Chapter 17 Locker Room Rendezvous
After wishing Ava goodnight, Matt hustled to the building known to students affectionately as Knobby Knoll, MCU’s original fieldhouse, long since eclipsed by the glitzy Willis Athletic Center (WAC).
He retrieved a duffel bag from the back of his Jeep and squeezed into the building through a small side door, using the key Coach had lent him. The building was empty, spooky dark, there being few windows, none in this back hall. The air was warm and sticky after hours of non-circulation.
He flipped only the switches necessary to light his way to the men’s locker room.
He hurried. William would be there any minute.
William thought—might have been led to believe—that they were meeting just to talk, that the locker room as venue would allow Matt to finish up some of his cleaning duties.
Matt had other plans. So, yeah, he was being dishonest and manipulative. Not his finest moment, but it was for a good cause.
The locker room was a no-frills shoebox, exactly what one would expect from a 1950’s shoestring budget. Cinderblock walls painted in the school colors. Linoleum floors curling up at the edges.
The front of the shoebox was the changing area where guys either stripped off their street clothes and kitted out for practice or games, or where they returned from the showers, toweled off, and changed back into their street clothes.
Either way naked bodies, male bravado, horseplay.
This area sported a long bank of rusting lockers on one side and a little vanity with two sinks on the other. Eight benches were bolted to the floor.
The back of the shoebox was divided between the shower and bathroom facilities.
The shower room was a tiled cave, its open mouth yawning to the dressing area. Twelve showerheads, some perpetually leaky, spurted lukewarm water onto sweaty, jostling male athletes.
The bathroom facilities consisted of a couple urinals and toilet stalls, those stalls being the only spaces in the shoebox where guys had any modicum of privacy—modicum being the operative word since everyone offered commentary on the sounds and smells emanating from them.
A lone ceiling fan dangled precariously over the dressing area. It groaned to life, its dust-clabbered blades creaking.
Matt set the duffel bag by one of the benches, its props easily accessible.
He stepped to his locker, stripped, and hung his clothes on the hook.
He slipped into a jock strap, arranged himself (no Downward Dog position tonight), and tousled his hair for good measure.
Then he placed a clean towel on the bench near the duffel bag, slung another over his shoulder, and waited for William’s knock at the side door.
It was showtime.
When William arrived, Matt greeted him wearing only the jock strap and the towel slung over his shoulder. He had remembered William’s affinity for athletic supporters.
William stood in the dimly lit hall, appraising Matt.
“It’s Labor Day, dahling,” William drawled. “No wearing white until Easter.”
William’s words caught Matt by surprise.
His mind scrambled for an appropriate rejoinder but came up blank.
He remembered having seen a catfish once, flopping on a riverbank, its gills gasping for water but finding only air, its mouth curled in a silent scream.
He was that fish, as would be any gay man unable to make witty repartee.
“At least lose that garish white towel,” said William, filling the awkward silence. “The jock is technically innerwear, although I’m not sure it’s classified as such when it is the only garment one is wearing.”
Matt dropped the towel to the floor, there to join his dignity and self-respect, the latter two having been discarded the moment he embraced this plan to lie to, and manipulate, his friend.
At least he could retrieve the towel later, hopefully post-seduction.
He bolted the door and led William down the hall.
“You clean this place in your jock strap?” William asked as they walked.
Matt shook his head, cast around for a quick lie to patch the leaking boat of his earlier falsehood that he needed William to meet him here because he had to clean the locker room. “I finished sooner than planned. I was preparing to shower.”
Shit. He realized his story made no sense. Why would he change into a jock strap to shower? He trudged down the hall, dreading William’s next words.
“So, DAHLING,” William’s voice dripped sarcasm, “your poor Godmother’s confused. Since the day you arrived on campus, all of us girls have tittered at the many stories of how you strut to your dorm shower in the buff. Heady gossip, all things considered.”
When Matt did not laugh at the quip, William elaborated. “Head. As in military slang for a bathroom. Plus, penises have heads. Head-y, get it?”
“Good one,” Matt said. He was the floundering catfish again.
William finished his point. “So, I’m baffled, then, that Here, Alone, At night, you would put on a jock strap before showering.”
“That makes two of us,” Matt conceded. Luckily, they had arrived at the locker room. He ushered William inside.
“Have a seat,” Matt said. He gestured to the benches.
William remained standing. He wrinkled his nose, sampled the air. “This place reeks of …” Sniff. “Mildew…” Sniff. “Urine…” Sniff. “And feet!”
Matt leaned back against the lockers, trying to regain control of the narrative. “Just a few hours ago all the guys on the team were in here stripping down.” Matt patted the locker on his left. “Caleb Sanders. You know him?”
William nodded.
“This is Caleb’s locker,” Matt said. “Every day after practice, Caleb stands here, hooks his fingers in the waistband of his jock, and announces it’s time to release the Kraken. His name for it, not mine. We all grab seats on the benches, like kids at the circus.”
William’s interest was piqued. He sat on the edge of a bench, crossed his legs primly, held his back straight. “Do go on,” he urged.
“It’s like a magic trick or something,” Matt said.
“We’re all gathered around, looking at this little, unimpressive bulge in a jockstrap.
A nib, like what girls have in their training bras.
And then, Abracadabra! Caleb peels off his jock and the Kraken just sucks in air and rehydrates in milliseconds.
Like how the Big Bang happened and the universe grew from a speck into, well, the UNIVERSE! ”
William’s eyes went wide. “Girth?” he asked. “From a strictly scientific standpoint. Hot dog or kielbasa?”
“He calls it the Kraken, not the inchworm. No one can accuse him of false advertising.”
Matt continued. “And the reverse is just as mysterious. I’ve sat on the bench you’re on and watched Caleb undress and manhandle the Kraken into his jock. It takes both hands, sometimes a crowbar. Eventually, the thing just goes in the pouch and decompresses.”
It was William’s turn to smile. “That’s a juicy morsel, dahling—pun intended obviously. You know, I’m friends with Caleb’s girlfriend. She’s determined to remain a virgin until her wedding night, even longer if she can help it. For a protestant, she draws a lot of inspiration from Mary.”
Matt snickered. Now seemed the right moment to nudge the conversation in the direction he had planned.
“Did I ever tell you about the wet dream I had about you?” he asked.
William shook his head.
Matt described the dream, how it was set in this locker room, how he and his teammates had clamored to see William’s hole. How all of them had wanted to fuck that hole.
“Even Caleb?” William asked.
“Even Caleb. The Kraken was hungry.”
Just recounting the dream gave Matt a boner. His cockhead peeked over the top of his jockstrap.
“I climaxed just as you dropped your towel and showed us your hole.” Matt paused, waiting for William to connect the dots. The hook was baited, dangling in the water.
“And you brought me here to pick up where your dream left off?” William asked. “Lied to lure me here?”
Madd nodded. He lowered the waistband of his jock to reveal his full erection. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”
William blinked in surprise. His long lashes fanned the air. “Sadly, dahling, I have an objection to finishing our business at the present time.”
Matt returned the jock’s waistband to its normal position but freed his cock from the constraining pouch.
“What’s your objection?” he asked, even though he knew what the answer would be. His cock stood proudly, leaning William’s direction, as if also eager to hear his answer.
“You and I cannot have another hookup until after you’ve hooked up at least once with each of the other members,” William said. “Remember that? The Handshake Rule?”
William sighed, stood slowly. “As far as hooking up tonight goes, I’d say it is ‘Game. Set. Match.’ The Handshake Rule wins this round.”
Matt had expected this. Not just expected it but planned his rebuttal.
“Not so fast, sister,” Matt grinned. He motioned for William to sit back down.
William resumed his perch reluctantly. He was not accustomed to taking orders.
“Let’s play a little game, shall we?” Matt said. He did not wait for William’s assent. “It’s called Handshake Rule-ette.”