Notes from the Coach, parts 29 through 32

From: Jim Eigo

Picture: Markus, Playguy, September 2005 (Mike Sanders, model)

Published in: Part 29: Playguy, July 2005, Part 30: August 2005, Part 31: September 2005, Part 32: October 2005

Part 29


When a young guy has little or no sexual experience, sometimes he spends all his free time plotting to get into the pants of a dude he digs—though by now, just about any dude will do! After all that effort, maybe it happens and maybe it doesn't. And then there's the guy who's never really thought about another dude as anything other than a real good bud. And yet he has the opportunity for something way deeper drop right into his lap. If this lucky fucker isn't too chicken-shit to grab destiny by the dick, the experience can open up a door on a whole new life.

Cyrus and Skip are both eighteen-year-old wrestlers, freshmen, energetic. Both these light heavyweights have good bodies and they both have dicks. There the similarity ends. Blond Cyrus is the wrestling team's metrosexual. He's always giving a teammate a tip on grooming or dress or the latest in music or cool electronics. Swarthy Skip is the team cut-up and--except for the effort he puts into developing his perfect body--a complete slob. The funny thing is, while Cyrus still thinks he is heterosexual, Skip knows himself better.

The reason Skip likes to wrestle is the license it gives him to roll around on the ground in the arms of another young, sweaty, hard-bodied male--and even to grope him. For Skip this is easily the next best thing to fucking him. And Skip has never yet in his young life lucked out and had a chance to fuck anything. Well, Skip has in fact fucked his pillow, the rug in his room back at home, his roommate's mattress when he's out at class, holes he's cored in a variety of fruits--the list goes on. And of course, he's fucked his fist on a regular basis. But the truth is, except in his dreams, Skip has never pushed his dick into anything with a pulse.

That is, he'd never done it until this afternoon. That's when Skip, almost on a whim, challenged his teammate Cyrus to a friendly match on the mat. Practice was officially over, and the rest of the guys on the wrestling team were heading down to the locker room to strip down and wash off the sweat. Skip's challenge wasn't all that strange. He and Skip were in the same weight class. So Cyrus didn't suspect that behind the challenge lay Skip's desire to roll and grope with the guy that had him so fucking horny the whole school year. Cyrus kind of laughed. "Dude, I'll wrestle and beat you any day of the week, but you gotta wash those sweats first." The old, threadbare cut-off sweatshirt and shorts that Spike was wearing were pretty grungy.

A man less horny might have been too hurt by the comment to pursue the matter any further. But Skip had a feeling down in his nuts that, since Cyrus hadn't rejected his proposal outright, chances were pretty decent that, before the two left the gym today, they'd be locked in a sweaty clench. So he qualified his challenge. "How about stripping down to our jocks before we wrestle?" Cyrus looked a little surprised, but a grin crossed his handsome young face as he pulled off his crisp, snug T-shirt and pushed his shorts down and quietly folded both before turning his attention back to his challenger.

Skip was so excited at the turn of events that his sweaty shorts got tangled in his sneakers. Once he managed to extricate himself from the mess, he didn't try to unknot his shorts. He balled them up and threw them into a corner. When he looked back at Cyrus, he saw his teammate shaking his head. "Dude! Your jock looks dirtier than your sweats!"

Now Skip, like most better than decent athletes, is a proud man. But sometimes desire trumps all. Skip, letting his eyes run the length and breadth of his teammate's beautiful, smooth, pumped body, wanted it so bad he hurt. He could not now let his chance at holding it close to his own body slip away. Breathing heavily, his brain working overtime, Skip blurted out, "We call ourselves Greco-Roman wrestlers. So let's wrestle like the Greeks."

Cyrus looked genuinely puzzled at first. Although Skip's voice was quivering, his gaze, locked with his teammate's, was unflinching as he pushed his dirty jock down to his ankles and kicked it away. Cyrus did nothing. Skip almost whined, "Dude, don't pussy out on me now!" Maybe Cyrus didn't catch the note of desperation that had crept into his teammate's voice. But could he have totally missed his challenger's semi-erection? No matter. Cyrus answered the challenger like the fledgling warrior he thought he was. He pulled off his jock and tossed it.

In his excitement Skip lunged at his naked opponent and brought him to the mat. "Hey!" Cyrus yelled, but before he could recover, Skip and he were rolling around, and Skip had grabbed a hold of his opponent's dick. "Yo, freak! What the fuck are you doing! Greek wrestlers didn't do shit like that!" Having pinned Cyrus against the mat, Skip whispered in his ear. "You don't know your history too good, do you, Cyrus? Didn't you ever hear of 'Greek love'?"

Between his ass cheeks, Cyrus could feel Skip's half a hard-on swell to full woody. In Skip's warm hand his opponent's cock went just as stiff. Cyrus could feel Skip's throbbing tool poking at his backdoor. "I dare you," Cyrus heard himself say. One lunge and it was done. When the head of Skip's dick popped through the tight ring, neither guy could quite believe it had happened. Still, Skip, unrepentant, slammed into his partner with all his light heavy weight. The winner of this match would later tell himself that he was just helping his hopeless metrosexual teammate get in touch with the inner queer that had always been there. In fact, Skip's dick had poked against it so hard that Cyrus had been helpless to do anything other than surrender to the feeling ripping through his body, letting the jizz squirt all the way up his shuddering torso. Luckily the guys were naked. Now fastidious Cyrus wouldn't have to spend his evening rinsing out his workout shirt before tomorrow's practice.

_____


Part 30

What a piece of work Mark is! He just left my office, and his mere presence was enough to kick my libido into overdrive. Yes, he has a terrific body, incredibly developed for an eighteen-year-old, with wide shoulders, narrow waist and improbably thick arms for his age. And he hasn't neglected working on his lower body like so many young guys do, so he's got substantial thighs and yes, a great ass. But since I'm the male coach of a small athletic department at a junior college, most of the bodies passing through my office are better than superior. They all stir my blood a little, but very few get my gonads buzzing like young Mark has.

It's not just that Mark is sexy--though, in his clean-cut, All-American way he is undeniably that. He's devastating because he uses his body sexually, even in a casual social situation, as a weapon to give him an advantage. As a teacher, I sometimes see my female students do that. They get great lessons in flaunting it from a host of young female pop idols, and they're socialized to use sex appeal to gain power--or at least a good grade. Being gay, I'm immune--which lets me sit back and observe the phenomenon. It's always good for a laugh. But now that I have been subject to Mark's unrelenting full-court sexual press, I might never laugh again when I see a straight colleague steam-rollered by a breathless, dewy, pert and perky student.

Mark of course is more than just a superb specimen: he's an athlete too. Football is the sport he'll be playing for me in the fall when he starts here as a student (though he's dabbled in most team sports). When he contacted us here at the athletic department in the middle of his senior year about his intentions to enroll, I went to see him play a high school game. A running back with decent speed and better smarts, he's good enough to make the team at our two-year college, though not spectacular enough to have won an athletic scholarship to a four-year college. Knowing his athletic and academic limits, he's smart to go after the technical accreditation he'll need to pursue a career.

I learned all this about the guy and more as I showed him around the facilities. He just graduated high school this week and already his demeanor is beyond cocky. He prowls a space with a wide-legged saunter like he's an animal marking his territory. His center of gravity's low, like his balls are his ballast, and he rolls from side to side as he walks, almost like a sailor. He occupies every space he crisscrosses. And when he stops and stands, there's a jut to his pelvis that makes him look like he's perpetually bellying up to a urinal or feeding some invisible oral admirer kneeling at his feet.

In my office Mark spread his legs wide and slumped down in his chair so that his pelvis angled out over the seat.

If he wasn't a soon-to-be-student, I'd have thought he was making me an offer of his amply packed crotch. He scratched his belly, cracked his knuckles, raised his arms lazily and put them behind his head: he had all my attention. In snug jeans and snugger T-shirt, his body's star quality was apparent. He was a guy who dressed not to cover his body but to accent its allure. When I commented on his superior physique, he asked me if I wanted to feel his muscle--then he clarified by flexing a biceps. I felt it and there was no question: few eighteen-year-old guys have achieved an arm of that size and density.

Then my future running back surprised me by pulling his T-shirt over his head, and giving me an annotated tour of his torso. I heard how he'd developed each and every inch. At one point, from his seated position, he curled into a stomach crunch and pulled all his gut muscles into deeper relief. "Wanna touch?" he asked. Being only human (and a homo to boot) I took Mark up on the offer, moving out from behind my desk to place a hand on his warm, taut tummy--pretty thrilling, I have to admit.

I know it was good for Mark too. His dick straightened out and threatened to tear a hole in his jeans. "It's yours if you want it, Coach." If I hadn't been close enough to the guy to feel his breath when he spoke, I'd have asked him to repeat what he said-that's how shocked I was that he said it. When he saw my reaction, he kind of smirked. "Sorry, Coach, but I thought you were gay."

I took a deep breath, then said, "I am. But I don't touch a student."

Mark's smirk got dirtier. "Don't look now, Coach, but it looks like you've already touched me!" Yeah, I still had my hand spread flat against his hard abs--that is, until I pulled it away.

"I never touch a student in a sexual way," I explained. Mark looked incredulous as he eyed the pole in my pants, but he cut me some slack and let it pass. Then he shocked he again by putting a hand on my ass.

"And how about if a student touches you first?"

My dick went full hard but I managed not to flinch. "No ..."

Mark stood up. His dick in his pants looked harder than ever. "No offense. I nailed my high-school athletic director earlier this week, and I hoped I was on a roll." He walked to the doorway, the muscles of his hard ass flexing as he moved, then turned around. "I guess I'll just have to wait until I'm not a student anymore, won't I?" I didn't say anything, but I had to smile at his pluck-plus he was so fucking cute. "In the meantime do you mind if I take a cold shower?" He grabbed his crotch like this was his explanation. "The way you're sweating, you look like you could use one too, Coach."

And Mark was right. As soon as I finish this, I'll join him ...

_____


Part 31

"Quarterback sack?" roared Tanner Grove. "I don't know enough about football to know what a quarterback sack is!" How could that be? I wondered. In his capacity as head of our cheerleading squad, Tanner saw an awful lot of football over the course of a season. There were the scheduled games, and then there were the team practices, when Tanner, nothing if not devoted to the players, would lead his accomplished squad of screamers through a parallel practice session. Here he was at the end of his second year at our two-year college. By now the guy should be schooled enough in the ways of the gridiron to write a primer for dummies.

"But that's okay. What's far more important for a guy like me is getting the quarterback into the sack." The dudes surrounding the cheerleader, all football players and stripping down after a hard practice, were all laughing--none harder than our first-string quarterback himself, Mike Sanders. Tanner was enough of a fixture here in the locker room, and open enough about his preference for dudes over girls, that the eighteen- and nineteen-year-old guys on the team had long ago accepted his brand of broadly suggestive humor. After all, he'd been holding court after practice every afternoon and on weekends, curled up on a stool in a corner of the locker room that afforded him birds-eye views of everyone-like the queen and court jester in a single, witty, slender, amazingly flexible package.

I think the team members felt comfortable with Tanner because he was so in their face about his preferences. Anyone who talked so much and so openly about jumping their bones would never try it, right? Besides, there was never any physical threat from the cheerleader: every member of the team was more than big enough to defend his virtue. In fact I think that Tanner's humor, invariably casting the players as unparalleled and irresistible studs, boosted their egos. Once they relaxed around him, it was a kick to think that a funny, good-looking, outgoing guy like Tanner, liked by everybody, found them sexually desirable. Most of these players are cocky, and, like most young guys, incredibly insecure. Being cast as a porn-star in Tanner's dirty jokes both appealed to their vanity and soothed their insecurities. Even guys who, at the start of the season, had seemed more than a little wary about letting such an avowed jock-sniffer as Tanner share in the daily intimacies of the locker room would come around after a few weeks of experiencing the guy. Whenever Tanner sensed a new player was uneasy in his presence--and he could sniff out a freshman athlete's raised hackles pretty well--he would mount a charm offensive specifically tailored to his latest victim.

Last year quarterback Mike Sanders had been just such a doubter of the wisdom of letting a gay guy hold sway among jocks. Through the campus's gay grapevine (that is, from my assistant coach Dalton) I learned that Mike's reservations had been a little more deep-seated than your average straight athlete's--until Tanner, recognizing the tension, showed up at Mike's dorm room one night with a pizza and a six-pack of diet cola. He told Mike he thought that having a heart-to-heart might clear the air between them.

Before the pizza vanished, Mike was actually laughing as Tanner's homo jokes and fantasies about him and his teammates. Yes, there was a nervous edge to the quarterback's laugh, but Tanner's golden tongue had once again worked its magic. It had done more than boost the quarterback's ego: it had given his dick a lift as well, as the eagle-eyed cheerleader could see. He didn't think the odds were good that he could get into the football player's jock. But he let the hunky athlete know that he was available for a personal scrimmage anytime he wanted.

In the face of that invitation, Mike got red in the face, but managed to stammer out anyway what he wanted to say. He wasn't really gay himself, of course. But he wondered if Tanner would be open to getting dressed up for this fantasy that Mike was having lately. Tanner was gentle but firm when he told Mike that he was a gay guy, not a girl, so if his idea of having fun was to put him in panties or something, nothing doing. That's when Mike went to his drawer, opened it, pulled out a jock and tossed it to the cheerleader. Though not remotely an athlete, Tanner managed to catch it--it wasn't every day he had the opportunity to get his hands on the starting quarterback's intimate apparel.

Tanner, always ready to play the clown, put the pouch of the jock over his nose and took a deep whiff. Mike said, no, he wanted Tanner to wear the jock the right way. He said that lately during a big game, he'd be haunted by these vivid pictures. Whenever Jesse Means, our huge center, bent over the ball just before the snap back and Mike had to reach through his legs, all he thought about was one thing. Like most linemen, Jesse's a big man. In this position, legs spread to the max, the center's big meaty butt was wide open. Mike had this vision of how sweet and accessible the big lug's asshole would be if all he was wearing was his jock.

Mike thought that if he and Tanner acted out the fantasy, Mike might be able to exorcise the forbidden picture and concentrate better on the plays the next time he took to the field. Tanner had his doubts about the therapeutic value of his bending over for the quarterback. But he told Mike that if he too would strip down to his jock, he'd give it a try. Tanner might not have understood football, but he could look the part. Within minutes the two freshmen were wearing nothing but their jocks. Mike's theory was that if he did this role play thing with Tanner, he'd be so turned off that he would never have a dirty thought about Jesse's split ass again.

Wrong! The trouble with Mike is that he's such a sexual guy that even when he got Tanner to put on a jock and bend over like he was about to snap the ball and Mike got between his legs and touched his slimy hole, Mike's dick didn't go down. In fact he got so horny that he started rubbing his crotch up and down Tanner's deep ass trench, humping like mad, because he knew that if he didn't get off right away, he might try something worse. It wasn't like Mike fucked Tanner or anything, but he had to admit to himself that he wanted to. So I guess you could say Mike's attempt at getting rid of his feelings for Jesse Means's asshole failed. So Tanner got into the star quarterback's jock, and Mike got a peek at what goes on inside a jock-sniffer's head. I don't know for sure how far things went between then, but ever since that night, Mike and Tanner have shared the easy camaraderie of athletes, practically best buddies or maybe even closer, which makes me wonder if more happened that night than either of them let on.

_____

Part 32


There's this drill that I like to put my freshman basketball players through. It only uses two players at a time. Every few days at the end of a practice, after I've sent the rest of the team to the showers, I run it with a different pair. The range of reactions that this little drill elicits from my guys reminds me how novel, almost strange, their newly adult bodies are to these eighteen- and nineteen-year-old athletes.

This drill is physically challenging but even more mentally taxing. A lot of what goes on in this drill is a fiction, so that those players with powerful imaginations pull it off best. I'm the only man on the floor besides the two guys on the court. My role? I'm like a radio play-by-play man. With continuous commentary, I tell my guys what is going on in an imaginary game that they're just a part of--who has the ball, where it's going. My guys, playing players on opposing teams, have to react to what I say, roaming the court like it's a real game situation. Here's the complication. I tell them the aim of the drill is to learn to maintain the tightest man-on-man defense they can manage--then get it tighter. When one dude's team "has the ball," his sole goal is to elude the other dude--whose sole goal now is to shadow his man as closely as he can. When the ball switches sides--and they know this by my constant patter--that formerly elusive player, instead of trying to get away from the other guy, now has to try to absolutely shadow his body.

"You gotta ride the other man's back as close as his shirt," I tell them. "And once you believe you've achieved that, you've gotta try to ride him as close as a second skin."

That's a real apt picture today. It's the middle of July and the gym feels like it--smells like it too. Just before I dismissed the rest of the incoming freshman team, I had them play a game of "shirts versus skins"--a little savage no-holds-barred fun that would marshal all their wits and physical skills. So that's why Hooper Bowles and his opposite number for today's post-practice drill, Cal Gold, are standing there breathing heavily, drenched, one bare-chested, the other with his sweat-soaked athletic T-shirt plastered to his long, hard torso like, yes, a second skin.

So far I've only seen these guys in action for a few practice sessions. But my gut tells me these are the two most tenacious players on the incoming team. This, plus the fact that they're both six-foot-two with long limbs, loose frames and formidable range make them ideal opponents for this drill. My hunch that Cal is the new team's undeclared fag while Hooper is already its generally recognized lady's man (or, as his good bud Emil would put it, "pussy pounder") has not entered at all into my decision to pair these two off--I swear.

But now that they're out on the floor, I'm wondering if it's something I should have considered--as a reason not to match these two. Cal hasn't the aversion to warm, damp, extreme physical closeness with another perspiring guy that Hooper has. Like the typical gay male that I'm more and more sure he is, he welcomes it. When it's called for, he can ride Hooper like a condom rides a cock, while Hooper, when its his turn, can mix it up with Cal but not slither across him. Cal consistently uses his lack of inhibition at maximal physical intimacy to unnerve his opponent. Cal can feel every fiber in Hooper bristle and resist when Cal presses up behind him and rides his ass so hard that I know Hooper can feel Cal's jock bulge deep in his crack.

And when play resumes after a break Hopper will feel it even more. That's because, during the break, between slugging down gulps of water, Cal smirks and complains that the playing conditions are unfair. "This shirt is so fucking wet it must add another five pounds to the weight I gotta lug around." As if to prove his point, Cal pulls the sopping wet garment up over his head and tosses it in the corner with a juicy *thwack*. Suddenly he's jumping all over. "Now that's better."

"Yeah," I drawl, "but now how am I going to tell the shirts from the skins?"

Hooper's voice clearly registers his frustration that Cal has gotten the better of him in the drill so far. "Now take off your shorts Cal, and you'll feel even lighter."

Cal doesn't respond directly to Hooper but turns to me, thrusting both thumbs into the waistband of his soaking gym shorts. He stands there a moment, looking me in the eye, almost daring me to stop him. Had he guessed already that I'm as queer as I'm guessing he is? When I say nothing, the inevitable happens: Cal pushes his shorts down and kicks them into a sloppy heap on top of his soggy shirt.

"No fair!" Hooper's bellow echoes throughout the near-empty gym. So he follows Cal's lead and sheds his wet shorts. Now both young studs square off wearing nothing more than soaking wet jockstraps and sneakers.

"But Hooper," Cal fairly taunts. (Out on the court he always talks trash.) "How will the Coach be able to tell one team from the other now?"

"Maybe you'll just have to lose your jock, Cal--it's not like it's got a big job."

"Just can't wait to feel my naked prick rubbing up against your naked ass out on the court, can you, Hooper?" That does it. Hooper hooks his fingers in his jockstrap and pushes it down to his ankles. When he bends to pick it up off the floor and toss it into the pile of his discarded workout clothes, he inadvertently flashes Cal and me his hairless hole. I wonder which of his girlfriends shaved that. If the sight of Hooper's most vulnerable spot doesn't awaken some tenderness in Cal, the sight of his most potent part, big and plumped from the heat and on the verge of swelling further, most definitely does. His voice has lowered in awe. "So that's the pussy pounder."

Hooper doesn't give an inch. With a peerless sneer he says, "How come in the locker room we never hear about the pussy you're pounding, Cal?"

"Pussy?" Cal's voice rises to the occasion. "I'm strictly an ass man, Hooper." Then, as players will, he smacks his future teammate's butt--only now it's naked. The crack is deafening. Fearing all out war, I blow the whistle for play to resume, and it does, more intense than ever. In the melting heat, with nothing to hide, Hooper loosens up and learns to mimic Cal to perfection. Though Cal's distended jock is the only garment either guy's wearing above the ankles, they both perspire heavier than ever. It seems to stream from every pore as they run and bump, gliding their taut, slick supple torsos and limbs across their partners like some impeccable mutating liquid fuck. To steady my head, I take a deep breath, but the whiff I get sets me spinning. As we all know, when young men sweat, they smell of sex.