Shorts and Skins

Part I: A Cruel Joke

I never thought something as simple as wearing a jock strap could be so… consequential.

It all begins with my large group of guy friends. There were roughly 20 of us, give or take, who lived in the same neighborhood. Being young was a great time for us. Constant game nights, outdoor play, and a plethora of fun activities ensued. Many of us lost touch towards middle school, but you were bound to always have at least one of the guys in every one your classes.

We may have grown further with time. But on one summer day, every year, we all recouped on a rudimentary grass football field and had a friendly game.

But all good things come to an end, and the final game rolled around. The biggest pack of us had just finished our first year of college, the older guys attended in-state University, and the straggler crew had all recently turned 18 and graduated high school. But a few guys were planning on transferring out of state that upcoming fall and we were determined to have our final game.

Zane and Russel, my closest and most consistent friends would serve as captains for the final game. It was agreed that since nobody could find the flag football waist straps that we would instead color coordinate. Team white and team blue. But unfortunately for me, a miscommunication between Zane and Russel would lead to the most embarrassing day of my life.

I was decked out in all white from head to toe. A white headband kept my curly head of sand-colored hair in place. A white tank top framed my humble yet toned arms, and a pair of white Adidas shorts accentuated my sinewy thighs. What I intended for nobody else to see was a white jockstrap. The prior year I wore a loose pair of boxers, and needless to say my nether regions were flopping to and fro the entire time. I wouldn’t make the same mistake this time, but a mistake was made nonetheless.

Once everyone arrived the miscommunication became abundantly clear. Every single person was wearing white. Zane spoke up and insisted the solution was a simple one. “Why don’t we just play shirts and skin? My team can be shirts if ya’ll want.”

The entire time that Zane spoke, Russel was staring in my direction. He stared not at my face or even my slightly protruding bulge (for which I hadn’t expected would be so prominent in these shorts) but rather he stared at the side of my hip. As some of the guys started to lift the bottoms of their shirts to prepare for shirts and skins, I looked down to see what Russel was fixated on. In the sunlight you could clearly see the white outline of my jockstrap against my hip. I blushed a little realizing that my rather minimal underwear, if you could call it that, was on display. I thought I was in the clear, though. While I might’ve been a little self conscious, nobody was going to see it. Or so I thought.

Russel stepped in to ruin that hope for me. “Wait, wait, wait. That’s an unfair advantage.” All of us stared at him confused. “Once the skins team gets all sweaty they’ll be way too slippery, dude. We’ll slide right off in a tackle.” Everyone nodded their head in agreement.

“So what should we do instead?” Zane asked in response.

“Well. I guess all that one team can do at this point is take their shorts off.” My heart instantly sank at this suggestion. “Shorts and skins, we’ll call it.” I was nervous but skeptical. Who would want to play football in their boxers? And what if John or Enrique were commando? The two were notorious for that. Some of the guys looked doubtful, that was until Zane bent over and dropped his shorts to his ankles.

I’d seen Zane in his underwear before at sleepovers. But a poorly lit bedroom was more forgiving than a cloudless sky. Through his hot pink American Eagle underwear there wasn’t much left to the imagination. They were skin tight and perhaps a size too small. The only spot they didn’t hug his skin was around the crotch where his bulge protruded out far and wide. I could see exactly where his shaft began, and where his very distinct tip ended. I was one part aroused and one part panicking as my entire team dropped their pants. I saw grey boxers, I saw green boxers. I saw that Rafael had a surprisingly small bulge, and that Zaheem truly did have big dick energy. And I saw that the worst was coming true.

Everyone’s shorts were off and they were waving them in the air while doing sensual hip swings. Russel was laughing and cheering jovially with everybody else, until he locked his sights on me once more. “Hey what about you, Aaron?” I doubled down in fear and froze in place. My mind fumbled for an excuse. Surely I could reveal why I didn’t want to strip, but I thought that might only egg them on.

And then I had it. I had come up with a perfect excuse, but I can never recall what it was. Because before I could say a single syllable, Zane had grabbed my shorts and yanked them all the way down to my ankles and was squatted behind me. For a slight moment I felt the breeze on my ass, and all eyes were on my bulge. Jockstraps are not meant to hide much, so the fabric was not only thin, but it was partially see through just as my white shorts had been.

Instinctively I bent over to pull my shorts back on. But Zane was eye level with my ass, so when I bent over, he got a crystal clear and sunlight illuminated view of my shaved asshole. I managed to get them back up, but the damage was done. I tried to my best to recover. “Ya’ll, I can’t play like that. I’ll switch teams.”

“What?” Russel exclaimed. “Bro, we’ve been playing these teams since the third grade. You cant switch on us like that.”

“Ok. Well. Then how about you guys be skins.”

Oliver, the oldest of the group spoke out. “Sorry buddy. No can do. These shorts have built in spandex. At least you’ve got something to cover up.”

“Not much!” I protested.

Zane set a firm hand on my shoulder. “We’ve already seen what you’ve gone on, man. Just play the game. You don’t wanna be a downer on our last one.” I paused and struggled to grasp on to any other excuse. “Guys. I think he needs some encouragement… TAKE THEM OFF! TAKE THEM OFF!”

“No. No you guys seriously!” But it happened anyway. In an instant my entire team was hoarded around me. I was pinned and squirming around. I don’t know who managed to get my shorts off, but I do know I never saw them again.

So there I was. Standing in an open football field with my 20 childhood friends. Wearing only shoes, a tank top, and a white jock strap. It could’ve ended with this cruel joke, but it only got worse from there.