Hi, it's me JAG. I'm posting this story under a nom-de-plume. I don't know why.
It wasn't because I was under-endowed or anything. I could hold my own in that department, of which I got plenty of practice. But I hated showering after rugby. Well ... we shouldn't say hate. That's an exaggeration. New Zealand is famous for it's natural beauty, but none of that scenery is more stunning than what I saw in an average post-game communal shower. What can anyone hate about that? Especially someone of my persuasion. By the way, in passing, my persuasion was still somewhat of a secret.
Yes, I was shy, especially about showing my ... you know .... my stuff. In fact, I tried not to shower after the game at all, if I could help it. A little bit of mud never did anyone any harm.
It was my first game for my new team. I came to the big city mainly because people said I should. They reckoned I had talent. I had to admit, scoring the winning try was no fluke. I knew exactly what I was doing.
Congratulations are different here. It was kind of weird being tapped on the bum as I walked off the field. Nothing like that ever happened with my old team. People just played for the fun of it, out in the country. There's no way a farmer's ever going to tap you on the arse. In the city, everything is more intense. A tap on the bum is considered the ultimate compliment to the big city boys, as long as there's nothing sexual in it, of course. Yes, I was pleased. I had played well. There was nothing more for me to do but to sit on the bench in the changing room, wallow in pride, take off my boots, and contemplate the showering arrangements.
"Nice game Jeff. Congratulations."
As I remained seated, slipping off my boots, I saw the outstretched hand, in my peripheral vision, out of the top of my eyes. I glanced up towards the guys midriff, and then further up to his face, and then back down to his abdomen. It was Gary Williamson, the team captain.
"Oh shit!" I wasn't sure whether I said that out loud or to myself. It was the fright of looking up and being confronted by Gary's flaccid junk, at eye level, just hanging there innocuously, inches away, that almost caused the most terrible of faux pas. Hanging there is a perfect turn of phrase. Boy did it hang. If there was ever a comparison to be made between Gary's cock and the trunk of an elephant, Gary would win every time.
I struggled to bring Gary's hand into focus. "Um .... Oh .... Hi." I didn't know where to look. In the end I turned my head to the side and upwards, my eyes directed at a blank, lifeless portion of the wall. It's not as though I didn't want to look. That is so far from the truth it isn't funny. If I had a wishlist, looking at Gary Williamson's junk without him noticing would be somewhere near winning the lottery in priority.
As I stood, I reached out my right hand and placed it in Gary's, as I was invited to do, and I felt his firm grip. My vision was still a little blurry and unfocused. I could have miscued and grabbed something else nearby, something altogether far more spongy and flexible than Gary's hand, by mistake. That may not have gone down too well. I was only twenty two. Far too young to die. Hardly a moment went by when some scantily clad, big bosomed female, was not at Gary's coattails. I couldn't imagine anyone more hetero.
"Thanks Gary ...," I said nervously.
No one should be surprised that I was so nervous. Gary can quite reasonably be described, in downunder speak, as a hunk. And didn't I know it? Even more so now, having seen him, and from a close-up perspective, as nature intended. At least I could turn my head forward now that we were both standing. Gary's junk didn't seem anywhere near as daunting from there.
"I was impressed," said Gary.
Briefly, I wondered what he was talking about. Impressed? If there's anyone that should be impressed it's me, I thought. I'd rarely seen junk so impressive, even if it wasn't for the want of trying.
"A player of your ability doesn't come around every day," Gary continued. "You're going to be a star I think Jeff. I'll tell you what. Pop into the showers with the lads. Get cleaned up. Then we'll drop into the clubrooms for a beer. You'll have the chicks eating out of the palm of your hand in no time. I'll introduce you to some of them, if you like."
"Chicks?," I asked.
"Haha, you country lads, you're all the same. Yea ... you know .... females ... women."
"Sure ... ah?," I replied, hesitantly. I had hardly managed to string two words together so far. I felt like saying 'Do I have to?', to both the shower and the chicks idea, but while deciding what to say, if anything, Gary had already patted me on the shoulder and began turning to leave.
"No need to be nervous. Our chicks are a friendly bunch. I'll catch you in the showers," Gary added, before completely turning his back.
'Catch me in the showers?' Whatever did he mean by that? Perhaps that's why I was so shy. Always thinking the worst.
I sat myself back down on the bench and slowly began to remove my socks. I was dawdling.
"You coming to the showers mate?," asked a naked, friendly teammate, on passing.
"Sure. In a minute," I replied, looking up and smiling, careful to avoid another eyeful of male genitalia. "Wouldn't the hot water have run out by now?"
"Nah ... it's never been a problem before. There's some hot tubs in there too."
Just brilliant, I thought. If anything should lead to an embarrassing erection, it will be a heap of soaped up guys writhing around naked in a hot tub.
I was lagging way behind. I was now the last person left in the changing room, and I was still completely clothed in my playing gear.
I pulled my soiled rugby jersey over my head and chucked it into my open bag on the floor beside me. Then I sat contemplating for a bit. There sure was a racket coming from the showers. I could make out a version of We are the Champions, but it bore little resemblance to the one sung by Freddie Mercury. Occasionally, a chorus of laughter drowned out the, less than tuneful, singing. I rummaged in my bag and pulled out my clothes, which were folded neatly inside a plastic bag. I didn't seem that dirty. A bit of mud on my knees perhaps, but nothing much else to write home about. The clothes would hide most of it anyway, I decided. And I've never been one to sweat much during the game.
I held my black dress pants aloft at the waist and gave them a shake, hoping to smooth out any creases. Then I laid them out carefully on the seat beside me. Remaining seated, I slid off my dirty rugby shorts and threw them on top of the already discarded jersey in my bag. Sitting there in my underpants was about as naked as I was willing to get today. I hardly knew any of these guys after all.
Just as I stood, preparing to re-clothe myself, I became aware of the sound of the cascading water in the shower area. Through the comparative silence came a shouting voice.
"Hey whizkid, Jeff mate. Get your arse over here into the showers. Come on man. Come and join in."
I instantly recognised the voice, if only for the addition of the word mate to the end of my name. It was that cheeky guy called Matt.
"Hurry up mate," Matt joked. "We don't bite. Are you scared we're going to fuck you in the arse or something man?"
"Yea, come on Jeff. Matt's just dying for a piece of your arse. He sure as hell doesn't get any action from any of the chicks," yelled someone else, to uproarious laughter. "Don't worry, it won't hurt, Matt's got a small one anyway."
How lame, I thought. For the first time I wondered whether some of these guys were complete tossers. I could put no more thought into it. There was only one way to get them off my back. I had to do it. I'm going to have to get in there with the others ... in the showers.
Today was going to be a big day. As it turned out, it was much bigger than I ever imagined.