Locker Room Visits (Part 13)
Question:
Listen, dude, if you stop writing these stories my balls will burst. I need them, man! PLEEZ? –Silver Fox
Response:
more….more……more…..more….. please!!!!!! don’t ever stop writing
Response:
hot stories man…..keeps me cumming!
Response:
sorry…..button stuck
Response:
Anyone got a copy of #12? If so please forward to me. SteaminSe…@webtv.net wrote in message
<18268-37260DAA…@newsd-261.iap.bryant.webtv.net>… (This story is true but has been fictionalized for obvious reasons. Do not read unless you are at least 18 years of age.) ====================================== A Locker Room Goes Berserk; My Cruise Ship Gets Torpedoed ====================================== If misery really does love company, I didn’t have far to look for company. The city’s NFL team had its fans holding their noses and wearing paper bags over their heads. The media had begun to hang the players and coaches by their balls. I had resisted the temptationto join that bandwagon, but my sports eitor was growing more and more impatient with my wait-and-see attitude. He wanted me to write a column asking for heads to roll. Chuck, being the starting quarterback, of course, felt the brunt of the media’s wrath. He had been signed for big bucks. He had pushed a local favorite to the bench. But, worst of all, Chuck was not producing on the field. His passes were either off target or being intercepted much too often as far as the fans were concerned. As I mentioned in Part 12, the offensive line was simply too porous for Chuck to have time to get set for accurate passing. This upset him no end. He was not the scrambling type of quarterback, so he was often thrown for losses before he could even get off a pass. The fans booed him unmercifully ever time he ate the ball. It wasn’t bad enough that I was depressed from losing Jeff. Now I had to write about an NFL team that couldn’t beat its way out of a paper bag. I knew it was onlya matter of time before I’d have to give in to my sports editor and wrie a column crucifying the team in general and Chuck in particular. It was not something I was looking forward to doing. An eighth straight loss that ended any hopes of making the post-season playoffs was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Chuck was terrible in the game: 4 interceptions, 2 fumbles and 8 sacks. In his defense, however, I should add that at least a half dozen of his passes were dropped by his receivers, two of them by Arnie in the end zone. The coach had locked the door to the media so that we could not get into the locker room immediately after the game. We coud hear him chewing ass, especially Chuck’s. We had to wait almost an hour before the door was unlocked for us to enter. Players stared daggers at those in the media who had been on their butts. Mike had been writing coumns critical of the players and coaches for a month. He advocated a complete house cleaning by the GM. Mike had recently called Chuck "a quarterback who couldn’t find a receiver with the Hubble telescope … and, if he did, he wouldn’t be able to get the ball to him". The licker room was ripe for all hell to break loose. You could cut the tension with a knife. I sought out Rick first as I watched Chuck kicking the shit out of his locker. I wanted him to cool off before I got near him … and I was one of the good guys yet as far as not being critical of him in print. But, Mike did not wait. He strutted up to Chuck in his usual arrogant manner. I guess at that moment, I saw Mike as a match and Chuck as a stick of dynamite. As soon as Mike opened his mouth and began asking Chuck a question, the match lit the fuse. The locker room exploded! "What the fuck do you want?" Chuck yelled so loud that he probably was heard in the next county. "Get yer fuckin’ pen out of my face beore I shove it up yer fuckin’ ass … you fuckin’ son-of-a-bitch! Ain’t you or no one else ever gonna get a fuckin’ word out of me again! So take yer fuckin’ rag of a newspaper and wipe the shit off yer asshole because that’s all it’s worth, a pile of shit!" Mike was not one to give up easily or be intimidated by words. "You got no right to talk to me that way," Mie protested. "I’m a member of the press. It ain’t my fault yer the league’ worst quarterback. I just tell my readers the truth." Chuck had fire coming out of his nostrils by then. I was willing to bet he was going to throw Mike halfway across the locker room but he didn’t. Instead, Chuck yelled, "Truth? Truth? You fuckin’ weasel, you wouldn’t know truth if it bit ya on the ass. You been out to get me since the day I arrived here, you fuckin’ cock sucker (little did Chuck know just how right he was about that). Fuck, if I had a decent line to protect me and some receivers who ddn’t need white canes, maybe we’d be in the playoffs." That did it! Arnie came charging … jumping over chairs to get to Chuck. A couple of offensive linemen also bounced up and took off after Chuck. Meanwhile, Rick pushed me aside to go to Chuck’s aid. Mike retreated like a scared rabbit. Fists were flying, lockers crashed into, jerseys ripped, pads crunched … Chuck’s fist knocked Arnie to the floor, where he grabbed Chuck’s legs and pulled him down, too. Rick stood there, naked to his jockstrap and cup, daring any of the offensive linemen to take him on. They stopped, also standing there bare naked except for their straps and cups. A third lineman had rushed over but he was breathing so heavily that I thought his hairy chest would burst. Shit, I thought it was about over, but then here comes another wide receiver leaping through the air in full gear and knocking the linemen down on top of Chuck and Arnie. Fuck, what I wouldn’t have given to be naked in the middle of that pile of football flesh, jockstraps and cups! I had one hell of a boner just watching these mostly naked men rolling around on the floor. Rick bent down to try and separate the combatants on the flor and he gave me one hell of a good view of his crack and asshole. As I have said before, one of my favorite views is an ass crack with straps on the cheeks. I moved in closer for a better look. Someone’s hand got caught in Rick’s jockstrap and pulled it down to his knees, allowing Rick’s cock and balls to find fresh air. Oh, baby, was his cock beautiful. It seemed a lot bigger than when I saw it in college (see Part 1). I’d have given my right arm to suck on that damn slab of meat. And, I almost did! As I stood there drooling, the head coach came tearing in from behind me, pushing me into Rick. I fell to my knees, my face brushing against that wonderful whang before I crashed into the bottom of Chuck’s locker. "Oh, shit …. oh, shit," I cried as the pain in my right shoulder was so severe that I nearly passed out. I lay there in agony as coaches, trainers and other players broke up the fighters and peeled them apart. Soon, I was the only one still on the floor. Chuck stood over me, wiping blood from his nose with one hand and extending the other to help me up. I didn’t take his hand. "What the fuck’s wrong with you?" he asked. "I’m in pain, dammit!" I screamed. "I can’t move." A trainer hovered over me and felt my body. When he reached my right shoulder I screamed bloody murder. "Just a dislocated shoulder," the trainer said as if it was nothing to get excited about. Hell, I was getting excited about it even if no one else was. "Get him on a table in the training room." When Rick bent over to lift me up under my armpits, his cock and balls hung directly over my face. Can you believe I closed my eyes! I had to. The pain rushed through my body like a speeding bullet as he lifted me under my arms. Chuck grabbed my legs. If you have ever had a dislocated shoulder then you know the pain I was in as they carried me to the trainer’s room. By the time I was able to open my eyes again, I was laying on a table and a trainer had his knee pressed on my shoulder as he twisted and jerked my arm back into place. "Good as new," the trainer said to me with a smile. I didn’t smile back. "Yer not goin’ to sue us are ya? If ya do, then I’ll have to send ya my bill." I shook my head as Rick helped me sit up on the edge of the table. I wasn’t about to threaten a law suit with some muscle-bound trainer near enough to yank my arm back out of its socket. "Be careful," the trainer told me, "that thing can pop out again." My eyes were on the jockstraps of Rick and Chuck. I blushed until I realized the trainer was referring to my shoulder. With the pain eased up, I was having another boner. Believe me, if I hadn’t been wearing Rick’s old jockstrap, my dick could well have popped out, too. **************************** WHEN THE football season ended, my work load lightened up considerably. And, since I was living alone again, I found myself with too much time on my hands. While I had given up drugs after Jeff left me, I had increased my drinking. I found an escape from loneliness in being drunk. I drank every day after work and then again every night after supper. I hated to drink alone in my apartment, so I set sail on the "cruise ship" to gay bars and bath houses. But, I avoided the "Streets of Hell". I concentrated on the north and north west areas of the city, which I knew best. I could usually pick up a sex partner, or get picked up as one, at my favorite gay bar, "Cock Tales". These always proved to be one-nighters, stranger in my apartment’s door and stranger back out the same door. I could find no Steve, no Patrick, no Nicky, no Jeff. Drinking and sex filled my long, empty hours but not love. The bar scene began to bore me. I steered my "cruise ship" to the baths, where I discovered too much drinking and too much sex can be a dangerous combination. Anyone who walks into a gay bath house in a drunken stupor, as I always did, is at the mercy of its unscrupulous patrons. Sooner or later the odds catch up with you, and all the fun of having multiple sex … read more »
Response:
(This story is true but has been fictionalized for obvious reasons. Do not read unless you are at least 18 years of age.) ====================================== A Locker Room Goes Berserk; My Cruise Ship Gets Torpedoed ====================================== If misery really does love company, I didn’t have far to look for company. The city’s NFL team had its fans holding their noses and wearing paper bags over their heads. The media had begun to hang the players and coaches by their balls. I had resisted the temptationto join that bandwagon, but my sports eitor was growing more and more impatient with my wait-and-see attitude. He wanted me to write a column asking for heads to roll. Chuck, being the starting quarterback, of course, felt the brunt of the media’s wrath. He had been signed for big bucks. He had pushed a local favorite to the bench. But, worst of all, Chuck was not producing on the field. His passes were either off target or being intercepted much too often as far as the fans were concerned. As I mentioned in Part 12, the offensive line was simply too porous for Chuck to have time to get set for accurate passing. This upset him no end. He was not the scrambling type of quarterback, so he was often thrown for losses before he could even get off a pass. The fans booed him unmercifully ever time he ate the ball. It wasn’t bad enough that I was depressed from losing Jeff. Now I had to write about an NFL team that couldn’t beat its way out of a paper bag. I knew it was onlya matter of time before I’d have to give in to my sports editor and wrie a column crucifying the team in general and Chuck in particular. It was not something I was looking forward to doing. An eighth straight loss that ended any hopes of making the post-season playoffs was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Chuck was terrible in the game: 4 interceptions, 2 fumbles and 8 sacks. In his defense, however, I should add that at least a half dozen of his passes were dropped by his receivers, two of them by Arnie in the end zone. The coach had locked the door to the media so that we could not get into the locker room immediately after the game. We coud hear him chewing ass, especially Chuck’s. We had to wait almost an hour before the door was unlocked for us to enter. Players stared daggers at those in the media who had been on their butts. Mike had been writing coumns critical of the players and coaches for a month. He advocated a complete house cleaning by the GM. Mike had recently called Chuck "a quarterback who couldn’t find a receiver with the Hubble telescope … and, if he did, he wouldn’t be able to get the ball to him". The licker room was ripe for all hell to break loose. You could cut the tension with a knife. I sought out Rick first as I watched Chuck kicking the shit out of his locker. I wanted him to cool off before I got near him … and I was one of the good guys yet as far as not being critical of him in print. But, Mike did not wait. He strutted up to Chuck in his usual arrogant manner. I guess at that moment, I saw Mike as a match and Chuck as a stick of dynamite. As soon as Mike opened his mouth and began asking Chuck a question, the match lit the fuse. The locker room exploded! "What the fuck do you want?" Chuck yelled so loud that he probably was heard in the next county. "Get yer fuckin’ pen out of my face beore I shove it up yer fuckin’ ass … you fuckin’ son-of-a-bitch! Ain’t you or no one else ever gonna get a fuckin’ word out of me again! So take yer fuckin’ rag of a newspaper and wipe the shit off yer asshole because that’s all it’s worth, a pile of shit!" Mike was not one to give up easily or be intimidated by words. "You got no right to talk to me that way," Mie protested. "I’m a member of the press. It ain’t my fault yer the league’ worst quarterback. I just tell my readers the truth." Chuck had fire coming out of his nostrils by then. I was willing to bet he was going to throw Mike halfway across the locker room but he didn’t. Instead, Chuck yelled, "Truth? Truth? You fuckin’ weasel, you wouldn’t know truth if it bit ya on the ass. You been out to get me since the day I arrived here, you fuckin’ cock sucker (little did Chuck know just how right he was about that). Fuck, if I had a decent line to protect me and some receivers who ddn’t need white canes, maybe we’d be in the playoffs." That did it! Arnie came charging … jumping over chairs to get to Chuck. A couple of offensive linemen also bounced up and took off after Chuck. Meanwhile, Rick pushed me aside to go to Chuck’s aid. Mike retreated like a scared rabbit. Fists were flying, lockers crashed into, jerseys ripped, pads crunched … Chuck’s fist knocked Arnie to the floor, where he grabbed Chuck’s legs and pulled him down, too. Rick stood there, naked to his jockstrap and cup, daring any of the offensive linemen to take him on. They stopped, also standing there bare naked except for their straps and cups. A third lineman had rushed over but he was breathing so heavily that I thought his hairy chest would burst. Shit, I thought it was about over, but then here comes another wide receiver leaping through the air in full gear and knocking the linemen down on top of Chuck and Arnie. Fuck, what I wouldn’t have given to be naked in the middle of that pile of football flesh, jockstraps and cups! I had one hell of a boner just watching these mostly naked men rolling around on the floor. Rick bent down to try and separate the combatants on the flor and he gave me one hell of a good view of his crack and asshole. As I have said before, one of my favorite views is an ass crack with straps on the cheeks. I moved in closer for a better look. Someone’s hand got caught in Rick’s jockstrap and pulled it down to his knees, allowing Rick’s cock and balls to find fresh air. Oh, baby, was his cock beautiful. It seemed a lot bigger than when I saw it in college (see Part 1). I’d have given my right arm to suck on that damn slab of meat. And, I almost did! As I stood there drooling, the head coach came tearing in from behind me, pushing me into Rick. I fell to my knees, my face brushing against that wonderful whang before I crashed into the bottom of Chuck’s locker. "Oh, shit …. oh, shit," I cried as the pain in my right shoulder was so severe that I nearly passed out. I lay there in agony as coaches, trainers and other players broke up the fighters and peeled them apart. Soon, I was the only one still on the floor. Chuck stood over me, wiping blood from his nose with one hand and extending the other to help me up. I didn’t take his hand. "What the fuck’s wrong with you?" he asked. "I’m in pain, dammit!" I screamed. "I can’t move." A trainer hovered over me and felt my body. When he reached my right shoulder I screamed bloody murder. "Just a dislocated shoulder," the trainer said as if it was nothing to get excited about. Hell, I was getting excited about it even if no one else was. "Get him on a table in the training room." When Rick bent over to lift me up under my armpits, his cock and balls hung directly over my face. Can you believe I closed my eyes! I had to. The pain rushed through my body like a speeding bullet as he lifted me under my arms. Chuck grabbed my legs. If you have ever had a dislocated shoulder then you know the pain I was in as they carried me to the trainer’s room. By the time I was able to open my eyes again, I was laying on a table and a trainer had his knee pressed on my shoulder as he twisted and jerked my arm back into place. "Good as new," the trainer said to me with a smile. I didn’t smile back. "Yer not goin’ to sue us are ya? If ya do, then I’ll have to send ya my bill." I shook my head as Rick helped me sit up on the edge of the table. I wasn’t about to threaten a law suit with some muscle-bound trainer near enough to yank my arm back out of its socket. "Be careful," the trainer told me, "that thing can pop out again." My eyes were on the jockstraps of Rick and Chuck. I blushed until I realized the trainer was referring to my shoulder. With the pain eased up, I was having another boner. Believe me, if I hadn’t been wearing Rick’s old jockstrap, my dick could well have popped out, too. **************************** WHEN THE football season ended, my work load lightened up considerably. And, since I was living alone again, I found myself with too much time on my hands. While I had given up drugs after Jeff left me, I had increased my drinking. I found an escape from loneliness in being drunk. I drank every day after work and then again every night after supper. I hated to drink alone in my apartment, so I set sail on the "cruise ship" to gay bars and bath houses. But, I avoided the "Streets of Hell". I concentrated on the north and north west areas of the city, which I knew best. I could usually pick up a sex partner, or get picked up as one, at my favorite gay bar, "Cock Tales". These always proved to be one-nighters, stranger in my apartment’s door and stranger back out the same door. I could find no Steve, no Patrick, no Nicky, no Jeff. Drinking and sex filled my long, empty hours but not love. The bar scene began to bore me. I steered my "cruise ship" to the baths, where I discovered too much drinking and too much sex can be a dangerous combination. Anyone who walks into a gay bath house in a drunken stupor, as I always did, is at the mercy of its unscrupulous patrons. Sooner or later the odds catch up with you, and all the fun of having multiple sex partners can suddenly turn into a nightmare. I, the drunk, could blame no one but myself for what happened to my fun "cruise ship" one hot, … read more »
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Filed under: Loneliness
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