I was standing over my jockstrap drawer, trying to decide.  The Red Jockmail Simplified Jockstrap? The Bright yellow jockstrap? Or maybe the blue and white Aussie Night Jockstrap?  My jockstrap fetish, for me, is something that started in high school.  It may not make sense to everybody, but the fact that I'm secretly wearing one protects me and gives me power. Wearing one in any situation, with no one around me having a clue, is a massive rush. It’s my secret. It’s my superpower. You should try it sometime, and let me know how it goes.   When I, myself, get anxious, it changes the anxiety to excitement and calms me to remember that I'm wearing some beautfiul and erotic support, underneath the cool, coach exterior.  That’s why this choice today is so important.   

I was already anxious about this afternoon. 

I don't need power. 

But I definitely need protection. 

I lift The Original from the drawer.  No, not this faithful friend, even though I wore it the first time I went to Jimmy’s apartment. He had played D1 Lacrosse, and he loved discovering the waffled pouch as he was down on his knees, unzipping my fly. It was so fly.  He sucked me through the pouch, his hot mouth chewing, licking, and nuzzling my hog. He was like a big, male cat, purring and marking its territory, making my big dad cock strain down my muscled thigh, causing me to question whether I’d ever been sucked better in my entire fucking life. 

The jock wound up on Jimmy's bedpost as we shifted to full on fucking in his bed.  Then I used it as a mask  On him, to be clear. He moaned like a girl as I stretched the pouch over his face.  I admit I pre-planned it. It's why I wore it, for God's sake.  That and the awesome feeling of his tongue wetting up my throbbing coach cock through the pouch. It wasn’t the first time I’ve used it over somebody's face, and it won’t be the last. It's a Coach Rick signature move.  Jimmy had been teasing my cock relentlessly for a solid week, texting  how much he wanted it, how he wanted to please it, how he wanted to ride it, how he wanted to be a good boy.  Before we even met, he sent me over two dozen pictures and videos. Of himself, to be clear.  It seemed only fitting that he should have to go face-to-pouch for a few rounds with his sweet jock boy face exactly where my big bat and balls have been.  

We were facing a mirror as I put it over his head. He looked so fucking hot, the white, waffled mesh stretching from ear to ear across his nose and the bottom of the jock in his mouth.  I leaned forward, my lips against his ear, holding his chin in one hand, the straps of the jock with the other. I cocked his head slightly, here and there, checking the angles in the mirror.  He had a movie star's jaw line.  I loved that chin.  I held him by it, back in the living room, my other hand on the back of his head, guiding him after the jock came off and he he was finally allowed to suck me.  I'd held him by the chin and back of the head as I brought him all the way down my eight, thick inches to my pubes.  

I was falling in love with this boy. 

I put my lips against his ear so he could feel them as I whispered.  “Jimmmmmy!" I breathed, far more whispery than was necessary.  "God damn look at ya, son! You are sooooooooo fuckin hot!” I licked his ear hard, leaned back, held onto the straps like they were the reins of a horse, and proved for the next six minutes that I fucking meant what I said.  Most coaches are men and women of our words.  Words change lives. They launch careers and new journeys. They make marriages and they destroy them. They inspire, they correct, and they drive you to be more than you ever imagined. That’s why, the third time Jimmy and I were together, there were very few words, and it was so right.  

The words were being said with our bodies. The physical communication was everything. It was a love fuck. I knew it, and he knew it.  We were missionary, and the fuck I gave was a labor of love.  Both of us were totally shocked when I was getting close, and we both almost said the words, “I love you” at the same time.

Almost. 

But didn’t.

We almost loved each other.  

I covered both our words with "I love . . . this so much!"

I asked myself later what had held me back, and the answer was clear.   I wasn’t yet trusting him to be solid about his feelings.  I asked myself what had stopped him and got the same answer.  

I lifted two more possible undie choices from the drawer: the blue and black Jockmail mesh jock brief and the red and black Jockmail Camo Mesh Jock.   No, not the camo mesh.  Too sexy for this occasion.  Then yet another caught my eye: the Jockmail Candy Jockstrap, the black one with the green, yellow, gray, and black stripes. I had gotten it for myself for Christmas, intending to wear it to a big ole gay, hot New Year’s sex party, but then I came down with fucking Covid, so it was still in the package.  Still, even though I love this little whimsical fucker, it’s just not right for this.

Ain’t no candy gettin' eaten today. 

I checked the at-home Covid test, on the dresser: only that one little C line, meaning I was negative.  I was still feeling like shit, but at least I could feel confident about riding the train into Manhattan,  without worrying that I might be infecting somebody. 

What a losing streak of illness Coach has recently been on.  Got that evil Rona right before New Years, rode through a tsunami of symptoms, got over the symptoms, rebounded two days later.  Then here we are, almost at the last week of January, and I've still got weird, lingering weirdness happening in my body.  But what the hell.  I'm not infecting anybody.  And I can rally to get on a train for a quick meet up.

I settled on the Red Jockmail Simplified Jockstrap. Yeah, let's keep this simple.  I had been partial to red since that weird Christmas dream I had, the one where I was a steam punk Santa, fucking all my twinks and the narrator in a locker room. To be continued.

I glanced out the window. I really had to get going.  It was already starting to snow, and I didn’t want to miss the train.  

I threw on some jeans, put on my letterman jacket and Canadian Pook hat. I grabbed the holiday bag with Jimmy’s “presents” and headed to the door. This gift had to get given. It was time. I paused, then walked back to the bedroom to the jock drawer.  I pulled out The Original and added it to the bag. 

Might as well include that, too.  

I headed to the door again, my heart racing like crazy.  I could easily decide not to go.  I could say I wasn't feeling well, because of the Covid, or it's just too much to be negotiating with the uncertainties of this coming storm.  I closed my eyes and stood there. I let my hand lightly touch my crotch. I closed my eyes and  visualized the jock underneath, the Red Simplified Jockmail Jockstrap. its royal red pouch cradles my big cock, keeping me safe, quelling my anxiety. Keeping the peace, between me and the world. 

I really love the waistband, too. It hugs with such perfection. 

I take a deep breath and think I'm going to have to go really slowly to the station. The snow was really starting to come down.

 

STAY TUNED NEXT WEDNESDAY 1/24 FOR PART TWO OF COACH RICK'S RESOLUTIONS!

 

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— Hunter Frederick