On showering with other men

Earlier this week I had a couple of pints with an old colleague, who also now works in London. I probably see him every six months or so, either in the pub for a catch-up, or at someone’s birthday drinks/engagement party/networking event/etc. He’s a lovely man: my age, bright, creative, sharp, sporty, and enviably fresh-faced. He’s also extremely well-hung.

By and large, I manage to avoid thinking about that last bit whenever we get together. However, from time-to-time – and usually after a few drinks – I find myself losing focus on the conversation and thinking back to our weekly squash games, at the slightly dingy sports centre on the outskirts of Oxford. To the way his cock would bounce and press against the fabric of his shorts, as if there wasn’t really enough room in there for it to sit comfortably. And most of all, I think back to the cramped, stuffy changing room afterwards, where we’d both strip off our sweaty gym kit and stand opposite each other in the communal showers.

—

For years, I didn’t enjoy showering with other guys. Or rather, it made me very uncomfortable. I was a small kid, and stayed that way till I was almost 16. After school PE lessons, and certainly after hockey matches with the local men’s club, I would usually just spray myself with deodorant, splash water on my hair, and towel down without bothering to remove my boxers. I’d always leave my stuff in the corner of the changing room, and quietly slip back into my clothes as quickly as possible; I didn’t want people to notice me, because if they didn’t notice me, they couldn’t make fun of my lack of body hair, or my skinny arms and legs, or my small, circumcised penis.

Over time, that changed. I grew up, filled out, and became more confident in my body. I also got away from the jeering, towel-whipping terror that was the school showers, and started to play more sport with actual grown-ups. Men who just went about their business after a game of hockey or a session at the gym. Men who walked around naked as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and chatted to each other in the shower without blushing. Slowly, I became one of those men. I stopped putting my boxers back on under a towel. I didn’t hide any more. I actually prioritised getting clean after sport over getting into my clothes as quickly as possible.

Organised sport has many health benefits – physical and mental – and it’s something about which I think I’ll always be passionate. It’s only in the last few years though that I’ve realised what a positive effect it had on my body confidence; and how badly served young women are in that respect. Participation rates in organised sport – especially post-high school – are skewed dramatically in favour of men, and although I only have anecdotal evidence to back this up, I think that contributes to the greater discomfort that a lot of women have about being naked in front of each other. Sport breaks down barriers between people – in the clubs I’ve been a part of, at least – and it can also help erode a lot of the damage done to self-image by media nonsense, social conservatism, and institutional sexism.*

—

Anyway, back to my friend. He wasn’t ripped or anything – like me, he’s a sportsman, not a gym bunny – but he had a flat stomach and strong thighs, and oh, that cock. That long, thick, beautiful cock. I would try not to look; not very hard, admittedly, but I would try. And then he’d close his eyes and lean back to run his fingers through his hair, pushing his hips out towards me. Or he’d casually wrap one soaped-up hand around the shaft – leaving at least half of his length still uncovered – and clean it with short, quick strokes, till foamy water streamed down off the head. I don’t think I ever actually drooled at the sight of that, but I definitely came close.

The best – or worst – moments came when his cock would start to stiffen in his hand. I never saw him fully hard, but once or twice he got close enough to make it fairly obvious exactly how much he was packing. On those occasions, I left the sports centre on slightly trembly legs, and not as a result of the squash game. We used to catch the bus back into town together, then part ways halfway down Little Clarendon Street. I’d wander back towards my flat, in need of another (cold) shower, and he’d make the short walk over to the house he shared with his boyfriend, Tom. Nice guy, Tom. Apparently at university they called him The Tripod. Sadly he never joined us for a game…

—

*Maybe I’ll get hammered for that last point, and if anyone does disagree strongly, I’d love to hear from them. Sport probably can’t help everyone in that respect, but it helped me a lot.