The Higher Education of Matt Griffith
Chapter 14: Locker Room Rendezvous
Monday, September 4, 1995
Copyright 2024. All characters in this story are fictional and are not meant to represent any living persons.
Author’s Note: This is by far the longest chapter yet. I considered breaking this into two chapters, but felt it needed to remain uncut. I would appreciate feedback regarding that decision.
If you want to jump to the eroticism and sex, skip the first two vignettes.
***
OC scoffed at Labor Day. Their puritan, Capitalist god rewarded thrift and industry, frowned on the sort of sloth that would celebrate the proletariat. Academic life must continue as if the Holiday did not exist. So, of course, Matt had tests in both Math and History. Anything less would be sacrilege.
It would be a slog of a day: the two tests, cleaning the locker room after practice, Matt’s first date with Ava. The only bright spot was a planned evening meetup with William in the locker room. Matt had wanted to get William naked there ever since his wet dream.
William thought—might have been led to believe, by Matt—that they were meeting just to talk, that the locker room as venue would allow Matt to finish up some of his cleaning duties. Hooking up would be unwelcome news to William, there being the little issue of the club’s handshake rule.
Matt needed William to be in a generous mood, and the hoped-for sex would help with that. Matt had a favor to ask. So, yeah, he was being dishonest and manipulative. Not his finest moment.
Nor was Matt particularly proud of what he was attempting now, in the short break between English and Math. He had arranged to meet Debbie for coffee and had invited Idabel to join them. Matt had a plan, but wanted Debbie to think it was her own idea. Idabel could help with that. More deception and manipulation.
“Shitty” was another word for it.
The cafeteria was nearly empty, the breakfast crowd having decamped. Matt claimed a small corner table.
Idabel arrived, grinning like he had won the lottery. He carried a mug of coffee and three pieces of cherry pie, which were stacked, wrapped in napkins. “Leftovers. Manager hooked me up. He’s from McCurtain County. Small world. Want some?”
Matt shook his head. Idabel was a bulky, solid guy, which befitted a full-back. Matt couldn’t afford to pack on pounds, even if they were muscle. He needed speed and agility on the field. Besides, Idabel had not thought to bring utensils or plates.
Matt smiled when he saw Debbie approaching. She had the wide, swinging gait of an apex predator—not the T-rex from Jurassic Park, but rather Barney the dinosaur. She wore purple slacks and a green summer sweater. A rope of white, plastic beads jangled from her neck. Her large breasts made her arms look disproportionately small. Her eyes lit up at the sight of Matt.
Matt gave her a big hug, introduced her to Idabel.
“I’ve seen you on the soccer field,” Debbie said to Idabel after she’d appropriated a seat. “What’s your real name, hon? ‘Idabel’ is no name for a strappin’ fella like you.”
“Tony. Tony Gobles.”
Debbie held her coffee mug with both hands, took a small sip. “What’s yer mama call you?”
Idabel gave a sheepish grin. “Anthony.”
Debbie eyed him over her mug, the most serious Matt had seen her. “Anthony’s a little fella name. I like ‘Tony.'”
Idabel’s wide smile nearly cracked his face. He was “Team Debbie” now, too.
Matt spoke up. They didn’t have much time before his math test, plus Debbie had to get back to work. “I want to thank you for coming to both exhibition games,” he said to Debbie. “That meant a lot!” It had. No denying that. Her presence had not come without complications, though. Coach had been furious when she’d shown up for the second game, leading the crowd in chanting for Mustang—again. Matt was under no illusions: a third strike and he would be out, as in out of the team. He didn’t want Debbie to know that. Hence this little charade.
Idabel spoke on cue. “I wish I had someone cheering for me like that. I can’t get rid of this stupid nickname until I score or block a score.”
Debbie patted Idabel’s hand. “Well then I’ll cheer for you, too, Tony!”
Idabel thanked her, offered her a piece of pie, which she declined.
Idabel peeled the napkin wrapping from one of the pie wedges. Cherry filling had bled through the napkin in places. Little paper splotches dotted the wedge like toilet paper stuck to razor cuts. Idabel didn’t care. He held the wedge like a slice of pizza, aimed at his mouth.
Matt kicked Idabel’s shin under the table, reminding him to stick to the plan. He could wolf pie later. The large clock hanging on the far wall showed 9:10. Math class—with its test—began in 20 minutes. In T minus 9 hours and 40 minutes William would be in the locker room, a thin cotton tunalı escort towel clutched around his skinny, pale frame, his dark eyes registering that it was inevitable that his ass would shortly be penetrated, the only uncertainty being whether it would be from behind as he braced himself against the lockers or missionary style on one of the benches. Or maybe both.
Idabel set the pie down reluctantly. “Actually ma’am, that might make the other fellas jealous. Every player wants game time. Especially since we’ve lost two exhibition games. Rooting for any one of us feels like rooting against the guys stuck on the bench.”
Debbie paused. Her eyes registered surprise. She had not considered this.
Matt hated causing Debbie any discomfort. But it was either this or the brutal truth that she was the reason he was cleaning the locker room, that he might get booted from the team. That news would devastate her.
Debbie stared into her mug, mulling this new information. Suddenly she slapped her hands down on the table, causing their coffee mugs to bounce. “You boys need a Den Mother! Not just you two lugs. All y’all do!”
Idabel shot Matt a sly “Mission Accomplished” wink.
“Wonderful idea!” Idabel said to Debbie. “It would probably help if you met us all,” he hinted. “Like off campus… Somewhere cozy… With food… Real food—not like this lousy pie.”
Matt considered kicking Idabel again. Debbie’s feeding the team was not part of the plan.
Debbie loved the idea. She came to life, planning the team party she would host at her house, telling them she would make real pie—not one where the filling came from a can. Oh, and they could meet her cats! Oh, maybe they could make it a cookout! Or maybe that would be their follow-up party. She was in heaven, already planning a Christmas Secret Santa gathering.
Matt envisioned a future where all his teammates referred to Debbie as “mom.” He would be the first.
***
Hours later—after a long day, Matt was back in the cafeteria, there to meet another female: his new girlfriend, Ava. His jaw clenched at the mere thought of it. Given a choice between this date versus fishing his teammates’ sloughed-off pubes out of shower room drain screens, he’d choose the latter.
Nothing personal against Ava. She was a beautiful girl. She had all the curves straight boys liked. Long, shiny black hair. Matt understood why Molly was enamored of her—their being lesbians and all. And Ava seemed like a nice enough person.
It was the whole fake girlfriend thing that rankled Matt. Pretending to be straight. He’d thought he was done with that the day he tossed his Dallas Cheerleaders poster in the trash.
Too bad. Matt had no choice in this matter.
That much had been clear when William and Molly had negotiated the terms of this little arranged marriage. This whole scheme was their brainchild, which was weird enough considering those two were oil and water. Better yet: vinegar and baking soda, i.e. explosive when mixed.
William referred to Molly as “Moldy Ringworm,” a nasty derivative of Molly Ringwald’s name, she of Sixteen Candles fame, which Matt had needed explained to him, his having been, oh, nine years old when that movie came out. And he still didn’t get why Ms. Ringwald merited the negativity. Maybe it had something to do with her being in some breakfast club?
Molly’s epithet for William, “King Billy,” was a little more on-the-nose Matt had to admit.
The cafeteria bristled with students. It was peak dinner time. Perfect. Matt and Ava were here to be seen. Per the contract. Once a week for the first month. Twice a week for months two and three. Breakup allowed after three months unless both sides—William and Molly–agreed to an extension. Matt and Ava wouldn’t get a vote.
Why Molly wanted her girlfriend in a fake relationship was straight forward. Molly had become concerned by all the guys sniffing around Ava’s skirt, flirting with her, pestering her, not taking “no” for an answer. And then William showed up with his proposition because he was worried about all the girls who would be auditioning to be the mother of Matt’s children. Future tense. Because here was the thing: William had gone to Molly before the Friends’ game, before Ruth’s little stunt with the posterboard sign. As in before any girls had made any moves on Matt.
That was William, thinking ahead, worried lest Matt’s sexuality come into question.
Molly had wanted to assess Matt for herself, to see if he was good enough to be her girlfriend’s fake boyfriend. So, that first SGA meeting, the one where she sat by Matt, had been intentional on her part.
Matt was pleased that he had passed Molly’s test. He liked her. They sat together at last week’s SGA meeting as well.
Matt made a beeline to the first empty table he saw. Ava trailed in his wake. Matt’s mind was in another time zone: an hour in the future, tunceli escort when he would meet William in the locker room, see William’s hole for the first time.
Matt plopped into a seat.
Ava took a seat facing him. “Heads up,” she whispered. “Your mom and my dad are watching.”
Matt scanned the faces around them. Sure enough, two tables away, to Matt’s right, William presided over a theatre crowd. Molly sat at a table on Matt’s left, nodding absently while some nerdy guy—probably one of her Talon News buddies–babbled. Both William and Molly had positioned themselves with strategic views of the dining area. Matt felt them watching his every move.
Moves Matt would NOT be making had also been negotiated—at Matt’s and Ava’s insistence. No physicality. No hugs. No hand holding. Not even a peck on the cheek. If people saw them together and jumped to the wrong conclusions, so be it. But Matt and Ava would not say or do anything to nudge people towards those conclusions.
“You referred to Molly as your dad,” Matt whispered. “Does that mean she’s your group’s Godfather?”
Ava shook her head and laughed. “No. We’re not into any of that cloak-and-dagger Mafia drama. I was just referencing the fact that she’s the masculine one and William is the effeminate one.”
Matt laughed. He couldn’t argue with that.
“Watch William’s face,” Ava said. She reached over to Matt’s tray, picked up a piece of fried okra, and popped it in her mouth. This was a throwback to Johnnie’s when Molly had helped herself to Matt’s leftover fries.
“See what I mean?” William had whispered loudly to Matt. “I swear it’s a lesbian thing. They hoover up food.”
Matt watched William watching Ava eat the okra, saw William roll his eyes, this being confirmation of everything William thought true of lesbians.
Matt laughed.
Time passed quickly.
***
After wishing Ava goodnight, Matt hustled to the building known to students as the Barn, OC’s original fieldhouse. Until 1970 when it got demoted to barn status, replaced by the Payne Athletic Center (PAC).
These days the athletic offices and glamorous sports occupied the PAC. Softball and soccer shared the Barn—a lonely outpost on the far northwest corner of campus.
Matt retrieved a duffel bag from the back of his Jeep and squeezed into the Barn 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.
Matt flipped only the switches necessary to light his way down the hall to the men’s locker room. He hurried. William would be here any minute.
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 a towel slung over his shoulder. Matt had remembered William’s affinity for athletic supporters.
Once the door closed behind him, 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, turgutlu escort 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 is 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. Matt 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. Matt 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 is time to release the Kraken. His name for it, not mine. We all grab a seat 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.
Matt kept his tone conversational. “It’s like a magic trick or something. 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. 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?” Matt asked.
William shook his head.
“It was after that first time we went to that country road. After you gave me my first blowjob.” 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 like Winnie the Pooh’s friend “Roo” spying on the world from “Kanga’s” pouch.
On second thought, Matt scratched the cutesy Kanga-Roo, Pooh-themed simile. He might not sport a Kraken, but his cock was no baby marsupial either.
“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.”
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