual, if that makes any sense. For the first time in my life, aside from my family, I really felt like I belonged.

Every evening at football camp, some of the players would sit around a fire pit (even after dark it was still too hot to have an actual fire) talking about football and girls, girls and football, football and girls.

On our last night, Hightower challenged each man to tell of his best sexual conquest. Most of us were sophomores with just a couple of freshmen and juniors, so we all understood, though did not admit, that most, if not all, of our stories were just made up, but they were still provocative enough to produce hard-ons all around.

When it came my turn, I told a variation of the escapade Johnny and I had experienced in Hawaii with the two Swedish girls. Even though Johnny and I had doubted that they were actually college students, we maintained the ruse just because it made the story sound even more salacious. Of course, I omitted any details that might be construed as queer, and when Johnny picked up the story, he claimed that we had actually fucked the girls. I don’t know if any of the guys actually believed our story or not, but they ate it all up just the same. In fact, it was more titillation than some of them could stand, so out came the dicks…and, of course, the cum.

I had grown quite a bit since the lecture from Mike last Thanksgiving and was already one of the tallest men on the football team and had bulked up some too. When school started that fall, I thought that I was getting a little more attention from the girls than before, but I wasn’t sure. Then came the first game of the season.

I had expected Coach Davis to put me in as quarterback, but he chose instead to make me the halfback. His reasoning was that we already had a pretty good quarterback but no one to fill the halfback spot. He also explained that I would make a good halfback because I had the speed, agility, and versatility plus the ability to think on my feet. With Johnny as wide receiver and me at halfback, our team won the season opener 42-0. Johnny caught two interceptions and ran for three touchdowns. I recovered one fumble and ran for three more touchdowns. The quarterback, a senior, was named MVP, but Coach Davis singled out Johnny and me as runners up. The next Monday, it seemed like every girl in school knew my name and couldn’t wait to sit next to me in class or in the cafeteria.

“Hey, dial back the pheromones, asshole,” Johnny teased. “If you keep this up, there won’t be any pussy left for me.”

“Suck it up, has-been,” I retorted.

Our second game was an away game, which we also won quite handily, and this time, I was named the MVP. I felt that Johnny and I should have shared the honor, but I had to admit that the recognition was nice to have, and my parents were thrilled when they heard the news.

The front seats on the bus were usually accorded to the cheerleaders, so when I boarded for the return trip, I sat at the center of the bus, but when Johnny got on, he grabbed my arm and commanded, “With me.” He took me to the back row and shoved me to one side while he sat on the other. I questioned the move since the back rows were usually reserved for upper classmen, who claimed it as their “make-out territory.”

“Usually,” he confirmed, “but tonight you’re the MVP—” and before he could finish the sentence, two of the cheerleaders came between us and sat down. “Champ,” he continued, indicating the one sitting next to him, “this is Cindy, and this (indicating the one sitting next to me) is Debbie.”

The girls briefly flattered us on our performance—on the field, that is—but Johnny wasted no more time with the small talk, and I followed his lead. Back in Hawaii, the “college women” had been the aggressors, but this time, Johnny and I manned up and took the lead. The girls seemed to appreciate it because they responded accordingly.

For the first half hour, it was mostly kissing, including French kissing, and light fondling. Johnny did manage to get one hand inside of Cindy’s top while I only got far enough to squeeze Debbie’s breast through her uniform. I was actually surprised when Debbie began rubbing my crotch since I had not seen Cindy doing that to Johnny. At that point, all I could think of was how friggin’ impossible it was to undo my damn football pants. I thought for sure I was going to cum in them.

When we got back to school and hit the showers, Johnny proclaimed, “Debbie likes you. A lot!” And gazing at my schlong, he added, “I think she’s gonna like you a lot more pretty soon.”

The next day Mike, who had evidently heard the news of my MVP award from someone, called to congratulate me. That really thrilled me and built up my confidence even more.

For the rest of the season, home games alternated with away games, and on the way back from away games, we were joined at the back of the bus by different cheerleaders until we had gone through all of them, even the seniors. And then we started over again switching partners. On the weekends when we had home games, we hung out with other girls who were not on the cheerleading squad, but who, as Mike had put it, were “thrilled to get into our pants.”

One weekend late in September, we hooked up with two girls whose names I can’t even recall now. All I remember is that one was a redhead and the other one was a brunette, and they were both very pretty…and very eager to please. Oh, and they were seniors, and one of them had her own car. They took us to McKay Park, a popular spot for kids to go and make out, which is why they usually called it “Make Out Park.”

With Johnny in the front seat of the car, the brunette wasted no time pulling down his pants, and the redhead likewise freed my cock in record time. They were obviously experienced because the blow jobs they gave us were almost as good as the ones we had gotten from the Swedish students in Hawaii. When I heard Johnny gasp, “I’m coming, I’m coming,” I looked over the seat to see my buddy exploding into the brunette’s mouth. I felt so envious—not of Johnny, but of the brunette. I so wished that had been my mouth under assault with Johnny’s glorious nectar. Regardless, the sight nearly ignited my fuse, but the passion was dampened when his girl leaned out the window and spit out Jonny’s beautiful cum. I wanted to scream, “Noooooooooo! Give it to me. I’ll swallow it!” But it was too late.

Johnny cast that charming smile at me when he saw me watching his victory, and that was enough to send me off. This time, though, I prepared myself. I blew a huge load, and as soon as the redhead began to reach for the window, I grabbed her, pulled her toward me, and began French kissing her. I don’t know if she thought I was weird or just overly passionate and grateful for the blow job, but I didn’t care. I just couldn’t see another mouthful of cum go to waste.

I’ve never been one to kiss and tell, but I guess that can’t be said for those two girls because the following Monday, it seemed like every girl in school began asking me out.

 From the beginning of the season, we watched Mike play football on TV, which meant that we also watched his ads for Levi’s and Lexus. One of the Levi’s ads showed Mike putting on or taking off a pair of jeans. In both ads, his Andrew Christian briefs were clearly evident.

The Lexus campaign was built around the words Mike had used to describe the car—and himself. They interspersed clips of him playing football with scenes of him in various settings. One ad began with the camera focused in slow motion on the muscles in Mike’s bare upper arm as he was throwing a football. That was quickly followed by a clip of Mike’s cherry red sports car (or one just like it) accelerating from zero to 60 in less than 5 seconds. Then, the word “Power” flashed on the screen. In the second scene, Mike was shown running down the field, evading tacklers, and the word “Agility” popped up. Then we saw the Lexus racing down a highway, passing everything in sight, and the caption read simply, “Speed.” The final scene combined a clip of Mike crossing the goal line with a picture of the Lexus getting the checkered flag on a race track.

The second Lexus ad practically broke the Internet the next day. It showed Mike driving a black version of the same car up to a luxury hotel. (It had to be a Marriott because Mike had a separate contract with them.) He got out of the car wearing a tuxedo that fit him to a T and was approached by a gorgeous woman in a black evening gown. The caption read, “Classy.” Then the camera showed the woman slowly circling the car, tracing the lines with her finger until she reached Mike, and then rubbing her hands seductively down the lapels of his tux. The solo word at the end of the scene was “Style.” The final scene showed Mike walking out of the beautiful woman’s hotel room. She was now scantily clad in a sexy negligee, and Mike was dressed in his tuxedo with his shirt unbuttoned half way and his coat thrown over his shoulder. When he got back into the Lexus, the camera showed Mike smirking at himself in the mirror before speeding off. The caption read, “Performance.”

A third commercial used the words “pass,” “receive,” and “score.” I’ll just let your imagination run away with that one.

His print ads for Andrew Christian also began appearing in magazines such as Men’s Health, GQ, and Playboy, with the caption “They feel as good when you put them on, as when you take them off.”

The ads also appeared in women’s magazines such as Vogue, Allure, and Playgirl, with the suggestion that the underwear would make a rewarding Christmas present for that “special” occasion. The caption on some of them read, “Buy them for him, buy them for yourself.”

I asked Mike over the phone if his teammates were razzing him about the ads, and he said that some of the guys had clipped the ads out of magazines and taped them onto their lockers. “They’re just jealous,” he laughed, “because I’m getting all the girls.”

I mentioned the razzing to Johnny in the locker room one day and by the end of that week, every player on the team had posted one of Mike’s print ads inside his locker. Of course, most of them put up ads featuring Mike with the beautiful female models, and some posted ads with only Mike’s picture. Others created a collage, posting a large picture of Mike surrounded by smaller pictures from various magazines.

I don’t know if they did it because they all revered Mike almost as much as I did or if they did it to razz me. “That’s OK,” I told them. “The inside of my barn is wallpapered with pinups of your girlfriends and sisters.”