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Locker Room Circlejerks

Chapter 2: Shower Party

I followed Yates down the hallway from the locker room to the field, our cleats clicking on the concrete, and my legs still felt rubbery under me, like I'd been running sprints, instead of what I'd actually done back there. He walked a half step ahead, which put his shoulders and the back of his neck right in front of me, blonde curls sticking out damp from under his collar. His neck really was as wide as his head.

He talked about the other team, how their line was slow and their quarterback was a "pussy", like nothing had happened in the locker room at all.

I opened my mouth to ask if they did that before every game, but I swallowed instead, self-conscious about sounding too new.

He caught me staring at him from behind. Without even turning his head, he said, "You good back there? Quit staring at my ass, freshman."

I spent most of the game on the bench, but at least I was in full uniform. I sat with my elbows on my knees, watching everyone get rough with the other team. Tommy played every snap. Joey rotated in and out, jogging past my end of the bench every time. 

A lot of guys waved at their parents and their girlfriends and friends in the stands, but I was distracted. I kept catching myself staring at Tommy's thighs working in those tight pants and remembering being held between them, bare, with his forearm across my chest, and a heavy pressure up the middle of my back. Coach put me in late for a short stretch and I made one play that didn't embarrass me. It felt like a victory of its own. Coming off the field, Tommy smacked the back of my helmet from behind, hard enough to rock my head a bit. We won. 

Joey jogged past and muttered, "Win means showers, freshman. Hope that hole's ready for round two." He smacked me on the ass and then jogged away. 

I walked into the locker room half hard in my jock, holding my helmet in front of me. "Ready as ever," I mumbled to nobody.

Inside, it was twice as loud as it had been before the game. Guys banged helmets into their stalls and yelled the score back and forth. Coach stood up front at the whiteboard and gave us maybe four sentences about a good team effort, film review expectations on Monday, bus time for the away tourney next weekend. He finished quickly, capped his marker and left, pulling the door shut behind him without looking at any of us.

Guys peeled off at their stalls in twos and threes and walked back bare with towels over their shoulders. I set my helmet on the shelf, and I didn't turn to face my hook. I pulled my jersey and pads over my head in one sweaty tangle, pushed my pants and jock down together, and kicked the whole pile under the bench, facing the room the entire time.

"Any day now, freshman," somebody yelled from the shower doorway, laughing.

I walked into the spray naked and half hard, and I didn't cover it with a hand or anything else. Joey was under the first shower head, soaked already, his dark happy trail plastered flat and shiny down his stomach.

The shower room was one open stretch of tile, shower heads lining both walls, and the team packed in under the spray with steam climbing off everybody's shoulders. Tommy stood with his back flat against the tile under one head, facing out at everybody, water running down his chest hair, his big dick hanging heavy out in the open. He spotted me and waved me over.

"Freshman. C'mere. We gotta fix that off-hand disaster from earlier. You jerked me off like you'd never done it before."

A couple guys snickered.

"Well I've only done it on myself."

I stepped in front of Tommy, close enough that his spray caught my chest too, water bouncing off his shoulders and hitting me in the face. He pushed his hips off the tile and his dick bobbed up heavy between us, thick and starting to flush red, and I reached out and took it in my dominant hand this time.

"I gotchyu," Yates said behind me.

He came up on my shoulder, his chest pressing wet against my shoulder blade, blonde curls flattened dark against his forehead, and he wrapped his fingers around my wrist. His hand swallowed it whole. He peeled my fist open against Tommy's shaft and rebuilt my grip finger by finger, a full wrap, higher up than I would normally hold myself, my thumb curled over the head.

"Like this, bro. Not like you're starting a lawnmower."

He dragged my fist down the whole length slowly, then squeezed it back up toward the head, and in a weird way I actually recognized the stroke. It was how Tommy had jerked me off on the bench before the game, down slowly, squeeze up at the top, and now I was giving it back to him, with Yates's hand driving mine. I felt like I was learning cursive again.

Yates dragged my fist through a few more strokes and let go. I kept it up on my own, down slowly, squeeze at the top, and found a rhythm that had Tommy's stomach tensing under the wet hair, his jaw slackening against the tile. I was hard too, sticking straight out under the spray, and Yates stayed right where he was, his smooth shaved dick pressed warm against my hip from behind. Tommy grunted something like "yeah" and knocked his head back against the wall. 

"Freshman's got hands," somebody yelled through the steam. 

"Yates charges for lessons," somebody else called, and the room laughed.

"Tommy should be the one paying," Joey said as he came through the spray behind me with a pump of body wash already foaming in his palm. 

"Round two, freshman," he announced to the whole room, loudly enough that a couple heads turned under their own shower heads. "I'm not done with that ass yet." 

I didn't turn around. I kept my fist on Tommy, down slowly, squeeze at the top, and I leaned forward and planted my free hand flat on his chest, wet hair mashing under my palm, which pushed my hips back and stuck my butt out behind me. Yates slid off my back and settled against my side, his arm still warm on mine.

Joey crouched behind me, pulling one cheek open with his non-soapy hand while the other started rubbing sudsy circles right on my hole, the same circles he'd traced on me on the bench before the game. I kept my fist moving on Tommy and pushed my hips back onto Joey's hand. He pressed in, and his fingertip stretched me open slowly, like warm water washing over cold skin. When it popped past the ring it stung, and I sucked air through my teeth. All I could do was relax and let it happen. The sting faded, and my hole clenched up and squeezed him like it was trying to strangle his finger, and he just slid it in deeper.

"I didn't have any ass hair when I was a freshman either," Joey said behind me, making Yates chuckle. 

Joey took his time, working the finger deeper while my hole clenched and clutched at him, and when he hooked it forward he found a spot that shot pleasure straight up through my dick. My legs wobbled and my fist stalled on Tommy's shaft. Tommy's big hand clamped over mine and dragged it back into the rhythm, down slowly, squeeze at the top, like he refused to lose his stroke over my lack of attention. 

"Ten bucks the freshman doesn't outlast Tommy," somebody yelled through the steam. 

"Nobody's dumb enough to take that bet," Yates said. Joey giggled behind me, the same giggle he'd buzzed into my hole on the bench before the game.

Tommy's breathing shortened first, little punches of air through his nose that I could hear over the spray. His big hand clamped over mine again and rode along with my strokes, speeding them up, and his thighs tensed hard against the tile. 

"Here it comes," he grunted, and he pushed his hips off the wall and blasted onto me, several hard pulses that splattered my stomach and lower chest, hot on my skin for a second before the water started rinsing it down my body in white strings. I kept squeezing him until he hissed and peeled my fist off himself.

Yates's arm came around from my side and his fingers wrapped me up in that same full grip, thumb curled over the head, his hand warm and huge around me, his other hand on my hip. He dragged down slowly and squeezed up toward the tip, the stroke he'd built my fist into on Tommy, and my knees nearly buckled on the second pass. 

Joey's finger stayed buried deep in me, hooked forward onto that spot, and between the two of them it only took a few strokes before my stomach tensed and my toes curled against the wet tile. I finished with my hole clenching down on Joey's finger in waves, every wave milking another pulse out of me, and I squirted hard onto the tile between Tommy's feet and up his shins, white ropes that the water chased toward the drain almost as fast as they hit. Tommy gripped my shoulder and held me upright while I pulsed, and I felt my heartbeat in my face.

I sagged forward until my forehead nearly touched Tommy's chest, his wet chest hair an inch from my nose, and his big hand caught the back of my neck and held me, fingers squeezing firmly into the muscle while the spray kept hitting my shoulders. My knees had gotten wobbly. Joey eased his finger out of me slowly, and my hole clenched down on nothing. Nobody had warned me how empty that would feel, like losing a piece of my soul down the drain with all the white goo. I stood under the water and breathed until my legs came back to life.

Around us a couple of other guys were finishing themselves off too, hunched under their own shower heads, squirting onto the tile and letting the spray carry it off. 

"Nice distance," somebody said in a deep voice. 

Tommy slapped my shoulder twice, firmly, the same two smacks he'd given me on the bench before the game.

Guys shut off their water one at a time and drifted back to the stalls with towels over their shoulders, yelling the score back and forth again. Tommy wrung the water out of his chest hair and walked out bare, and the room moved on to arguing about other things.

I was toweling off at my stall when Yates dropped onto the bench next to me, towel around his neck, blonde curls still dripping, everything between his legs still hanging out in the open.

"You know you still owe us a comparison, right?"

"What?"

"Size contest. Every new guy does one. You've seen it."

I had seen it. And my brain immediately lined the whole team up for me, Tommy's heavy one, Joey's with the dark bush climbing up his stomach, Yates's big pale shaved one, the lanky guy's monster from the bench, all of them standing in a row, and me at the end with my smooth balls and my small, but proud bush. I had measured myself exactly once, alone in my room with a ruler, and never against a lineup of other guys.

"Alright," I said.

Yates stood up and slapped my shoulder. "And the loser has to lick balls. Like, everyone who beats him."