Locker Room Circlejerks (Patreon)

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Chapter 1: First Game Ritual

I was a freshman, and I spent my first two practices with the team staring at other guys' dicks, all of them bigger than mine, hanging at eye level three feet from my face, and I could not stop thinking about it. I had joined late, just that week, a month into training already, which meant that in that locker room everyone knew each other but no one really knew my name yet. Even though I wasn't the only freshman on the team, people just called me "freshman", probably because I was a bit smaller than the average guy. And the average guy in that room was a lot. 

Most of them were juniors and seniors, tall, with real arms and chests, real men I felt like I had been conditioned to look up to. Some of them had fuzz on their ass. They had built up their bodies over years, and I didn't even really know my way around a weight room yet. My older brother had never invited me. 

And I didn't really know a single one of them. I had walked into a room of older guys who had been showering together for years and had zero modesty. Guys stood around completely naked having entire conversations, one foot up on the bench, towel over the shoulder instead of around the waist, scratching their balls while they talked. Nobody covered anything. Nobody even angled away.

Dick size comparisons happened regularly, a topic that their conversations naturally drifted toward from time to time, and as a group, they weren't subtle about it. Guys measured against water bottles, against phones, against each other directly. Contests broke out over who hung lower and who grew the most, and sometimes guys even got fully hard for it, standing in the middle of the room while everybody yelled out opinions about it. Losing got you clowned for a bit, and winning got some respect. I even saw a guy lick another guy's balls as a consequence of betting who was bigger. He squatted down, did it quickly, stood back up, and the room exploded while he just went back to tying his cleats.

I spent every minute in that locker room trying to keep my eyes on the floor, or at my own hook in the locker, or at my phone, because every time I raised my eyes there was a butt or a dick, and my feelings confused me. Every time I raised my eyes there was a butt or a dick swinging at me, and I was sure I was turning into a weirdo. The only time anyone else even mentioned a dick was making fun of one guy for being "uncut", and the whole group instantly sprang into debate over the superiority of cut versus uncut, grabbing their own dicks and each other's, yelling and squeezing each other and talking about stuff that went way over my head. I remember turning fully red, and wrapping a towel around myself before anyone noticed my own raging, circumcised boner.

The day of our first game, I sat at my stall in shorts and a t-shirt with my jersey still hanging on the hook behind my head, cleats untied on the floor between my feet, waiting for somebody to tell me what to do. That was most of my time on the team so far. Waiting for somebody to tell me what to do, and moving my bag.

"Freshman. Bag."

I moved my bag.

"Freshman, slide down."

I slid down.

Guys would peel out of their day clothes all around me, hoodies coming off over heads, wet socks getting flung at the laundry cart and missing.

Two of them, a lean guy with blonde curls and a neck as wide as his head, and a tall guy with a dark happy trail running up from his waistband into a flat stomach, kept catching each other's eyes over my head. Not looking at me. Looking at each other, but like, gesturing toward me. I couldn't tell if it was in my head or not, but one of them would grin and the other would do something with his mouth to keep from grinning back, and then they'd both look at the floor and try not to look at me. I dug through my bag for socks even though I didn't need any.

Coach was up front by the whiteboard, going through the same six things he had gone through the day before, formations and bus time and who was riding with who to the away game next weekend. I sat facing him with my elbows on my knees. He checked the clock over the door twice while he talked, which I had never seen him do.

"All right," he said. "Six-fifteen. I gotta go find the trainer."

Nobody moved.

"You guys have your thing," he said, looking at the whiteboard instead of us. Then he capped his marker, set it in the tray, and pulled the door shut behind him firmly, making a banging sound.

Every head in the room turned inward, toward the middle of the room.

The back corner of our locker room had two long benches crammed into an L against the stalls, close enough across the gap that if two guys sat opposite each other their knees would about touch. The room was old and the stalls ran deeper on that end and somebody at some point had shoved the benches together to fit the walk lane, and I had walked past that corner every day since I joined, thinking it was just an accidental little corner where nothing happened.

But the guys started to drift back there. Shirts came off over heads. Shorts went down, jocks went down, and both got kicked into piles at their ankles, bare bodies and every example of the athletic male form appearing before me, and the whole thing happened casually.

I stood at my stall fully dressed with my hands hanging.

"What are we doing," I said to the guy closest to me.

The senior who heard me barely looked up. He was peeling a sock off his heel with two fingers, one foot up on the bench.

"It's the first game today, freshman," he said. That was the only explanation I got.

Somebody in the back kicked a wadded towel out of the narrow strip of concrete between the two benches, sent it skidding under a stall, and everyone seemed to know what the floor towel was for.

"It's easier to hose down when it's all in one place," the curly-haired blonde guy said with a chuckle.

I stood there half out of my shirt with my arms still in the sleeves, working out that the spot they meant was the bare patch of concrete I was about to be sitting one foot away from.

I got my shirt the rest of the way off and turned to face my stall with my back to the room.

Before joining this team, I had never even showered naked around guys. My last school sent everybody home sweaty. I had seen a dick in person maybe three times in my life, all of them inadvertent, some guy turning at a urinal or a towel coming loose in a campground bathroom, barely enough to confirm that other guys had one, never enough to actually look at one.

I pushed my shorts and my underwear down together and stepped out of them. I looked down at myself. I did not have a single hair on my body below my neck except for one small, thick bush right above my dick. Nothing on my chest, nothing on my legs worth mentioning, nothing on my balls at all. 

I picked my clothes up and folded them onto the bench seat, and then I folded the t-shirt, and then I rearranged the folded pile, because as long as my hands were doing something my back could stay to the room.

"Freshman's got about ten seconds," somebody yelled across the corner.

"Ten seconds," the tall guy picked it up.

"Ten! Nine!"

Three of them chanted it at my back. I stood there naked facing a metal hook with my hands on a folded t-shirt and I thought, I told four of these guys my name on my first day, and now the entire room is counting me down and calling me "freshman".

"Six! Five!"

I turned around.

There was one open spot on the near bench, between a big senior on the left and a lanky guy on the right with a huge dick, and I took it because it was the only place I fit. I sat down facing inward, elbows on my knees, both hands cupped over my lap.

And I got my first full look at everything.

It was a ring of naked guys sitting knee to knee in a horseshoe with their legs open, maybe eleven of them, every single dick in the room pointed in at the middle. Some soft, some hard already. Most of them were tall and most of them were built, but not all the same build. A few were the thick type, with chests that stuck out past their chins, and traps that ran straight up into their necks. A few were lean, with long muscles, and veins standing up on their forearms, the runners. Two or three had skin a few shades darker than the rest of the room, and one of those had no tan line anywhere, and some others had tan lines that stopped in a hard band at the mid-bicep and again at the thigh. 

Some guys leaned back on their hands. Some guys leaned forward with their forearms on their knees.

And the hair. That was what I could not stop looking at. The big senior next to me had hair on his thighs that ran all the way up and over and met in the middle. The guy across from me had a happy trail that started at his navel and widened into a full dark bush and kept going down onto his balls. Two of the lean guys were smooth everywhere, chest and stomach and legs, and you could tell one of them was shaved because there was a faint shadow coming back on his shins, and the other one just came that way. And over several days of staring at the floor and failing at it, I had seen that a lot of them had hair on their ass cheeks too, actual dark hair on the cheeks themselves, not only down the middle.

I looked down at my own lap, at my bush and my smooth balls and my nearly hairless thighs, and I felt like a kid who had wandered into the wrong room.

In my head I thought, This is a dick party. This is the gayest thing I have ever seen in my life.

Nobody else appeared to have that thought. The curly-haired blonde guy was casually arguing about a referee call from a year prior to the guy next to him while his hand stroked his dick, coaxing it to life. It looked like he had no pubes, which made me do a double take.

"Lotion is the best," a guy across from me said. "I'm just saying."

"I keep a bottle next to my bed," another guy said.

And while that was happening, hands started moving faster.

Not all at once, one guy dropped a hand down and stroked himself slowly, lazily, and then the guy next to him did, and in less than a minute more than half the ring had a hand on themselves and the conversation had not changed pitch at all. Elbows went back and forth. Forearms moved.

"Spit," the tall one said. "Spit is free."

"Spit dries weird."

"You wouldn't say that to a girl blowing you."

"True."

The guy directly across from me leaned back on both palms, which pushed his hips forward, and said, "Real quick. Last week I tried two fingers up my own ass while I was doing it, and I blasted harder than I ever have in my life."

"Told you," said the guy beside him, not looking over.

"You're so gay," said a third one.

"He's the one who told me."

"So he's gay too, that's my point, we're all in agreement here."

The whole room laughed. Not one hand stopped moving. I sat there listening to a guy describe fingering himself, and then listening to the room call him gay for it, and the guys around the circle never stopped jerking it. Nobody's face even changed.

I uncupped my lap.

I dragged my own hand over my surprisingly hard dick twice, slowly, mostly so my hands would be doing what everybody else's hands were doing. I was already hard. I had been hard since they started counting me down. I watched the guy across from me instead of paying attention to what I was doing with my own fist, and my thigh kept bumping the lanky guy's knuckles on my right, because the gap between us on that bench was maybe two inches and neither of us was going to be the one to slide over.

"Bet you won't," somebody shouted from the far end.

"Bet I won't what."

"Grab Nate's dick. Right now. Bet you won't."

"Bet a hundred?"

"Bet nothing. Bet you won't."

The two of them were sitting opposite each other in the crook of the L. The recipient of the challenge reached over and took a hold of the other guy, and the other guy reached over and took a hold of him, both of them staring directly at each other with their eyebrows up, waiting for a flinch.

Neither one let go.

"Ohhh," half the room said.

"Nate's not letting go."

"Neither is he."

"They're just doing it now. They're just doing it."

And it spread sideways. It went down both benches, guy to guy, and the sentence that traveled with it was always some version of the same one.

"Not gonna lie, it feels better when somebody else does it."

"Because it's a surprise. Your own hand knows what it's about to do."

I sat there and did not turn either direction. The lanky guy on my right shifted his weight, and I felt him turn, and for a second my chest tightened around my breath because I did not know what I was going to do if he turned toward me.

He turned the other way. Toward his other neighbor. Then his shoulder worked into a rhythm and his elbow started tapping my arm on the backswing.

So I sat there in a horseshoe of guys jerking each other off, facing straight ahead, with only my own hand on myself, getting nudged in the tricep every second and a half.

The big senior on my left had not joined in on any of it. He had his hairy thighs spread wide and one arm up along the top of the stall behind him and he watched the whole scene without moving. He had a masculine jawline and he had the build where the shoulders start about a foot out from the neck.

He looked over at me. "C'mere, freshman."

He swung his leg over the bench, one big thigh going up and across, so that he straddled the plank facing me from behind, and then he put a hand on each of my shoulders and pulled. I went back against him, his thighs opening around mine, and I ended up sitting between them with my whole back flat against his chest, which was hot and slightly damp and had hair on it that I could feel on my shoulder blades.

He put one forearm across my collarbones, thick, heavy, and locked me there. His other hand came around my hip, pushed my own hand away and gripped me.

The feeling of his hand on me was nothing like mine. My grip was a habit that had been exactly the same since I believed I had perfected it at thirteen. No creativity was necessary since it got the job done. But his was a full wrap, higher up, his thumb wrapping tightly around the head, and he pulled down slowly, then squeezed upward toward the head. 

I was wrapped by a strong, older guy, feeling more exposed than I had been in my life, but in a paradoxically toxic yet non-judgemental room that made me feel safer than I had ever felt in public.

He quickly settled into a pace that was weirdly foreign to anything I would have done on myself, and that was the best part.

My own hands dropped to the bench slats on either side of my thighs as I gripped the wood.

And I could feel his dick, hard, pressed up against the small of my back. Not moving. Just there, warm, with his forearm across my chest holding me in against it.

"There you go," he said, over the top of my head, to the room. Not to me.

"Freshman's in," somebody called.

I could see the entire ring from there. Sitting back against him put me lower and my knees came up, and I had a straight-on view down the middle of the horseshoe at everybody, and everybody had a view of me.

Then a guy at the far corner, the one who'd started the fingers conversation, went up on his knees on the bench, put two fingers in his mouth, got them wet, reached behind himself, and put them in.

His whole body tensed a bit, his shoulders bunching up around his ears, looking suddenly more muscular as he flexed every muscle. He made a strained noise as he exhaled, and his other fist sped up, and his knees started sliding apart on the bench.

"He's doing it. He's actually doing it."

"Aim, aim, aim."

He leaned forward over his own knees and finished onto the bare concrete in the gap. It came out in three hard pulses and hit the floor and sat there in a puddle, and he stayed leaning over it with his hand still moving and his forehead almost on the bench in front of him.

"Nice. Center mass."

Even after everything I had passively observed from this team so far, it was surreal watching a guy do that to himself, in a room full of people, with an audience, and get applauded for his accuracy.

I sank back into the senior's chest, and his shoulders reacted by wrapping around me tighter. I made a high-pitched sound, boyish and embarrassing.

He tightened his forearm across my chest and kept his pace exactly the same.

The guy who came from fingering himself stepped over and squeezed onto the other side of me, sitting back to relax and let everyone else finish. I felt bold at this point, lifting my legs higher to show my ass. The senior behind me shifted too, his large firmness pressing harder into me as he lifted my whole body onto his lap, lifting one leg with his free hand to further expose my hole to everyone. 

I glanced at the guy next to me, who had just fingered himself to a finish, and he was already looking at me, watching the senior handle my body like a toy. I grabbed his wrist, heavier than I expected, and pulled his hand under me to my ass, and his eyes lit up.

"You want some of the magic fingers?"

My mouth fell open a little, but all I could do was nod. 

He pulled his hand back, spit on two fingers, and reached under me again. His fingertip pressed flat against my hole, warm and slippery, and my hips jerked upward against the senior's forearm. He didn't push in. He rubbed small circles there, lightly at first, then harder, and every pass made my thighs twitch open wider against the senior's legs. I heard myself breathing through my teeth. The senior's fist never changed pace on me. I was getting worked from two directions at once, and my body was starting to spasm.

"Look at this," the guy on my hole said, to no one in particular. "Pink. Hairless."

"I dare you to lick it," the senior said above my head. 

I just closed my eyes, reveling in the feeling as his pace slowed down, probably sensing that I was going to finish already. 

"Do it," somebody called from across the gap. "You already got your fingers on it. Lick it."

"Bro, that's nasty."

"It's clean. Look at it."

"You look at it."

"I am looking at it."

More guys piled onto the discussion from both benches, escalating the argument over my hole like it was a discussion about sports, half of them still stroking themselves while they yelled. I stayed where I was, spread and held and on display, in a gooned pleasure state I had never felt before, warm and safe with a whole locker room full of guys staring at my ass. Somewhere in the middle of the argument I learned the names of the two guys touching me. The big senior whose chest I was on was Tommy. The guy down between my legs obsessed with my ass was Joey.

"Five bucks," someone suggested.

"I don't need five bucks," Joey said, staring at where his fingers pressed harder on the soft spot between my legs.

I never found out who won, because Joey dropped his head and his tongue pressed in, warm, wet and firm. And I heard cheers, but it felt like they were far away as I was transported into another dimension of pleasure. My hips spasmed, and I felt Joey giggle directly into me while his tongue ran circles around my newly discovered sensitive spot. 

Tommy released my dick entirely, but I still felt my orgasm spill out onto the surface. The first shot hit my own stomach and Tommy's forearm. He pressed a thumb onto the base of my rod and angled me forward and to the side. Another shot pulsed out onto the pile, joining everyone else's mix. He reached up and squeezed the tip, making the next shot fly farther, and another bit of it dribbled down over Joey's hair, and more dripped down to my balls.

He stroked me through the rest of the pulsing sensation. My back arched against his chest and his fist did not slow down until I made a noise that meant I was getting sensitive, and he understood.

Around the horseshoe they dissolved, and I just watched as they started to finish up, one after another. Guys kneeling up off the benches, or leaning forward over their knees, some squatting down halfway, like the sensation in their thighs helped them cross the finish line, everybody aiming at the same patch. A couple of them announced it first.

"Cumming."

"Go."

"Watch the bag, watch the bag."

"That's not even your bag."

The pile in the middle of the concrete got bigger and started to spread flat, whitish clear, catching the light from directly overhead, and every new one that hit it made everybody look down at it for a second and then look back up and keep talking.

I was still sitting between Tommy's thighs with my back against his chest. He was still hard against the small of my back, when he let go of me and slapped my shoulder twice, firmly, right on the muscle.

"Attaboy."

He swung his leg back over the bench and sat down next to me facing out.

"Did he even hit it?" the curly-haired blonde guy said, looking down at the floor.

"He hit it."

"That's Dominic's."

"Dominic went first, that's dried."

"It's only been like two minutes."

"I'm just saying, there's no way to prove that's the freshman's."

"Bro, I watched it happen."

Tommy grabbed my hand and pulled it to his protruding member. It was my non-dominant hand, and my first time ever touching another dude there, and I knew immediately that it was going to be a challenge. My rhythm failed, but he coolly let me try for a minute before he took over for himself, moving my hand to his balls. I squeezed gently. 

"Harder," he muttered quietly, and I yanked them as he flinched. He just nodded as he sped up on himself. 

I tugged his nuts until he squatted down, his muscular thighs tensing as he unloaded onto the pile. He was almost the last one among the team to do it. 

The guys dispersed to their lockers, like nothing strange had happened at all.

Somebody dragged the hose over from the wall spigot by the drain and the chatter of the room continued over the sound of water on concrete. My mind swam after experiencing that. My legs were rubbery as I stood up. Tommy gave me a light smack on the ass, and Joey was already caught up in a loud conversation across the room.

The corner emptied out fast, everybody back to their stalls, jerseys coming down over bare chests and bare shoulders, shorts getting yanked up, sock tape going around ankles. Two minutes later, it was a locker room again.

I was still standing in the jerk-off corner, naked, watching the last of the gooey puddle rinse down the drain.

Tommy stood over me, pulling his jersey down over his head, and he got it settled and looked down at me.

"Hey. What's your name?"

I told him.

He nodded once and slapped the door frame on his way out.

"Welcome to the team, freshman," he yelled over his shoulder as he disappeared.

I thought I was alone, before the curly haired blonde guy appeared next to me. His jersey was on, his big dick hanging out, inches from my face. Big, and thick, pale white and pink, sitting over his balls. He was shaved smooth, like a porn star. 

"You got no pubes," I said, staring right at his junk.

He chuckled, looking down at me. "Don't you like a girl shaved down there?" 

"I guess."

"So I do the same for them."

I nodded like it made sense. He pulled his underwear up right in front of me and tucked everything in carefully, that big pale dick folded down over his balls, pointing at the floor, until his waistband settled over the bulge. 

"I'm Yates, by the way," he said, reaching for his pants.

I finally snapped out of it, yanked my own uniform on alongside him, and followed him out the door.