The Towel Boys Ordeal Cfnm Enm

For several decades in the 20th century, young men in the U.S. swam in YMCA pools, at countryside swimming holes, in high school and college phys. ed. courses, and even at well-attended swim team meets, totally, bollocks naked.

Yes, that's right: fully bare. No skimpy speedos, swim trunks, or even underwear; and usually no hair caps or swim goggles. The prevailing masculine ideal of the time viewed modesty with suspicion or even contempt. Young men were expected to conform and not complain about their privacy.

This little known historical fact seems incredible or outrageous to modern American sensibilities, but America's strapping young lads used to grow up swimming in the buff. In some rural towns as late as the early '80s, American men in their late teens and early twenties took swim classes, swam competitively, and stood dripping wet—waiting in lines for diving boards or to do laps—baring every inch of skin, from the pruned soles of their feet to the top of their crown. It was a harrowing, formative experience.

The titillating practice began to come to an unhappy end starting about sixty or so years ago with technological and social changes. Supposedly inefficient pool filters that couldn't handle lint from suits started to improve (though curiously, women never swam nude). Further, as gender equity and shared, coed spaces became the norm, deference to modesty—given new life by the rise of the Religious Right—finally won out over the long tradition of bare-ass male swimming.

However, like any social change, the switch from mandatory nude swimming to mandatory suited swimming was not overnight or uniform. Nudity was phased out disparately and gradually across time and place. Some teams and school districts began by making suits optional; some held swim practices and swimming classes nude, but their swim teams began competing in speedos. One college might have mandated suits as early as the 1950s, but the neighboring university may still have retained nude swimming for years.

This stimulating background history lesson brings us to a strict reform school in a sleepy Midwestern town, during the early Carter administration—right in the middle of the unfortunate swing of the men's swimwear pendulum away from bare asses and exposed members toward covered midriffs and thighs.

It was a warm day, and the autumn sunlight poured into a hallow-oak office, illuminating the face of a cherubic young man wearing a preparatory school uniform of a black jacket, mid-thigh shorts and long socks. The young man stood adroitly before a polished, stately desk, behind which a stern looking older man sat, rambling and pointing his finger.

The 18 year old Ryan was fair-of-face, average height, and had a slender but fit build. He had medium length wavy blonde hair, was clean-shaven, and had a certain slightly cocky air about him. In coming decades, he might have been called a "twink". Having been sent away for repeated delinquency—boozing, general hoodlumism—he found himself once again in the schoolmaster's office. Nudey magazines were strictly forbidden in the dormitories (as we will soon see, quite ironically so). He had been in trouble before, but even this rowdy teen knew he had crossed a line. He had been hoping to clean up his act to be able to go to trade's school—and 18 or not, he dreaded the thought of what shade his stepfather's cane might turn his soft, plushy pink bottom if he were kicked out of school.

He stood, only somewhat listening, as the middle aged, stuffy looking older man in front of him bellowed and shouted about morality and responsibility—but his concluding remark caught his full attention.

"Are you listening, son? You just need some character building. A little shame."

Ryan was taken aback. What was the old man getting at?

"I'm giving you another chance—but in return, I expect something. You need to learn a little responsibility, and frankly, you need an attitude change."

The headmaster paused, giving Ryan a glance up and down. What is he getting at?

"You will be the coach's assistant for the swim team this coming semester."

"But!" The lad caught himself. "Err, but Sir, I don't swim well. I never have been on the team..."

Ryan was puzzled: in that moment, the schoolmaster's face became tinted with a shade of... was that... glee?

The schoolmaster shook his head, amused.

"Oh son, that won't matter much."

Show up at 9:00 AM Saturday at the gymnasium pool. Bring nothing.

He remembered the master's words clearly. His instructions had been simple, and the youth did not want to make things worse by showing up late.

Ryan opened the metallic door to the open, grey-tiled gym pool; just large enough to hold a half dozen standard 50-meter lanes, a few meters of tile on each side, and rafters along one of the walls. The room was a few floors high, and light poured in from the high-set rectangular windows. It smelled like chlorine.

Ryan took the scene in unnoticed, standing by the door.

Are they naked?

Ten or so guys his age were swimming laps, wearing only their goggles and swim caps. A handful of them were swimming backstroke, and every couple of seconds, their inertia would bring a blur of fleshy appendage and wiry hair to the water surface.

A few, taking a break between laps, were sitting on poolside wooden benches. Their towels, too small to wrap around themselves, were underneath them.

So it was true what they said.

Ryan smirked, half entertained. There was something amusing about their nudity, even though it was clustered away in the mostly empty gymnasium.

His amusement at the spectacle was broken by a burly man startling toward him and extending a hand, giving Ryan quite a firm handshake.

The swim coach was a handsome man in his mid-30s, muscled and broad-shouldered, sporting stubble, a whistle, a white T-shirt, a pair of gym shorts, a clipboard, and sandals. Quite a contrast to the monochromatic beige blurs darting through the water.

"You must be Ryan. I'll show you around."

Ryan glanced around the locker room. It was more or less non-descript: well-lit; off-white tile. Standard: showers, lockers, benches, and not much else. A laundry room was adjacent to the changing room—where the towels were washed.

Coach was giving Ryan a walk-around, spouting little details about the role of coach's assistant, or "towel boy". Ryan noticed the coach seemed to be almost amused, grinning at him. Maybe that's just how he was? Or perhaps there was something else he wasn't telling him.

"You need to keep the place clean; fold clothes, refill the soap, help me when I need it. Help at the meets and with training."

Ryan nodded.

"Well, that's about it for now. Alright, go ahead and undress. As you probably notice, that means everything."

"Err—what?"

Ryan must've heard wrong.

The coach folded his arms and raised his eyebrow, amused.

"Are you slow kid? Did you not get a glimpse of the team uniform when you were poolside?"

Ryan was taken aback. "Err, but I'm not..." he stammered, dazed and growing nervous—"I'm not on the team!"

"Men here have always swam in the buff, kid. It's not that big of a deal, and frankly it's a bit of a team-building exercise. Puts hair on your chest."

Coach looked at the top of Ryan's tank top, glimpsing his chest.

"You could use a little. I start letting you wearing your panties in here, and soon everybody will be getting skittish and shy. Can't have that on a winning team."

Ryan stood there, shocked, subconsciously placing his arms in a timid fold.

"We're wasting time now. I don't have all day."

Ryan stood there stupefied. There was silence except for the faint tick-tock of the analogue clock and the hum of generators. Coach stared, but Ryan could not meet his gaze as he nervously peeling off his shirt to reveal his toned, slender frame. He seemed to drag out the process. Then he kneeled down and wrestled with his sneakers, then his socks, revealing his bare feet. When it came time to undo his belt, his heart started to pound. Coach was still standing there, seeming amused.

"Could I... could I keep my underwear on?"

Coach stared at him, stony-faced.

"Kid, if you don't want to get expelled, you need to complete your semester as towel boy."

Ryan paused for a minute. He took a deep breath, and sat down on one of the wooden benches. He slipped off his shorts, wiggling them past his thighs, calves, and off his ankles, letting them lay crumpled on the tile. He waited a few moments, sitting on the bench in his underwear. Then, heart pounding, he slid down boxers. His hands were almost shaking from nervousness as he sent his white briefs cascading down his shapely blonde legs.

Ryan felt naked. He felt couch's eyes on him as he sat there, fully exposed. His head spinning, and half involuntarily, he folded his arms across his chest, trying to cover himself.

The coach laughed. "Don't be a girl. Yours is hardly the first pecker we've seen here. You'll forget about what you're 'wearing' soon enough."

The lad sat there mesmerized. He was so bewildered and shocked that thoughts weren't coming to his head. Fumes. Was this happening? He was brought to attention when coach tossed a handheld timer at him.

"You're not here to sit around. We need to take lap times."

Ryan took a deep breath and pulled himself together. Fine. The others are like this too. I can deal with this, even if it is really fucking weird.

The coach motioned for Ryan to stand up, waving authoritatively with his hand. As Ryan's bare cheeks pulled away from the wooden bench, a suction sound reminded the lad—as if he needed to be reminded—of how bare he was.

Let's just get this over with.

The first few practices went by as usual, with Ryan becoming slightly less uncomfortable—but never, of course, completely acclimating to walking around nude. The fact that the other guys were naked too eventually made him less skittish, although they were covered most of the time by the shimmering water. They seemed somehow anonymous with their black goggles and swim caps, and they seemed to distance themselves from the "towel boy". Whatever. He tried to avoid getting to know the others too well, who seemed to have a bit of a clique.

Ryan had tried asking if he could have a towel too, like the others, but coach didn't see this as fitting—"you don't get wet." Every day for a few hours after school, and Saturdays from 9:00 to 1:00 in the afternoon, the Midwestern youth was denied a single scrap of covering. It was unlike anything he had experienced in his life.

Ryan fetched water, mopped the floor, checked chlorine levels, recorded the guys' lap times, helped the guys when they were working out poolside, and answered coach's beck and call. His balls and dick, a bit shrunken from the damp, cool air, would swing to and fro as he bustled around the pool's edge.

He had had to break himself of the habit of subconsciously covering himself with his hands when he was standing by idly. He would almost forget about being naked until he stopped for a moment, and the embarrassment would kick in. The drafty pool chamber had a way of reminding him of his state. Several times he had been surprised when coach came up from behind and gave his smooth rump quite the smack. "Quit touching yourself, spaz."

It had been a few practices now. A fully naked Ryan was cleaning the locker room when one of the guys from the team walked in, having to take a piss. He had a reputation for cockiness (very much, ahem, deserved), and Ryan didn't really like him.

"You must be excited for our first meet," the muscly jock said cryptically. The fact that he was wearing a towel made Ryan feel embarrassed. What did he mean? The scruffy titan rounded the corner toward the urinals.

As he headed back toward the pool, he gave Ryan an up-and-down. "There will be a lot of people there." The jock grinned, and walked out. Ryan shrugged his shoulders and kept at it. Whatever.

Soon enough, it was time for the first meet of the season.

Couch hadn't told him too much about the meet—just come by the pool at 6:00, instead of right after school.

He came in through the back door to the locker room. No one else was there yet—but he could hear the faint buzz of a chattering crowd in the pool room even through the walls of concrete bricks.

Coach walked in, staring down at a clipboard. He had nice jeans and a white collared shirt on.

"Hey coach."

He studied his notes for a second before glancing up at Ryan. He seemed to notice that the youth was clothed.

"Go ahead and get ready, kid—we're starting soon."

Coach turned and made a beeline for his office. Ryan started peeling off his shirt, but a thought jumped in his head.

"For the meet will we be—" The next word caught in his throat. He couldn't bring himself to say 'naked,' and acknowledge that he was about to be just that. Somehow coach wearing formal clothes made him feel even more exposed.

"...Will we, ugh, get suits?"

Coach didn't seem to notice the question at first. After a couple of seconds he looked up from his clipboard and chuckled softly.

"You won't." His voice was stern, a mix of annoyed and amused. "We aren't from some sissy city private school back east."

Ryan had half expected this, but at least the team wouldn't have suits either. It would only be other naked teams and their coaches. He felt bad that they would be naked in front of everyone—he had heard even some mothers and sisters of the boys from town might be there­­—at least he would be hidden away in the towel cage.

Ryan lifted off his shirt, tugged down his jeans and peeled away his socks, then his briefs. He even took off his watch—he had forgotten to once and had been chided by coach. Birthday suits only. (Bringing a pair of sandals had elicited the same lecture—bare feet only, too.)

He folded his clothes in a neat pile, stored them in the usual locker and started doing the chores he always did at the start of practice—getting the chlorine tests out of the water pump closets, doing a round of the locker room . A few moments (or was it about a whole minute? Time seemed to have slowed down) he heard the guys on the team coming. The dozen or so young men on the swim team bustled into the room, clearly excited and amped for the meet—and wearing suits and sandals, towels donned around their neck.

Ryan's heart skipped a beat.

The team shuffled in boisterously—the towel boy stood there like a deer in the headlights.

He had felt nervous when he had first started helping at practices, but what he felt now was a new feeling: humiliation.

The rushing air of the locker room whirled in Ryan's ear as he lost focus. He stood there helplessly. Coach started bellowing out a pre-meet talk to the guys, but the lad couldn't pay attention. He just stood there, feeling bare. He folded his arms, losing himself in his thoughts. He dug his toe into the tile, as if trying to dig through.

The guys kept joking with one another, and a few glanced at Ryan's body, as if to remind him of his state.

Ryan was relieved that the others didn't linger in the locker room for long. The other guys and coach shuffled out after only a few minutes of him trying to busy himself and forget that he was the only one naked. The others mostly ignored him.

Ryan took a deep breath. Okay, there's no way I'll have to go out there anyway. Not while I'm like this.

Ryan was neither particularly boisterous nor shy—but this, this was too much.

He went about his usual chores. "There's no way I'll have to go out there alone."

This isn't so bad then. I'm in here alone... I bet I could even rub one out with all the time I'll have.

The locker room door banged open as a huffing coach barged in.

"Boy, what the hell is wrong with you?"

The bulging man was clearly angry.

Ryan was startled, having been daydreaming on a wooden bench.

"Are you stupid, boy? When you have you ever stayed in this room the whole damn time we practiced? I need you poolside for lap times and to help with the meet."

"But sir, it's a meet, there are... there are, uh, other teams..."

The man fumed, his breath sounding impatience.

"I'm not asking again. I've dragged towel boys out of here before." A glimmer of malice and pleasure glinted the man's eye. He enjoyed this ultimate power over the lad's dignity.

"Sir, pleas—"

The man would have none of it. "Either you get your ass onto that pool floor, or I drag you by the ear to the headmaster. As you are."

Ryan's head spun. He stood up, stupefied.

He felt coach's hand on his shoulder, leading him forward away from the doorway. Then, a few seconds later, he started to "come too"—and he felt something else.

The locker room door was a bit off to the side in the expansive pool room, but well within view of almost all of the towering bleachers.

His state of dress revealed much more than just—well, you know. It was everything. Torso and calves, that goes without saying. Bare feet. Thighs; the uncovered sides of his midriff and shanks. Hairless, voluptuous, rosy cheeks, and the crack that divided them. A patch of wiry hair. And—of course— drooping balls, a shaft, and a reddish head. Ryan was circumcised—one could, ahem, tell.

Ryan had expected a handful of coaches and fathers in the stands. Dozens of fully clothed people greeted him instead, half or more being females.

He would never forget those next few moments. Blood pounded in his head, but he couldn't think. A shiver of fear and genuine coldness overwhelmed him. The chatter in the rafters become an indiscernible blur, as did his vision.

How totally naked he was.

He was standing there, removed of every scrap of cover, just against the wall of the gym pool. On the adjacent side perhaps five dozen people, all fully clothed, sat in the rafters. Another three dozen young men his age—swimmers, all suited—milled around the poolside. Some even had something like tracksuits to wear between races.

Those first few seconds dragged on for an hour as he stood by the door. A few heads in the bleachers started to turn, but it wasn't a quick glance. Once they caught his sight, the heads tended to stay turned. More and more started to see him.

Now, Ryan was, to use polite language, decently endowed for a lad his age and stature; maybe even a bit above average. But certain... appendages of his seemed quite shy when exposed to the cold and were prone to shrinking, even shyer than most men's. The draft on his moist skin, dripping wet from the steamy locker room, sent shivers down his spine when he entered the large, open, and drafty pool chamber.

This meant—as if the situation could not be any more embarrassing—that certain parts of his body were, well, at their absolute minimal size.

A handful of girls near his age sat clustered together, near the bottom of the stands. He caught their glimpse because of how intently they were staring. They waved.

And his every inch of skin was being devoured by the hungry eyes of countless teachers; mothers, sisters, cousins, aunts of his school buddies. He wanted to cry. He stared at the floor, not able to comprehend as coach barked orders for what he was to do.

Strangely, his first thought when he came to was how monochromatic he was—his body was a curvy mass of a light peach hue. The other boys were interrupted midway by a navy suit. He had only his bare skin.

He wasn't sure what to do. The lad quivered, standing there exposed.

Giggles. Pointed fingers; darting eyes. A sea of them. What he thought were whispers. Those were the worst—the whispers. He couldn't hear any amongst the buzzing noise of the crowd, but he felt the stares and the pointed fingers.

"Do I have to repeat myself, boy?" Coach's gruff voice snapped him out of his stupor. "Go bring Chet his cap." The man thrust the slab of rubber into the boys hand. Ryan saw Chet—the cocky star athlete—standing across the pool, on the ledge nearest the bleachers.