The Original: a short work of jock nonfiction
I am standing in my living room, waiting. He’s a minute out. I'm nervous but feeling good. I am already his fantasy, his coach, his dad. I glance in the mirror. I pretty much look the part. The coach, hanging at home on a Saturday afternoon: barefoot, tapered sweats, fitted tee to show off my “dad pecs.” In my very real life, I’m 61 – super fit and looking great, but 61. Same-sex divorced, looking again for a partner, but fully committed to having fun while the search is on. I’m 61.
His flirting has been relentless, fueled by a discovery that we both had been swimmers. He was a collegiate swimmer; I, an ocean lifeguard.
He arrives, and I remind him of our agreement. It’s completely one-sided, but that’s the thrill of dominance. The expectations are crystal clear: worship, shower with praise, service, repeat. In my head, I’m doing him a service. If I take away his choice, I take away his shame. He wants to please his coach. We all had it – we lovers of athletes, anyway – that early fantasy of our coaches. It was shameful back then – just another bullet point on that long list of shame.
But shame doesn’t belong here. That sh*t gets corrected today.
I do my job, which is to sit, thighs wide. I bark orders, kiss him, push his head, rest my fingers in his mouth, instruct his performance. My every word instills confidence in this athlete. Like so many of these 28-32 yo players who come sprinting down the hook-up-app athletic field, trying to tackle their coach/dad fantasies, his feelings are powerful. He immediately starts tugging my sweats down, but oh, no, little swimmer man. Not so soon. Dad is 61 and has survived so much – losing lovers to AIDS, prostate cancer, and six decades of political American f@ckery. This coach ain’t in no hurry. He’ll be conducting a pre-game warm-up. You’re gonna love it. It’s called foreplay.
I make him earn getting to pull my sweats down. He does this by fellating me through them. Such a pleasant word, fellating. Sounds so full of grace. His mouth is certainly full, and there is an athletic grace to his every move.
For the next twenty minutes, he engages in the safe[r] sex practice of saturating my freaking coach/dad sweats. I love the warmth, the wetness, the evidence of his attraction. There’s a sweetness to it, like warm butter spilling onto my lap.
I love making him do this. It works him up and awakens the animal within. When that animal starts to growl, I finally give in. I let him pull my sweats down. As they slip past my plump but 61-year-old jock dad butt cheeks, he lets out an “Ah!” when he sees the surprise: the classic whiteness of The Original Jockstrap, inches from his swimmer jock face. A magic chord should really be heard right now, but I’ll use some words instead. For the musicians out there, imagine his “ah” as being a mezzo-piano F above middle C: flutey, girly, and 2.74 seconds long.
Coach’s membrum verile is stretching in the mesh down his left thigh – unfair, perhaps, but it’s the genetics of what you’re born with. The worshipful athlete urgently dives onto the cotton pouch, doubling down on all previous effort. He was bullied in that locker room of the past, seared forever in memory, but he is the star athlete now, owning the game, claiming his talent, impressing his coach, showing the mettle he is made of.
And now it is the coach doing the girly sighing.
Dear Reader, we must pause here for a brief commercial break: I cannot fully describe the artful design of this jockstrap, how exquisite the feeling: the wet warmth of the saturated cotton, the waffled texture, gripping, encasing your membrum verile, like a second skin, as you literally perform your own display of stunning athleticism. I’ve written a short poem for you about it. It’s called . . .
standing, one foot hiked up on the sofa
standing, one foot hiked up on the sofa; next
his head leaning over a sofa arm;
him, seated, you, standing over him,
steadying yourself, arms on the wall;
the jock itself – a kind of rope
stretched in your big hands, behind his neck,
guiding him as he looks at you and only you.
of course you’re the only other guy in the room,
but you know what I mean."
The final twenty-five seconds are epic. I swear to Gay God, it is the best BJ of my life. That’s something that Millenials and Gen Z’s need to know, and Boomers need to remember. Not all the best memories are made in the early decades. There’s today, this moment. This experience, this hour with this former college swimmer, is a personal best for me, a personal record, a PR.
Like all significant athletic achievements, it will be remembered.
He dives and latches on, one last time. It’s magic, so aggressive, two players colliding on the field, each needing his opposite, for the game to even happen. We both know, in an instant, this is the final stretch, the final play. I think, for a moment, I’m almost in love with him. But this is Grindr, so I keep my heart in check. And I’m not really his coach. I’m just a 61-year-old survivor, flexing all over my living room. But I am also no longer that bullied kid who, like this swimmer, was once so terrified of all the feelings he felt when he first encountered the locker room.
I now own that locker room.
I am now gripping his head like a basketball. The jock is wrapped around my thumb, knocking against his sweet face. I am at the threshold, but hold back, hold back, hold back. I even take my hands away and clench my fists at my sides, body tense, gripping the jock, holding back, holding back.
Until the game is over on that nonsense.
I am pressing against the back of his throat when the moment of truth arrives. But I suddenly realize this is not at all what a coach would do. A coach challenges, a coach inspires, a coach pushes limits.
A coach himself goes the extra mile.
So I don’t ask. I put my hands firmly on his head and push unapologetically into his throat.
In moments like this, I do miss my prostate, that little walnut-sized friend that used to produce such thick, milky whiteness. But I am grateful, so grateful, for the nerves and life that remain. I go white blind and feel like I’m somersaulting through space. I hold him so tight, releasing phantom rope after phantom rope down this MVP’s waiting gullet. If I had champagne, I’d pop it and pour it on his head.
Afterwards, we actually laugh. It’s a PR for him, too. He’s looking at me with such love hearts as we say goodbye at the door. Or maybe that’s the way I’m looking at him. I’m back in my sweats, shirtless, underwearless, with the jock in my hand. Play the part til the credits roll, Coach. Keep smiling, showing him how proud you are of him.
He turns back for a final wave. I smile and return it. There’s a certain swagger in his step that wasn’t there when he arrived – the unmistakable strut of the athlete who has won. I know the jockstrap is in my hand, but I swear. For a moment, a quick trick of the sun, my fantasy continues. He’s smiling, holding the jock in his teeth, for all the world to see.
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Mr. Luca was not just any gym teacher; he was known for his friendly demeanor, approachability, and dedication to his students' overall well-being. Little did I know that his expertise extended beyond the gymnasium to the realm of driving. It didn’t hurt that he was sexy as hell. I’ve had a life-long obsession with men of Italian descendant and I think it’s safe to say it all started with him.
The coach, hanging at home on a Saturday afternoon: barefoot, tapered sweats, fitted tee to show off my “dad pecs.” In my very real life, I’m 61 – super fit and looking great, but 61. Same-sex divorced, looking again for a partner . . .