Sex Histories	Sex Histories Archive

Jockstraps on parade. That's the way that I thought of the high school locker room. Every afternoon hundreds of guys would report to the gym, shed the dress clothes that my high school required, and pack their post -pubescent cocks and balls into jockstraps.

Jockstraps pulled me through many days. I dreaded football practice, two hours with sadistic coaches under the hot sun driving steam off the sticky newly mowed grass. I hated practice. But I loved the jockstraps.

The first jockstrap that I touched was my older brother's. He was a wrestler in high school when I was twelve. When I found his jock in the clothes hamper I was enthralled-- touching the magic straps gave me an instant erection. I took off my clothes and encased my hard cock in the cotton and elastic pouch that only hours earlier had been containing my brother's big cock. I was in heaven. I had a constant hard-on for the rest of the day. That night, I didn't take off the jock when I got into bed. I wrapped my hand around my dick and jacked off inside the ribbed pouch shooting my boy load into the fabric. Sleep was interrupted three more times that night to repeat this joy.

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During the next week I hardly ever took off my new prize. Repeated jacking off left the pouch stained with dozens of spurts of come. With my first jockstrap, my masturbatory creativity was limited, but I did learn an important lesson: not everyone is a jockstrap worshipper.

David, the boy next door, and I were best friends. We used to beat off together. For almost two years we had played with each other's pecker and discovered coming at each other's hand. When we climbed into the treehouse in my backyard where we'd whacked off countless times before, I told David that I had a surprise. He asked me if it was a new magazine (I often let him look at my father's Playboys). I said, no that it was something better. Then I pulled down my pants to reveal the come-stained jock I was wearing. I asked if he wanted to put it on. His lack of enthusiasm confused me. How could he not be turned on by so magnificent a garment?

I went ahead and jacked off into the jockstrap while David worked on his spit-slickened stick. Finally we shot into the paper towels we kept in the treehouse. We silently dressed. I never showed him my jockstrap again.

The next jock I discovered a few months later while looking over the prep school I was to enter that fall. In the basement of one of the academic buildings I found a wadded up Bike brand size large jockstrap. My dick popped up with an instant salute. Luckily, I was alone so I could stuff the wondrous elastic into my overalls pocket. My impatience grew with the school tour as I itched to get home behind my bedroom door to inspect my acquisition.

Hours later, finally home, I satisfied my curiosity and relieved my aching groin. The jock had the number 75 written on the wide waistband in indelible ink. I pulled my brother's high school year book off the shelf (he went to the same prep school) to see if I could identify the owner. Number 75 on the football team was a 220 pound blond hunk named Mike who played on the offensive line. So the size large made sense. Careful inspection of the ribbed pouch further confirmed ownership for interwoven in the fabric were several curly blond hairs.

Pleased with my detective work, I jacked off into Mike's jock while staring at his picture in the yearbook, trying to imagine how his cock and balls swelled the jockstrap now wrapped around my 13-year-old dick. When I came, I was almost frightened by the intensity of the orgasm.

The jism-drenched jock made me proud-- I had stained a stranger's most intimate piece of clothing with my most private juice. He had sex with me without even knowing it.

After pulling on my clothes, I did something that I later learned never to do: I washed Mike's jockstrap. Cleanliness may be next to godliness, but being next to Mike's sweat and piss stains would be heaven on earth.

Everyone at my school from the 7th through the 12th grades was required to take afternoon athletics. While my size compensated for my lack of enthusiasm, no one could say that I didn't give 110% in the locker room.

Usually the junior high teams came in from practice a few minutes ahead of the varsity squads, and many of the younger guys didn't like being on stage-- the shy seventh grader with his hairless, pencil-thin cock and tight little nuggets, or the ninth grade swimmer who almost stood inside his locker while changing. Many didn't even bother taking showers, which was, of course, a disappointment.

Just as we younger guys were leaving the locker room, the older jocks would be coming in. This created a timing problem for those of us who wanted to watch. Often I would dawdle around, dressing deliberately slowly. Sometimes I took a second shower in the other shower room. And many times I "accidently" left my watch or wallet or books in my locker, forcing me to retrieve them while the big guys were in there. Anything not to miss the show.

And what a show it was! About the time a guy's cock is fully developed and pubic bush filled out nice and thick, he develops a swagger and bravado around the other naked males that is remarkable in that almost no one admits, or perhaps realizes, that it is going on.

But for those of us who lived for the spectacle, there was no mistaking that we were witness to an erotic dance. Even at that young age I knew where the best seats in the house were, silently applauded my favorite players, identified the preferred routines of many of the exhibitionists, and later I even took part in the choreography.

There was Terry, a senior whose locker was among those of much younger guys. All of us were envious of his enormous equipment, especially his truly tremendous balls. He obliged us with his slow, very thorough towel -offs. He dried his balls again and again, making sure that we all noticed. Terry was real friendly, too. His big white teeth and heavy, low-hangers won my barely adolescent heart.

John, a wrestler just a little older than I, was the most blatant exhibitionist. He would pull down his shorts just enough to let his long, slender cock flop out, then he'd parade around the locker room, collecting a clean towel, getting some water, horsing around with friends. No one mentioned nor seemed to think it odd, that his shorts were at mid-thigh. Sometimes John would get naked and climb on top of a row of lockers to swat the heads of unsuspecting jocks on the other side. The ceiling was low, so he had to crawl on his hands and knees on top of the lockers, which afforded a delectable view of his fifteen-year-old asshole, either sweaty from wrestling practice or rosebud-fresh from the shower. Even then, I knew that I wanted to bury my face in his proffered buttocks.

Then there was Frank, who bragged that he had the school's biggest cock. He would take his lollipop monster on a slow, deliberate walking tour, talking and clowning with friends from one end of the locker room to the other. His showers lasted 20 minutes, as he paid careful attention to lathering his well-developed chest, muscular legs, the crack of his hairless ass, and his long dong. He was unabashedly proud of his great body and big dick.

But Frank's wasn't the longest dick. Having surveyed every cock that flopped into view in the locker room, I knew that Alan, another wrestler, had the longest prick at school. His dick must have been nine inches soft. And he wasn't shy about showing it off. He'd climb onto the roofs of cars (belonging to other seniors) in the gym parking lot, unzip his pants, and haul out the one-eyed anaconda. Then he'd slide feet first and face down on the windshield, letting his cock drag across the glass. Everyone thought that this was a great stunt, especially if the car contained visiting girls from our sister school. Alan never got in any trouble for waving his dick outdoors.

Some guys loved to go back into the wrestling room after practice and grapple naked. Suits in the swimming pool were considered sissified. Though never explicitly stated, there was tremendous pressure to show cock. That was fine by me.

After athletics, I boarded a school bus for home. Mine was the last stop. The next to last guy off was Clay, one year older than I, slender and blond. He and I would sit on opposite sides of the aisle showing off our erections pressing through our pants. We never said or did anything, but after he got off, I often beat my meat, spilling my come on the back of the seat in front of me. The driver was oblivious to it all.

Once home I had the chance for some serious masturbation. After being teased by dozens of exhibitionistic teenagers, strutting their newly muscular bodies and recently developed cocks just beyond my reach, my dick was ready for more release than one shot on the bus offered. Sometimes I'd whack off six or eight times in an evening with visions of the afternoon's show prancing through my head.

To capture the fantasy I began to draw my favorite cocks. How they looked soft, how I imagined they looked hard. How they looked packaged in a jockstrap. I drew carefully to scale and labeled each cock sketch with the owner's name.

These sketches were a great turn on. Although not very professional by any standard, they recreated the voyeuristic feeling of watching particular guys' cocks. With the drawings, I was in control. Alan was at my command. Frank performed for me. I treated my sketches with great care, and was careful to lock them away, lest Mom find them and freak. As much a treasure as they were, I lost interest in them when I decided on something better, something that brought part of a guy's sexuality right into my hands. I became a jockstrap thief.

My first two jockstraps I had discovered by accident. The next one I stole.

Keith was a lanky, lean runner with muscular legs and a shy smile. His locker was one of four in a corner behind a partition, removed from the main locker room area. One afternoon, I was looking for my friend Ned whose locker was next to Keith's. I didn't find Ned, but I did discover Keith's jockstrap lying on the wooden bench, his locker open. He was in the shower. The still warm, sweaty pouch mesmerized me. Without thinking. I snatched the jock and stuffed it into my book bag and hustled out of the gym to wait for the bus. I guarded the book bag carefully, feeling as though there were suspicious eyes all around.

Once home, locked safely in my bedroom, I reviewed Keith's jockstrap. It was a Bauer and Black, size small. It must have fit snugly. It was still damp with Keith's sweat, and I couldn't help sniffing it. Wow! I had the smell, the sight, and the feel of Keith right there in my face. I ended up jerking off wildly with the waistband around my head, my nose buried where hours earlier Keith's dick had been cradled.

I became a jockstrap junkie. After a few days, the novelty of Keith's Bauer and Black waned-- and I wanted more.

Swiping jockstraps was easy-- there was always an unguarded locker, or a pile of unattended clothes left while the owner fetched a towel or showered. The challenge was managing to snag a particular jockstrap; an unidentified jockstrap carried little erotic significance. I spent frustrating hours waiting for Mark to return from track practice, or for guys to clear out from near Bill's unlocked locker. My watching and waiting had to be done very carefully. It would be hard to explain how other guys' jocks found their way into my pockets.

After several weeks my collection had grown to half a dozen. All had grown stiff with my come as I jacked off into them incessantly.

My favorite way to masturbate was to put on all the jocks I owned at the same time-- starting with the small swimmer's pouch and ending up with Mike's (#75), which I'd had for two years. The feeling of having my dick encased in six other peoples' jocks was fantastic. I rubbed my hands over my padded crotch, enjoying the feeling of the thick mound. Next, I peeled off the outer jock and sniffed it and chewed on the pouch while I continued to rub my trapped dick. I could smell and taste one guy's crotch in my face, while I could imagine I was feeling another guy's jock-protected dick as my hand caressed my prick through the layers of the remaining jockstraps. One by one I peeled them away, feeling, tasting, and smelling a parade of high school athletes right there in my bedroom. When I finally slipped out of the last jock, I piled them all on my belly and drenched them with come.

At school, whenever I passed one of my sex "partners" in the hall, or sat next to him in class, I became aroused. These guys, through their jockstraps, had let me lick at their dicks, sniff at their balls, and shoot my juice into them.

I soon discovered that I could greatly increase my catch of jocks by visiting the gym in the evenings and on weekends when the locker rooms were almost empty. I took up tennis largely as a reason to frequent the athletic area during those times. After playing, I could wander into the locker room knowing that if I were discovered, I had a legitimate excuse for being there. First, I'd make the rounds to see if any of my yet uncaptured favorites had left their lockers unlocked. This was often the case, especially with the football team's lockers which were like wooden stand-up trunks, sometimes difficult and cumbersome to close and lock.

If all locks were secure, I had other methods. Some metal lockers were missing some of the little rivets that held the sheet metal sides and tops on. With a little coaxing, a corner could sometimes be bent to allow access to a locker at the end of an aisle. Sometimes one could enter a locker from the unlocked one behind it.

But the best weapon in the hunt was a straightened coat hanger. Most of the lockers had metal grate doors with holes about an inch square, which was usually large enough to allow a jock to be pulled through after hooked with the coat hanger. Sometimes, though, a jock jammed half-way through the door, or someone interrupted my work. I wondered what the owner thought the next day discovering his jockstrap pulled half-way through his locker door.

These off-hour safaris netted dozens of jockstraps. I had to clean out a storage trunk at home that could hold all of them. Of course, I had to keep them locked up. They would have been even harder to explain than my earlier drawings.

No one at school seemed to notice the missing underwear. Only once did I hear one of my victims shout, "Some jock stole my jock!" If he'd only known what I was doing with it!

There were other games that I played with jockstraps. I exchanged jocks with Mark, the track and field star whose locker was next to mine. It was a turn on for the next few weeks to watch him pull m y jock over his big, floppy dick. It was also exciting to run the risk of his noticing that I was wearing his jock (a Bike Pro, size medium). Later, after jacking off repeatedly into his jock, I switched them again. Now, I could enjoy the thought of my come crusts riding Mark's cock and balls. He never noticed.

There was also jockstrap roulette. When I retrieved jocks that I had no desire in keeping, I would return them to the wrong lockers-- sort of a gay matchmaker, pairing each jock with a new cock.

One of the nice spinoffs of my jockstrap collection was the pubic hair collection that it made possible. Whenever I found curly hairs caught in the ribbing of a newly acquired jock pouch, I carefully removed them and placed them in a labelled envelope. Matched pubic hair and jockstrap sets were particularly valuable masturbation aids. I would roll the hairs on my tongue while I beat off into the jock. After I came, I would return the pubic prizes to their envelopes.

When college time came and I had to leave home, I had a problem. I couldn't pack dozens of jockstraps to share with my new roommates. Nor could I leave them behind for my parents to find. College meant breaking old ties, saying goodbye to many old friends. No farewell was more difficult than parting with my jockstraps.

One afternoon in early September when my parents were at work, I dug a shallow pit in the gravel of the floor of our garage. I loaded all the jocks into a plastic bag, took them to the garage, and emptied them into the pit. As a final send-off, I stood over them and jacked off onto them one last time. Then, I set fire to them.

The nylon, cotton, and elastic burned readily, soon leaving nothing but ashes and a few black chars. These I scattered in the woods behind our house. I cried as I raked the gravel back into place.

The ritualism of this purification by fire was realized only later. And only later did I realize that those jocks would have brought good prices, financing a significant part of that first semester. But I never could have sold them-- they were old, trusted friends who had lent warmth and companionship to my adolescence. **

Editor's Note: The following is excerpted from Raunch, Boyd McDonald's 11th volume of true sex histories.

Author Profile:  Boyd McDonald

Born in 1925 in South Dakota, Boyd McDonald entered Harvard as a high-school dropout after serving in the army in World War II. Jobs with Time, IBM, and several Wall Street firms preceded Boyd's career as a chronicler of gay sex. He was the founder and editor of Straight to Hell (alternatively the Manhattan Review of Cocksucking), and later published a number of anthologies of true sex histories. Boyd died in September 1993, two months after completing his final book, Scum.