Date: Thu, 16 Nov 2023 18:16:17 -0500
From: rassleboy54@gmail.com
Subject: Sophomore Year 1

Sophomore Year 1

Early in my sophomore year at college I needed to find another place to
live. The week before, in a hurry and against my better judgement I had
taken a room in this old lady's house, and it was clearly not working
out. She was used to renting to girls and I was the first guy she'd had as
a boarder. Even though I tried to get on her good side, nothing I did
seemed right, and she did nothing to make me feel at home.

She told me not to use the kitchen or come out of my room unless I was
fully dressed (not even in a bathrobe!).  She even made me use the bathroom
in the basement. Things came to a head the first Sunday I was there, when I
didn't get up to go to church. When I told her I wasn't a churchgoer she
nearly blew a gasket. She basically said she wanted me out, so Monday
morning I packed up my stuff, threw it in the back of my old Plymouth, and
headed off to see what I might find.

This was in the old days before the internet and cell phones. Back then,
the fastest way to find a place was the campus housing office where they
posted ads on a bulletin board out in the hallway. It was early in the
school year. Classes had just started two weeks before, so there were still
a good number of vacancies posted. I skipped past the ads for unfurnished
apartments since everything I owned basically fit in a large backpack.  I
also skipped the ones where two or more guys were already sharing a
place. The last part of freshman year I briefly took a room with a bunch of
rowdy "bros" and being shy myself, the teasing and horseplay just got to be
too much.

One ad caught my attention. In the section "Furnished Room/Male," it read:
"Son off to college. Single room in house on quiet street w/ dad and
younger son. Full gym, backyard hoops and hot tub, backs up to Forest Park
trails. Great for athletes. Ex-Navy dad runs tight ship. No drugs, no pets,
no deadbeats. New recruit takes on AWOL son's swab work.  Report for duty
at 904 Parkside Dr."

Under other circumstances, I might have been put off by the macho military
tone of the ad.  I mean, I did like sports alright. I'd played a few in
high school—mostly track--and liked to watch some sports on TV. But like
I said, I was a pretty timid kid and loud, aggressive guys made me
nervous. That's why I never tried out for most team sports.

The idea of this ex-military dad barking at me was a little scary, although
at the same time, it would be familiar, like the dynamic I'd had with a lot
of coaches: a little stressful but survivable. And this offered the polar
opposite of my current predicament. It would be sweet revenge to escape the
suffocating pink ruffles for the relative freedom of a male authority
figure.

Despite my mixed feelings, I copied down the address and that afternoon
drove over with all my worldly possessions in the back seat. I pulled up in
front of a medium-size split level house on a dead-end street, or what a
real estate agent would call a cul-de-sac. As I turned off the engine, I
cracked the car window and was hit by the smell of cut grass. Summer
lingered in the humid September air. Stepping to the curb I saw the
clippings and velvety surface of a freshly mown lawn.

"Nice start" I thought.  I started towards the front door but then heard
sounds of activity from around the right side of the house. A shared
driveway wrapped around to the garage before curving off to the much bigger
house next door. The garage door was open so as I approached, I could see
garden tools and wooden doors neatly stacked against the back wall.  When I
reached the garage entrance, I was stopped in my tracks by an amazing
sight.

In the center of a golden beam of sunlight pouring through a high window,
like a spotlight on a stage, stood a man, his back to me, bent over the
engine compartment of an old Mustang.  Country music blared on a staticky
radio drowning out any sound of my approach. Like a classic painting come
to life or an old black and white movie, the sight transported me to some
other time and place.

Riveted to the scene, I noticed his grey shorts, what they used to call PT
shorts in the military, like old school gym shorts, and his worn-out wife
beater. Both looked damp with sweat and streaked here and there with grass
stains. A lawn mower sat cooling just outside the garage.

I could see he was burly and solid and sported a flat top.  His posture
conveyed self-confidence. I usually found this kind of guy totally
intimidating. You see, I `d grown up without a dad or older brother
around. There was an uncle for a while that I was crazy about—to the
point of hero worship, but before long he was gone too. This man reminded
me a bit of my uncle but more of the high school coaches who had yelled at
me in PE class and on sports teams making me weak in the knees.

I felt an urge to turn around and sneak away; to leave and never come
back. But then, as he worked on the car, his shirt lifted, and I could see
the waistband of a jockstrap peeking above the back of his shorts,
ochre-colored in the setting sunlight.  I wasn't sure why, but the sudden
sight of the jockstrap brought back a flood of feelings from my times in
locker rooms and track meets.

As he hovered over the engine, jiggling and twisting various parts, the
muscles of his back and butt and legs shifted and flexed. I found myself
staring and able to detect the path of the twin straps of the jock under
the flimsy grey fabric of his shorts. My previous thoughts of sneaking away
evaporated as I stood there mesmerized, not moving for what seemed like an
hour.

Suddenly, the radio popped and went silent.  The man shouted a curse and I
jumped, stumbling into the workbench behind me. He turned his head to look
in my direction without moving from under the hood.

In a flash, I imagined him standing up, yelling at me, demanding to know
how dare I invade his privacy with my insolent gaze and then chasing me out
to the street. At that moment, I wished I had snuck away after all.

Instead, he calmly pointed to the bench behind me and said, "Bring me that
screwdriver, will ya?" Then he turned back to the engine, the thin fabric
of the shorts still revealing the outline of the jockstrap across his
glutes.

I walked the screwdriver over to him and placed it gingerly in his
outstretched hand before stepping back.

"You here about the room?" he grunted while straining to loosen or tighten
something I couldn't see.

"S-sir..." I started out, planning to quickly introduce myself and explain
my situation. But my acute shyness was compounded by his intimidating
presence, and I could only manage "Y-y-yessir."

Once again, I regretted not leaving unnoticed when I had the chance. He
slowly stood and turned to face me, raising the torn hem of the thin wife
beater to wipe the sweat from his face. I reflexively glanced down at his
exposed stomach and the trail of hair descending to the front of his shorts
and was glued to the spot.

He looked me over and a sly smile crept across his face. "Sir, yes sir?" He
repeated my words with amusement. "You reportin' for duty, sailor?" he
gently mocked.

"Y-yessir. I mean, no sir. I mean..." I felt like an idiot as he smiled at
my befuddlement.

He then sauntered around to the side of car and lowered himself to the
ground. "You know anything about cars, sailor?" he asked.

"A little, sir."

"Can you tell a wrench from a pair of pliers?"  He lay back on a small,
wheeled roller and pulled himself under the car, his head and upper torso
disappearing. His right hand opened as he called "Ya wanna hand me those
pliers at your feet, sailor?"

I looked down and saw blue-handled pliers in an old metal toolbox. I picked
them up and walked over to squat beside his legs and placed them in his
hand. "Now's my chance to escape" I thought, "while he's under the car."

"Stay there a second, sailor" he commanded, as though reading my mind.  I
found myself staring transfixed at the frayed grey shorts just feet from my
eyes. At this close range a strong scent reached me, sweat mixed with grass
mixed with...what I wasn't sure.

"You a student, sailor?" he asked.

"Yessir."

He planted his feet wider apart on the garage floor and lifted his hips,
straining to loosen something with the pliers.

"Smoke?" he grunted.

"No, sir."

"Drink?

"No, sir," as I noticed the leg of his shorts gaping open, exposing the
textured pouch of the jockstrap inside. It looked about as sweaty and
stained as the shorts and wife beater.

"Take drugs?"

"No, sir!" I whispered hoarsely as I realized a bit of his ball sack had
slipped out the side of the pouch.  I gazed at this sight, like a secret
wonder magically revealed to me.

 "Work?"

 "Restaurant in town, sir," my mouth had gone dry, and I tried to swallow.

"Wrench" he called, laying the pliers on his crotch, and holding out an
open hand smudged with grease. I placed the wrench carefully, handle first,
and it disappeared under the car.

"Girlfriend?" He grunted as he strained some more.

"No, sir!" I stared at the pliers, noting where they rested on the various
mounds and contours of the shabby fabric.

"Ever get a girl pregnant, sailor?"

"No, sir!" I almost shouted at this shocking question, my voice
breaking. Even though I was almost nineteen, my voice still cracked when I
got excited or nervous, swooping up in pitch like a girl's.  It embarrassed
the crap out of me.

"You sure about that, sailor?  You're soundin' kinda nervous there. You one
of them Casanovas?"

I croaked, "No, sir!  I swear! I never even..." Then stopped, mortified at
what I was about to say, not wanting to sound like the naive kid I still
was. Again, I felt the urge to escape and never return.

"Never even..." he chuckled as he echoed my words. "Sounds like we got us a
real choirboy on our hands here" he muttered, half to himself. After a
brief pause, he asked, "So, why you looking for a room, sailor? Last place
kick you out?"

"Kind of, sir."

"Kind of? Sounds like there's a story here. OK, sailor, let's hear it."

"Well, sir, last week I took a room with this old lady who normally just
rents to girls. I was the first guy and it was a big mistake. She didn't
like having me around.  Not `cause I did anything wrong, she just didn't
like that I was a guy, like I was dirty or something. She wanted me to stay
in my room—with the door closed—and I couldn't come out unless I was
fully dressed. She didn't even want me using her washing machine. When I
didn't go to church yesterday, she said that was the last straw. "

"I see. Too much sailor and not enough choirboy," he chuckled. "Well, that
lady is surely free to run her house any way she chooses, but I can't
stomach making a boy hide his being a man. Fellah your age is full of
hormones and needs to give `em room to run, not coop `em up inside."

I wasn't exactly sure what to make of his words, but I knew I liked the
sound of them and sensed I'd be thinking them over for a while to come.

"So, you play any sports, sailor?"

"Some, sir.  Track and swim teams in high school.  Wrestled a bit.  Mostly
cycle now. "

"Hmmm." he pondered for a moment. "Sprinter?"

"Cross-country was my specialty, sir."

"Your specialty," he repeated, as if slightly amused by the
expression. Then he called, "Where those pliers?" and I panicked, wondering
if I should pick them up, possibly, probably touching some part of his
intimate anatomy, paralyzed at the thought. My heart pounded in my ears.

Finally I stammered, "Uh, they're, uh, right there, sir, on your, uh..."
and as though he finally remembered, he reached down to grab them. He
paused long enough to wipe a finger up the leg of his shorts, tucking the
errant fold of his nut sack back into the pouch and leaving a faint smudge
on the fabric. I stared, again unable to swallow.

After a few moments, he grunted and rolled himself out from under the car.
Standing up, he dusted his hands off on his old torn shirt and looked me in
the eye.  "So, you a Boy Scout or altar boy or something, sailor?"

"Well, sir, I used to be. Both. But not anymore. That stuff's for kids." I
tried to sound gruff.

"For kids, huh?" He seemed amused.  "And you're all grown up now, is that
it, sailor? You a man now?" I could tell he was teasing me and fought the
urge to turn and run.

"Y-yessir, I mean, no sir, I mean..." I was befuddled and at a loss for
words.  The sight and smell of this man so close, the warmth and vague
sense of menace, filled up my senses.

He chuckled softly and went as though to put a hand on my shoulder, then
paused, noticing the smudge on his fingers. Instead he tutted, "At ease
there, sailor, at ease. You seem like a good kid, you really do, just a
little wet behind the ears. Thing is, I really was a sailor and I still
cuss like one. I never went to college. I got guys comin' over to work out
and then drink beer, shoot pool, play poker, look at titty magazines and
let off a little steam. This place gets rowdy like a locker room after a
big game. And I need a boy can give me a hand with all that. You think you
could handle that, sailor boy?"

"Yessir!" I blurted, my heart racing at the picture his words were painting
in my mind, a picture I suddenly wanted to take part in.  "I'm real handy
and I know how to cook, sir."

"Is that right? What's something you can cook that a pack of hungry poker
players might like?"

"Chili is one of my specialties, sir."

"Specialty, huh?  Well, that does sound like something the fellahs would go
for."  Then his tone shifted.  "One more thing: there's rules to livin'
here, sailor, and the devil to pay for breakin `em. I am fair but I am
strict, and I don' put up with bullshit. I can have you over my knee in two
seconds and don't think I won't.  But you don't seem much like a rule
breaker now, do ya?"

"Yessir! I mean, no, sir!"

He laughed.  "Well, ok then, sailor.  If you'll roll that mower back into
the corner there, I'll put these tools away. Then we'll head inside, and
I'll show you around and we can decide if you are the boy for that
room. I'm Buck by the way. At least that's what they call me."