Date: Fri, 8 Dec 2023 16:20:00 -0500 From: Sophomore Hank Subject: Sophomore Year 6 Sophomore Year 6 This is the sixth of a multipart story about my year boarding with a single dad and his two sons. It was a time of highly charged eroticism more than explicit sex and led me to discover a lot about myself. This story is a slow burner, taking its time to set the stage and to draw out the characters and their dynamic. In this chapter, Hank learns more about how Buck runs his basement gym. This is my first submission to Nifty, so your patience is appreciated. Send your thoughts and reactions in an email, I attempt to respond to all. Many thanks to those who sent words of encouragement. And remember - nifty depends on donations! Let's help it survive and thrive! Contribute if you can at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html Sophomore Year 6 "So, as I was saying," Buck explained, "I train guys—my buddies—here, both one-on-one and in groups. They come to work out in a friendly place where they can just totally relax, and they stay because they get addicted to the total guy vibe where they can just be themselves without anybody giving `em shit. That's what I promote here." "Example," stepping over the benches, he gestured at the lockers. "Only about half of these are actually rented, but I put names on `em all so the guys feel like part of a bigger pack. And if they're not rentin' a locker, they start to think they might be missin' out on something. So, when they ask me can they get one, I do the grimace face, y'know, and say, `Oh, man, might be tough, but lemme see if I can free one up for ya.' Like I'm doing `em a special favor." I marveled at this cunning. "Most of these pictures," he continued, "was me put `em on the locker doors. A fellah gets the idea that none of the other guys have hang-ups, he loosens up too. See, guys know they can get away with stuff here they'd get scolded or judged for at home. Have to watch your language? Not here. Have to cover up to walk around? Not here. Have to hide your titty magazines? Not here. Feel like scratchin' your nuts in the middle of a conversation? No problem! Like I said, it's recess for grown up boys." He laughed, turning to continue the tour. On the wall past the lockers a sign read "Jock Rack" in large letters. Below it at about eye level hung a rack of pegs, about half of them draped with assorted jockstraps, many with names handwritten in marker on the waistbands, reminding me of summer camp. Several names I recognized from the lockers. Mirror covered the entire wall under the rack and extended to the corner and along the rear wall as well. My reflection was just about everywhere I turned. "Here's where the guys let their `straps air out between workouts." I squinted to read the rest of the sign written in smaller print, saying the words aloud as I made them out, "Check carefully you got the right jock. Many `straps look alike at first glance." I gave Buck a questioning look. "Yeah, we've almost had fistfights break out over somebody taking a guy's favorite jockstrap. Usually by mistake. Might sound silly, but some of these fellahs have put a lot of sweat and more into their pouch, so it takes on a special meaning, like a record of their journey." "Or sometimes, a guy just wants to check out another guy's jock but feels a little timid. This gives `em an excuse to examine all they want and at close range. That's why we ask `em to carefully inspect the jock they grab before putting it on." "It gets to be funny when you got a group of naked guys at the rack, reaching over each other for a jock, sniffin and feelin it, handin' it around, sayin' `I think this is yours, Joe,' "no that's mine that's Bob got,' etc. Sometimes even the ones with names on `em. It's hilarious, but also part of the bonding that happens here." "Makes sense, I guess." I shrugged, trying to picture the situation he was describing. And then I suddenly saw myself inside the frame and quietly gasped. Shaking such thoughts from my head, I continued down the sign to read, "Find your jockstrap blindfolded and win a month FREE!" I ended on a puzzled tone and again looked at Buck for clarification. "Yeah, I started this cuz some of the guys let their `straps get really ripe," he laughed, "I mean truly eye-watering pungent! One day the guys are dressing out and Sal says, `Jeez, I could find Stan's stinkin' jock blindfolded!' And I said, `You do that, Sal, and your next month is free!' And the other guys start cheering and one guy puts a blindfold on Sal and spins him around and another guy starts switching the jocks around, so Stan's is in a totally different spot and Sal takes off, sniffing like a bloodhound, poking his nose into all the jock pouches, some twice or more, back and forth, the guys are going crazy, hootin' n' chantin', "Sniff! Sniff! Sniff!" It was hilarious! Guys talked about it for days! So, I decided to make it an open offer. You can find your own or if you find a buddy's, it's a free month for both!" He seemed pleased and proud of this idea. "It's great for team building and it's the kinda thing that keeps a lot of guys coming back." Not for the first time since entering this house, I paused in my tracks, dumbfounded by the images and emotions Buck's words triggered in me. "You could hang one of your 'straps here, Sailor, with the others, to keep it handy, but I'd recommend you write your name on it if you don't want it to go missing." Buck laughed. "'Specially if it's a nice one. You track guys like those skinny little runner's jocks, right? Or have you graduated to a real man's jock, like a Duke or a Bike?" I couldn't think of any response except the truth, and I almost cringed as I confessed, "Uh, actually, sir, I, uh, don't have a jockstrap with me." His reaction was strong and immediate. "What?!!? You don't own a jockstrap?" Buck sounded dumbfounded. "Don't tell me you're one of those freeballers like our jockless Jack, who goes commando ninety percent of the time! Who thinks they're too cool to pack a pouch! You prefer swinging your meat in everybody's face, is that it?" Clearly, this had touched a nerve with Buck. It wasn't that I had anything against wearing a jock. I'd had a few over the years and usually enjoyed the feel of one hugging my balls. But the sports I'd played most, track and swimming and even wrestling, were not particularly jock-heavy, so to speak. And in those days, compression shorts were only starting to appear. Most runners I knew just relied on the liners in their shorts. Swimmers wore those racing suits, despite Buck's low opinion of them for support, and in my brief time on the wrestling team, I saw just as many guys wear briefs or even nothing under their singlets as jock straps. Instead of explaining all that, which I suspected would just further inflame him, I fibbed, "No, sir. I guess I just...left it back at home, sir." "Oh." He seemed relieved. "Well, we can help you out there. If there's one thing we got around here, it's jockstraps!" I thought of the `strap I'd seen in the living room. "Pretty sure we can find one to fit that sailor's mast of yours." Not for the first or the last time, Buck's cheerful crudeness made me blush. "But only if you treat it right, ok? No tossing it in the washer or worse, the dryer. A fried-out `strap's no good to anybody. In this house, a jock lasts a long time. Hell, I still got one from high school. Love that jock. The stories it could tell..." he let out a little laugh. "`Course, I wouldn't leave it out here. One of these bastards would pinch it in no time!" and he laughed again. "So," he turned more serious, "you know the proper way to wash a `strap, right? Surely, one of your coaches along the way taught you that?" "Yes, sir." I answered confidently, "just like good running shorts. Cold rinse, mild soap, hang dry. And only when really needed." Buck's face brightened. "There's my boy!" he exclaimed, pulling me in close for a quick but tight hug. "Music to my ears! You have no idea how many guys buy a jock from me come back in no time cryin' `Look, coach, my jock's worn out already. Boo hoo.'" I laughed at his comical impersonation. "And first thing I ask is, `you put that `strap in a washing machine, bud?' and he'll say, `yessir, every day to keep it fresh.' At that point, I'd like to put him over my knee and whack his pasty ass, but usually I have to settle for calmly repeating the care instructions I told `em when they bought it. Jeez, some guys just cannot get it through their thick heads." Buck's concern over jockstraps and their care seemed a little extreme, but I had to admit I admired his commitment and diligence to do things the right way and take care of things, so they last their full life. I thought it spoke well of him as a man, as a dad, and as a coach. I could tell that his older son's predilection for freeballing was a challenge for Buck, but knowing how prone teenagers were to rebel against what they parents stood for, I suspected this might just be a phase, and before long his "Jockless Jack" would appease his dad and follow his example to `keep `em strapped' and `trust the pouch.'