MARTY'S UNDERWEAR
by Zipper Bird <xgort@yahoo.com>

"Come here a minute you," he said, motioning frantically for me to come to
him. I remember the look of excitement in Marty's eyes as he called me
over, grinning, as if he'd discovered something spectacular, like a giant
golden nugget shining at the bottom of a stream. I was fourteen, a high
school freshman, and in Marty's gym class. He was my gym teacher, fresh out
of college, and there was something about him that made me want to make him
like me from the first day of class. I didn't know what it was at first. I
just liked everything about him, from his handsome face to his rich
masculine voice. He moved with the grace of a cat and just watching him
walk across the gym stirred me with an inchoate longing. After a month of
basketball in gym class -- where I was invariably one of the last picked
when teams were chosen, and spent the class on the sidelines talking about
things like the Hbomb with the brighter and less coordinated kids in the
class -- it was my chance to get Marty's attention.

I stood in front of him, in my basketball sneakers and regulation gym
clothes, panting and sweating, my slender body bent over gasping for air
from having just run four times around the track, a mile in all, in four
minutes, thirty-eight seconds. Marty stood staring at his stop watch and
then held it to his ear, clicking the start/stop button several times to
make sure it was working. Most of the class was well over a lap behind me,
including a few basketball jocks who had jeered me the week before for not
having come near the ball when I finally did make it on the court to play.

"What's your name?" Marty asked me, as if it were of vital importance.
"Larry, but my friends call me Lightning -- Light for short" I said, just
beginning to catch my breath. "Light, as in faster-than-the-speed-of," he
said, confirming the nickname I got in the neighborhood for being able to
outrun everybody, and the fact that I ran everywhere, even to the store.
"Come here Light" Marty said, as he stepped up to me and hugged my body to
his, the side of my face crushing against the metal whistle that hung on a
silver chain around his strong neck. He rubbed my hair vigorously, like I
was a fox terrier. I hated when my relatives did that but it was different
when Marty did it. I smelled his body, as my nose brushed against the black
hair on his chest which ran high up and shown at the open neck of his
shirt. "I'm going to make a star out of you," he said.

In Junior High, my parents didn't let me join the track team because they
said my metabolism was too high and that I wasn't eating enough to
compensate for it. If I burned off any more calories by running track, they
said, I'd weigh a hundred pounds when I graduated from high school. But,
they let me join the cross-country team in high school after I pleaded, and
Marty talked to my father on the phone. On the four days of the week I
trained, I did a lot less running around the neighborhood and I began to
put on some weight during an adolescent growth spurt that added several
inches and pounds to my then 5'4" ninety-five pound frame.

There were only five guys on the high school cross-country team. In
after-school practice, Marty ran along with us -- he'd been a miler in
college but told us he wasn't built for it, and had never been very good.
His legs were too muscular, he said. I thought his legs and his whole
muscular body were beautiful. Maybe he didn't have an ideal "runner's body"
but to me, it was an ideal body for a man. He showered with us after
work-outs and seemed self-conscious, but a little proud too, of being so
hairy. Even before I saw him in the shower for the first time, I remember
finding his crotch alluring, the way it strained at the fabric of his
shorts. It was an area of drama and mystery at the top of two strong, hairy
legs. In the shower, I noticed that it was his balls that were unusually
large, which accounted for its bulky appearance in his shorts. His dick was
of moderate proportion. What I liked most was the thick bush of public hair
that ran right up his chest. My own hair was just starting to come in, and
I prayed that I'd grow a quarter of what Marty had. I had daydreams about
Marty in his gym shorts, walking up to me, letting me feel his legs and
bury my face in his crotch.

There was a marked contrast in his personality during crosscountry practice
compared with the way he acted in gym class. He was much quieter on our
runs, preferring to enjoy the scenery, as he ran along with us, or give a
few individually tailored pointers on running style, and sometimes he
talked about running in a philosophical sense -- how it related to life.
Gym class required that he maintain discipline by adopting a military
demeanor, but you could tell he wasn't the kind of rigid person that gets
off on giving orders, and was doing it because the other teachers probably
told him it was the only way a teacher in his first year could act, unless
he wanted to be cannibalized by the students. After a few months I got to
know him well enough to tease him a little about his drill sergeant act in
gym class, not in front of other students of course. He took my jibes well.
Sometimes it was only a fleeting exchange of glances between us, an
understanding that people who are close to each other develop after a
while, but I could tell he liked me and understood me, even if I didn't
understand myself at the time.

Since there were only five guys on the cross-country team, Marty drove us
to out-of-town meets in his own car, an old '63 Pontiac GTO. I always sat
in front next to Marty, on the hump, because I was the smallest, but I
really liked sitting there just to be next to him. The sight of his hairy
muscular arms on the steering wheel gave me a sense of security. When we
went around curves, our sides and legs would often touch. This physical
contact, which he probably didn't even notice, was kindling the fires of a
passion like I've never known since. By my sophomore, I started jerking off
regularly and the only person I could think of was Marty. He was driving me
insane and if I hadn't had running to keep my emotions leveled out, I
probably would have killed myself or gone mad.

Marty was married. His wife came to some of the local meets, always
carrying a book with her to read. She wore thick glasses and looked
intellectual. She was an odd wife for a gym teacher, but Marty wasn't your
average gym teacher. He probably picked her because she had brains.

In my junior year, the State finals were held in Fredonia, a small town to
the south of Buffalo. I was the only guy from Vestal to qualify and Marty
called my parents about driving me to Fredonia, and spending a night over
in a hotel since the 5 hour drive back to Vestal would be too much to
repeat in one day. My father liked Marty a lot, and thought he was a good
influence on me. He used to say, "Marty is a real man's man."

I didn't fulfill the early promise I showed of becoming a star marathoner.
For one thing, I didn't have the drive to push myself to extremes in
training. Marty could see this. I enjoyed running and Marty was
instrumental in teaching me the ethic of running for fitness, both mental
and physical, not just to win. When I crossed the course finish line in 6th
place at the State finals in Fredonia, Marty put his arm around my shoulder
and said "Light, you did just fine, now lets go eat." I wonder if he knew
then, that his wisdom about not pushing me too early would one day pay off.
Three years later, I had another 6th place finish, in the Boston Marathon.

After taking a shower at the hosting high school, Marty drove us to a
diner. "You'll never guess what I majored in, at first, in college," he
said as he raised a fork full of salad to his open mouth, showing his
white, straight teeth. I assumed that he'd gone to college majoring in phys
ed and I couldn't even guess at anything else. "Philosophy!" he said,
laughing, "but then I switched to phys ed." He related the personal story
of his transmogrification from budding philosopher to jock, and then
sighed, and stared into space as he said something about having become a
philosophical athlete anyway, and that he was glad he spent his first two
years of college at Brockport outside the phys ed department. His talk
about college years received my rapt attention and he talked about other
personal things too, just as he would to a friend. It was the first time I
was with him completely alone, without other runners, and he seemed to like
being with me as much as I did him.

Twilight approached as we arrived back at the motel, The Bluebird, it was
called. The small room, which rented for $12 a night, featured a black
tiled bathroom and a B&W television with only one rabbit ear. However, it
was clean and to be with Marty alone anywhere, even in the city dump, would
be better than a suite at the Plaza with my family, as far as I was
concerned. As soon as we got back to the room, Marty put on his sweat pants
and headed out for a quick run and I turned on the TV to distract myself,
while awaiting his return. I couldn't very well go along with him since I'd
just finished a ten mile race. "Gilligan's Island" wasn't coming in very
well on the TV, with one of the rabbit ears missing, so after a few minutes
I turned it off and started pacing around the room. Marty's gym bag sat on
a chair near one of the beds, and on the back of the chair were his clothes
that he'd removed a few minutes before, before going out on his run. I
touched his red sport shirt, feeling under the arms which were slightly
moist, and then put my fingers to my nostrils to breathe in the aromatic
smell that was Marty. I picked up his brown leather belt, running my
fingers over its gold belt buckle, and then trying it on for size,
pretending it was Marty wrapped around me. On the floor, just hidden by the
bedspread, he'd tossed his dirty underwear when he changed into his jock
strap. There they were, white Fruit of the Looms, blue stripe on the waist
band. I picked them up like I was handling a sacred object. A few of
Marty's pubic hairs clung to the cotton inner pouch and I brought his
underwear to my face and breathed in deeply, trying to imagine his big
balls and warm genitals and that mass of thick dark hair caressing my face.
I wanted to jerk off right then with his underwear on my face, and I felt
that if I had a hundred dollars, and they were up for auction, I'd gladly
have paid that much for them. Since he said he was coming back in a few
minutes, I resisted the impulse to jerk off, but thought I had to keep them
as a souvenir, thinking Marty probably wouldn't even miss them, reasoning
that he was careless enough to toss them under his bed in the first place.
At the same time, I was feeling perverted for stealing his underwear, but I
took the chance. I put them in my gym bag, wrapping them inside one of the
extra Tshirts my mother packed.

I turned the TV back on and pretended to be absorbed in "Gilligan's Island"
when he came back in the room and headed for the bathroom to take a shower.
The door to the bathroom opened and the whole room filled with the warm
steamy smell of Marty. He emerged, a white towel wrapped around his waist,
and stood at the bathroom door with his hand on his hip, his eyebrows
furrowed in thought. First he moved toward the chair beside his bed then
looked around on the floor. He said "You know, that's funny, I forgot to
bring a clean pair of underwear, and I can't seem to find the pair I took
off before I went running." I tried to look casual but I felt as though I
were strapped in an electric chair and the switch was about to be thrown.
He got down on his hands and knees and started looking under the bed. I
grabbed my gym bag and headed into the bathroom quickly, shutting the door
behind me. After flushing the toilet, having pretended I urinated, I came
out holding his underwear in my hand and tossed them to him, trying to
control my voice as I said "here they are, you must've left them in the
bathroom."

He smiled and put them on. I turned the TV to an even fuzzier channel and
noticed that Marty was not getting dressed further, he just sat in his
underwear as if in deep thought over something. Finally he said "you took
my underwear didn't you," in a flat voice, and I looked at him in mock
surprise, trying to act as though the accusation was outrageous. I knew I
couldn't lie. He'd figured it out some how and there was no use lying.
After a pause I said "yes," as the skin on my face turned into a burning
blush. He could see that I was embarrassed and he didn't want to prolong my
agony. "Well, it's one mystery you won't see solved on Perry Mason, The
Case of the Missing Underwear," he said, laughing lightly. I was slightly
relieved to see he was reacting well but still felt like the switch had
been thrown on my electric chair. He acted like he was almost pleased, but
with ten thousand volts of electricity coursing through my body, I was
hardly aware of his reaction.

Marty jumped up from his bed, turned off the TV, and stood facing me
wearing only his underwear. I couldn't look at his face. I turned my head
to the side and looked down at the bed. "Aw, come on Light, it's no big
thing" he said as I felt his big paw on my shoulder. "If it matters to you,
I feel the same way about you" he said in a softer voice, in a manner that
allowed me to look up at him. I felt that I might be dead or dreaming, but
the look in his eyes told me he meant what he said and that he was really
there. Tears came pouring silently out of my eyes. "Aw, come on Light,
don't cry" he said softly, as he drew me into his arms and put his face
right up to mine, and licked at my tears with his tongue, like a dog might.
Dreamlike, I opened my mouth and kissed him, sucking at his mouth like it
was a nipple. I could feel his hardon pressing on my leg as we lay back on
the bed, and my own cock sprang to attention with a consuming lust. He
kissed and licked me all over, as he undressed me and took off his
underwear. As he bent his knees, I put my face in his thick public hair and
breathed in, while feeling with my hands around his chest and thighs. I let
my lips touch his balls and then tasted them, licking them slowly as I let
my tongue glide up the shaft of his hard dick. As I took his knob into my
mouth he moaned with pleasure and positioned me so we could both suck at
the same time. I came once, and during the next few hours, came four more
times, each time as intense as the previous one. Being initiated into sex
this way cast away all previous doubts I had about my sexual orientation.

From the exhaustion of sex and running, we fell asleep in each other's
arms, and I woke up to see him propped on one elbow, his face a few inches
from my own. "Did I ever tell you, you are beautiful" he said, as he
touched my forehead and played with a shock of hair that always managed to
stand on end. His comment about my beauty sounds cliche now, but even the
most hackneyed phrase can take on extraordinary dimensions when said with
sincerity. What I just wrote about hackneyed phrases taking on
extraordinary dimensions may sound cliche but what's new under the sun when
it comes to the nature of human experience anyway.

We made love again, and headed for breakfast. When we got back to the room,
we gathered our things together and I took a long look at the bed where
"it" happened, and shut the door. Sliding into the front seat of his car,
he handed me a small brown bag. "Here's a present for you to remember our
trip by." Inside were his underwear, the one and only pair used to wipe his
semen off me the night before. "If it hadn't been for these, we might have
never found each other" he said, as he pulled the car out of the motel lot.

THE END