Disclaimer: This story contains graphic depictions of sex between males over the age of majority. The characters described in this story are fictional, but the locations are not. The author claims no connection to the University of Alabama or Alabama Athletics.
This is copyrighted material that may not be copied or distributed without permission.
Chapter 1: Crimson Pride
I grew up with money, surrounded by kids who had even more. But none of them knew what I kept hidden in my top drawer.
In Mountain Brook, Alabama, wealth wasn’t what defined you; it was just the air you breathed. What defined you was your last name, your family’s view from a Bryant-Denny Stadium skybox, and the unspoken understanding of what was and wasn’t done.
My name is Wyatt Jefferson Briggs. My grandfather built an empire selling pickup trucks to men who showered after work, and my father perfected the art of sponsoring their sons’ football scholarships. We were patrons of the game, admirers from a comfortable distance. We wrote checks to the booster club, clapped politely from the climate-controlled box, and never, ever got grass stains on our khakis, even at the country club.
Athletics, to my family, were a spectacle to be consumed, not a pursuit to be undertaken. They were for the talented, the driven, the others, worthy of our financial support, but not their son’s participation. I was steered toward debate club, toward legacy interviews, toward a future in the family business where the only sweat came from a tight negotiation over a fleet sale.
But no one could steer my eyes.
I learned the geometry of desire in the hallways of Mountain Brook High. It was the way a linebacker’s Nike Pro shorts clung to his powerful thighs as he strode around the locker room. It was the sharp, clean lines of a wrestler’s singlet, a second skin stretched over a frame of coiled intensity. It was the gold and green uniform of the Spartans, a tribe I was taught to observe but never join. For me, spandex wasn’t just fabric; it was a language of power, grace, and raw physicality: a language I was forbidden to speak.
I harbored this secret hunger through high school, a silent spectator to a world that thrummed with an energy I craved. I learned to navigate the social strata of the SEC-obsessed South. I wore the right polos. My family knew the right people and secured my legacy ticket to the University of Alabama with ease. On the surface, I was Wyatt Briggs, a favored son of Mountain Brook, a soon-to-be fraternity man, a perfect product of my environment.
But underneath my pressed shirt and broken-in boat shoes, a secret waited. A drawerful of skin-tight compression shorts and shirts, bought at Dick’s Sporting Goods and hidden away in my walk-in closet, their embrace a guilty echo of the world I watched from the sidelines.
Now, as I unpack in my Riverside dorm in Tuscaloosa, the air lingering with the promise of frat parties and football glory, I’m surrounded by the very gods I used to worship from afar. They’re everywhere here, in the dining hall, in the gym, living right down the road. And for the first time in my life, the glass box of my privileged upbringing has a door.
The memory doesn’t just surface; it ambushes me, triggered by the familiar scent of chlorine and fresh-cut grass wafting through my open dorm window. It was a smell that always took me back to Alabama in the spring, and to a specific, heart-hammering afternoon in the locker room of Mountain Brook High.
I was fifteen. The space was thick with the steam of showers and the cacophony of slamming lockers, shouted weekend plans, and the low thrum of testosterone. I, feeling pale and slight next to the sun-browned, developed bodies around me, hurried to pull my polo over my damp skin. My eyes, as they often did, strayed.
They landed on Marcus, a junior on the varsity football team. Marcus was all easy confidence and sculpted muscle, laughing with a classmate as he peeled off his compression shirt. But it was what he did next that seared the moment into my brain. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweaty mesh shorts and pushed them down in one smooth motion.
Underneath, he wore a pair of black Under Armour compression shorts. They were slick with sweat, clinging to every contour of his powerful thighs and the solid, rounded curve of his ass. The fabric seemed to amplify his form, making him look both incredibly strong and strangely vulnerable. My lungs took in a sharp inhale. I watched, mesmerized, as the material stretched and shifted with his every movement. It wasn’t just attraction; it was a profound, aching envy. I wanted to look like that. I wanted to feel what it was like to be encased in that second skin.
That was the catalyst.
Later that week, my heart pounding with a mixture of guilt and thrilling defiance, I used the Amazon Echo in the kitchen to order my own. My fingers flew over the screen, a frantic search for my own secret key to that world: Men’s Under Armour Compression Shorts, White, Medium. To cover my tracks, I instantly deleted it from the recent history.
When the white and blue bubble mailer arrived, I smuggled it up to my room like contraband. I locked my bedroom door, the click of the bolt sounding impossibly loud in the quiet house. With trembling hands, I tore the package open.
The fabric was cool and smooth. I stepped into them, the material resisting for a moment before I shimmied them up over my naked hips. They settled into place with a firm, full-body hug.
I turned to face my full-length mirror, and my jaw went slack.
The teen staring back wasn’t the scrawny, country-club kid I was used to seeing. The stark white fabric, shockingly bright against my skin, sculpted me. It smoothed the lines of my thighs, flattened my stomach, and did something miraculous to my backside.
I turned slightly, looking over my shoulder at the reflection.
My ass.
It looked… good. Better than good. The white compression fabric lifted and shaped what I didn't even know I had, creating two perfect, tight curves. I wasn’t a Spartan like Marcus, not even close. At fifteen, I was still 5'6”, with a lean, almost twinkish frame, a head of unruly blonde curls, and a face that my mother said was "all-American" but really just screamed prep school. I was the picture of youthful privilege. But in that moment, in that forbidden white spandex, I saw a glimpse of someone else. Someone powerful. Someone desired: someone who belonged to the world I watched from the bleachers.
A flush crept up my neck. I ran my hands over the slick fabric hugging my hips, a startling new truth igniting in my veins. It was a secret. It was mine. And in the silent, locked privacy of my bedroom, a hunger was born—one that was finally, three years later, ready to be fed.
The memory began to dissolve, the phantom feel of that white spandex fading as my phone vibrated on the desk, skittering towards a still shrink-wrapped textbook. The screen flashed: Mom.
Of course. Friday morning. She’d be at the country club, post-spin class, a mimosa in hand, checking the one item off her daily to-do list: ‘Call Wyatt.’
I took a steadying breath, smoothed a hand over my polo, and answered, angling the camera up to avoid showing the chaos of my unpacked boxes and totes.
“Hey, Mom.”
The screen filled with the familiar backdrop of the Mountain Brook Club veranda, wicker furniture, and perfectly manicured greens behind her. She was dressed in pristine white tennis attire, her blonde hair sleek and perfect. “Wyatt, honey! I just had a showing fall through; some people have no respect for a weekend, I swear, and it gave me a moment to think. You’re not feeling lonely, are you? It was so quiet in the house after we left you yesterday.”
Her voice was all syrupy Southern concern, laced with the unshakable belief that her 18-year-old son couldn’t possibly function without her. The mention of the "showing" was pure performance. Her real estate career was a hobby, something to list at the bottom of her charity board bios. She sold three or four multi-million dollar listings a year, just enough to keep her name on the letterhead, but never enough to actually interfere with her tennis schedule.
“I’m good, Mom. Seriously. It’s not quiet here at all.” I forced an easy smile, the one I’d perfected for these performances. “Actually, Caroline’s already here. She’s over in Ridgecrest. We’re gonna grab lunch later.”
It was a lie so effortless it was almost true. Caroline and I were still a thing. She was here on campus. That was enough.
Caroline was my shield. We’d gone to homecoming and prom together, her in a couture dress, me in a tuxedo that cost more than the down payment on a car. We’d looked perfect in the pictures that now sat on my mother’s mantel. She was sweet, she came from the right old-money family, and she never questioned why my kisses were always politely brief, why my hands never wandered. I think she knew, on some level, that we were both playing a part. It was a dance I’d mastered ever since that day in the locker room sealed a truth about myself I dared not speak.
"Oh, Caroline! What a darling girl,” Mom cooed, her face brightening. Her family owned a quarter of the timber in the state, for heaven's sake. Suitable. “I’m so glad you have a friendly face. Now, you’re sure you didn’t forget anything? Your father said to tell you we can Uber anything you need right over. It’s only an hour away.”
The privilege of the offer was so casual it was laughable. Just Uber a forgotten bottle of mouthwash an hour away. My eyes flickered to the top drawer of my dresser, where I’d already carefully folded and hidden my collection of compression shorts, black, navy, and, of course, white. The one thing I truly needed here, I’d already procured myself.
“I’m all set, Mom. Promise. I’ve gotta run, though. They’re doing some orientation thing for the building soon.”
Another lie, smooth as silk.
“Alright, sweetheart. I should probably run too, see if that other couple is serious about the Colonial on Overbrook. We’re so proud of you! Make good choices! Love you!”
“Love you too, Mama. Bye.”
The screen went black. The silence in my dorm room felt heavier now, the humid Alabama air pressing in. The call had successfully shattered the spell of the memory, but it left a different kind of residue: the faint pressure of the box I was still expected to live in, even from fifty miles away.
I looked away from my phone, my gaze drifting back to the window, to the stream of students below. The gods were still out there, moving between the buildings in their workout gear, their athletic shorts, their own versions of a second skin.
Almost without thinking, I slid open the top drawer of my dresser.
There they were. Folded in a neat, guilty stack: black, navy, and one pair of stark white compression shorts. The fabric almost gleamed in the midday light, smooth and perfect, a second skin waiting. My fingers hovered above them, itching to feel that familiar grip, that secret armor.
Bloop.
The sound hit the quiet like a gunshot. Grindr.
I snatched my phone up, pulse racing. A new message lit the screen, blunt and merciless: “Damn, nice ass in those Nike Pros boy. Where u at?”
The photo he was talking about, the one I’d taken in my bathroom at home, faceless, just me in black Nike Pro shorts, flashed in my head. I cleared the notification and silenced my phone before I could think too hard, shoving it deep into my pocket.
Then at the door: KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
“Hey, Wyatt? It’s Adam, your RA. Just wanted to check in.”
The phone buzzed again, and I froze, staring at the door.
Another knock. “You there?”
I slammed the drawer shut like it was incriminating evidence. Then I plastered on my best country club smile and opened the door.
Adam stood there barefoot in board shorts and a long-sleeve Nike crimson Alabama swim team tee, blonde hair still damp and messy like he’d just climbed out of the pool. His blue eyes were so bright they almost startled me. He grinned, easy and open, like he already knew me.
“Wyatt Briggs,” he said, almost like a joke. “Yeah, they told me about you and your family.”
The phone buzzed again in my pocket, a treacherous and insistent sound.
“You settling in okay?” he asked, stepping past me into the room before I could answer.
“Yeah, uh, yeah,” I stammered, the vibration against my thigh feeling like a live wire. I shifted my weight, pressing my leg hard against the desk to muffle the treasonous buzz, my pulse spiking in my throat.
Adam glanced around, taking in the half-unpacked boxes, the neatly folded polos on my bed, and the unopened textbooks stacked on the desk. He had the relaxed air of someone who lived in dorms long enough to smell when something was off.
“Looks like you’ve still got some work to do,” he said, wandering closer to the dresser. His hand brushed against a pack of brand-new crew socks sitting on top, just inches from the drawer that hid my contraband.
My chest tightened. If he pulled it open, if he saw the neatly stacked compression shorts, my collection of secret layers…..
“Yeah,” I cut in too quickly, moving between him and the dresser like a bouncer. “Still need to hang up my Roll Tide flag, too. Can’t have a room at Bama without one, right?”
Adam chuckled, tilting his head at me. His eyes sparkled with something between amusement and curiosity. “Yeah, that’s basically an expellable offense around here. You’ll have to fix that before gameday.”
Another vibration in my pocket. Louder this time. I pressed my hand casually against my hip, trying to turn off my phone completely, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
Adam’s eyes flicked down, just for a second. I couldn’t tell if he’d heard or if he was just noticing how stiffly I stood. Either way, his grin widened, and he stepped back toward the door.
“Alright, Briggs. Good to finally meet the legend behind the name. Just try not to make my job too hard this year, okay?”
“Yeah,” I breathed out, forcing a laugh. “Of course.”
He gave me a little salute, bare feet slapping against the hallway tile as he disappeared.
The second the door shut, I collapsed back against it, dragging the phone out of my pocket. Three unread Grindr messages lit up the screen, the last one bold and impatient: “So can you host or what? Let’s see you without those shorts.”
I killed the screen before the words could sink any deeper. My reflection in the black glass was enough: flushed cheeks, curls sticking to my forehead, that country club smile stretched too tight.
“Legend,” Adam had called me.
He’d said it like a joke, like I was some caricature he’d already been warned about, Wyatt Briggs, Mountain Brook golden boy, legacy admission, Delta Kappa Epsilon material. And the worst part was, he wasn’t wrong. That was the role I’d been groomed for, pressed and polished until it gleamed.
But legends didn’t keep a drawer full of spandex secrets when they never played any sport. Legends didn’t almost out themselves to their RA on move-in day.
I shoved the phone back into my shorts, crossed the room, and yanked open the drawer again. The neat stack was still there, untouched, perfectly folded. I let my hand hover above it, fingers brushing the cool fabric of the top pair. The want was sharp, immediate, but so was the fear.
One wrong move, Adam doubling back, Caroline walking in, hell, even mom or dad deciding to “just swing by Tuscaloosa”, and it would all come crashing down.
The phone buzzed again. I didn’t even look this time. I slammed the drawer shut and dragged a hand down my face.
Enough.
I needed air, normalcy, the kind of cover story you couldn’t buy but could always borrow.
Caroline.
I thumbed out a quick text. Still good for lunch? and tossed the phone onto the desk before it could distract me again. My stomach was tight, nerves coiling like springs, but at least with her, I knew the choreography. Boyfriend. Girlfriend. Legacy kids from Mountain Brook High trying to keep up with appearances.
After she agreed, I left the dorm like I was escaping, the heavy door swinging shut behind me, sealing away the top drawer and its secrets. The August heat hit like a slap, thick, humid, carrying the faint scent of fried food from the dining hall mixed with cut grass from the practice fields.
Caroline was already waiting at the strip of restaurants just on University Blvd., perched at an outdoor table under a crimson umbrella. She looked exactly as she always did: perfect hair, sundress that probably cost more than some kids’ first car, a delicate gold cross necklace catching the light. When she spotted me, her smile spread wide, warm and effortless.
“Wyatt!” she called, standing to kiss me on the cheek.
I smiled back, reflex more than choice, and slid into the chair across from her.
“You look like you’ve already settled in,” she said, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Riverside in a one-bedroom, right? Figures.”
“Yeah,” I said, forcing a laugh. “My parents weren’t going to make me slum it.”
She rolled her eyes playfully. “Neither were mine. Ridgecrest. Dad said the other dorms weren’t suitable for a Carraway.’”
It was familiar banter, the Mountain Brook version of complaining. We traded lines the way our parents traded cocktail party pleasantries.
But even as she talked, my attention drifted. A group of guys passed by on the sidewalk, crimson duffel bags slung over their shoulders, club soccer players.
Their shorts were shorter than football players' pants, riding high on lean, tanned thighs, interrupted by white and black compression shorts. Sweat glistened on their calves, their socks rolled down, and their jerseys clinging to their backs. They laughed with each other in easy camaraderie, nudging shoulders, spinning a ball between them.
My pulse jumped. I tried to snap my gaze back to Caroline, but not before one of them, tall, dark hair plastered back from practice, caught me looking. He held my eyes for a second longer than I felt safe. Then he grinned and jogged ahead to rejoin his teammates.
Caroline was still talking, her voice smooth and practiced, but I’d lost the thread completely. Something about her next-door roommate already being in a sorority house.
I nodded, made a sound of agreement, and reached for my water. My hand shook just enough that the ice clinked against the glass.
“Wyatt, babe?” she asked, tilting her head. “You ok?”
I plastered on my practiced smile again. “Yeah, just… still getting used to being here.”
My phone buzzed again, a black stab of anxiety. I didn’t need to look to know what it was.
I shoved it deeper into my khaki shorts, forcing my leg against the table so it wouldn’t cross me again.
Caroline reached across the table, resting her hand lightly over mine. “You’ll be fine,” she said with easy certainty. “This place is made for people like us.”
Her grip was soft, reassuring, but all I could think about was the soccer player’s grin, the bead of sweat rolling down his neck, the words still waiting in my pocket.
Lunch with Caroline ended the way it always did: two legacy kids smiling for the performance, polished silverware scraping plates we didn’t really need to order, and a goodbye kiss that was sweet but hollow.
Back at my dorm, I tossed my keys on the desk, shut the blinds, and opened Grindr.
The inbox was chaos. A grid of torsos, bathroom mirrors, and blurry hotel beds. The messages were blunt, merciless: u host?, dl?, sup. My thumb kept moving, skimming past them, my pulse racing like I was standing on the edge of a cliff.
And then I stopped.
“Bham196.”
Not just another torso. He wore a black Under Armour compression shirt, stretched across a chest that was lean but cut, abs knifing down to where the frame cut off. The photo wasn’t casual; it was confident. Intentional.
I tapped.
Hey. Nice shirt.
A pause. Then: thanks. wyyl?
My hand hovered. I’d sworn I wouldn’t do this, not with my face. Not in Tuscaloosa. But adrenaline surged, reckless and unstoppable. I snapped a quick selfie: me on my bed, crimson polo still on, curls messy, lips caught in half a smirk, and sent it before I could think better of it.
The reply came fast. Bama? cool. im just down the road. at samford.
The word slammed into me like a lineman into a blocking sled. Samford.
Not just “down the road.” Fifteen minutes from Mountain Brook. The Christian university with its manicured lawns and chapel bells. I could picture those students: clean-cut, polite, hiding their secrets under pressed khakis and the smiles of church youth groups.
And now, one of them was looking at me.
Yeah, freshman, I typed back, fingers stiff.
The dots blinked. Then: damn, cutie. you free this weekend?
My stomach dropped. My chest burned. I should’ve said no. I should’ve thrown the phone across the room, blocked him, and deleted the app. But the words that came from my fingers were:
Yeah. Let’s figure it out.
Perfect. I’ll message you.
And just like that, the chat went dark. His photo hovered at the top of the screen: sharp abs, sweat, black compression clinging to him like a secret uniform.
I locked my phone and set it down, staring at my own reflection in the black glass. Curls damp with sweat, cheeks still pink, mouth caught between a smile and a grimace.
That’s when it hit me.
I’d just agreed to meet up with a stranger from a Christian university back home. Someone who probably drove past my parents’ house on Mountain Brook Parkway just to gawk at wealth. Someone who lived in the very conservative bubble I was trying to escape.
And I hadn’t even asked his name.
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