It's not because I am under-endowed or anything. I can hold my own in that department, of which, back then, I got plenty of practice. But I hated showering after rugby. It may have been my conservative upbringing. I never even saw my older brother naked, despite sharing a bedroom with him. We were taught to wear undies at all times, even under our pyjamas as we slept, and we only ever changed them when we bathed.
Once, when I was seven, I was in the bath and desperately needed to pee. I ran out into the hallway completely naked, on my way to the toilet in the next room. My father caught me, grabbed me by the arm, and spanked me square on my bare butt. 'Don't let me ever see you like that again,' he shouted. It was the only time he ever hit me. I never understood what I'd done wrong.
Having said all that, he was a good man. A no nonsense, hard working dairy farmer from the sticks north of Wellington, just like his father before him, and where I was raised. He wanted nothing but the best for us. Trouble was the only way he knew of achieving this was to work hard, be stoic and never show your penis. It was the way back then.
The other thing about being a farm boy in New Zealand was the rugby. We all played it. Luckily I happened to be quite good at it, even making representative teams. I liked it most for the friendships and sense of belonging. Unfortunately, it also meant showering together, naked. In fact, I tried not to shower after the game at all, if I could help it. A little bit of mud never did anyone any harm. Don't get me wrong. I loved seeing other guys naked. That was the problem.
Living out in the country has other drawbacks. There's nothing much to do, apart from helping out on the farm, playing rugby and taking a girl out to a local dance in a pickup truck, with a crate of beer rattling in the back. I'd done all that already. That's mostly why I moved to the big city lights of Wellington, New Zealand's capital city, at the age of twenty two. It was about time.
I found an apartment, enrolled at University and trained with my new rugby team, all in the space of a week. After the first game, I was just pleased I had not made a laughing stock of myself. Sure, I was good, but all the moves seemed to unfold at twice the speed I was used to. I needn't have worried. I knew I had played well when a number of teammates tapped me on the bum as I walked off the field, the ultimate of compliments for the big city boys, as long as there's nothing sexual in it, of course. Nothing like that ever happened with my old team. People just played for the fun of it, out in the country. Besides, a tap on the bum might have been considered gay, and no butch country boy wants that label.
I had to admit, scoring the winning try was no fluke. I knew exactly what I was doing. I sat on the bench in the corner of the changing room, comparatively reserved. Quiet in my contentment for my first city game. The mood was more self-congratulatory than I was used to, more boisterous, more noisy. Although the smells were familiar. That strange mixture of menthol skin linament and fresh male sweat, which strengthened every time a teammate removed an item of their playing kit. Then it waned when another exited naked, through the shower room doorway. By the time I bent over and slipped off my boots, the showers were already in full steam.
Suddenly, I saw the outstretched hand, in my peripheral vision, out of the top of my eyes. I glanced up towards the guys midriff, and then further up to his face, and then back down to his abdomen. "Nice game Jeff," he said. It was Gary Williamson, the team captain.
It was the fright of looking up and being confronted by Gary's flaccid junk, at eye level, just hanging there innocuously, inches away, that almost made me say something I might regret. Hanging there is a perfect turn of phrase. Boy did it hang. Like the trunk of an elephant. I turned my eyes away from his sizable genitalia and stood, still in my complete playing kit, wiping my hands down the sides of my dirty shorts before pushing out my limp right hand towards him. I placed it in Gary's, as I was invited to do and I felt his firm grip, shaking his hand tentatively.
I guess you could say that Gary was the team hunk. Now I knew why, having seen him from a close-up perspective, as nature intended. At least I could turn my head forward now that we were both standing. Gary's junk didn't seem anywhere near as daunting from there.
"Thanks Gary," I said nervously.
"I was impressed," he added.
I withdrew my hand and shrugged my shoulders bashfully.
"I didn't realise you were that good a player," he said. "They breed them good up there in Oaksville then? Good farming stock, I suppose eh?" He patted my back heartily. "I'll tell you what. Pop into the showers with the lads. Get cleaned up. Then we'll drop into the clubrooms for a beer. You'll have the chicks eating out of the palm of your hand in no time. I'll introduce you to some of them, if you like."
"Chicks?," I asked.
"Haha, you country lads, you're all the same. Yea, you know, females, women."
"Sure," I replied, hesitantly. I had hardly managed to string two words together so far. My lack of enthusiasm for the idea probably stuck out like a sore thumb.
"No need to be nervous. Our chicks are a friendly bunch. I'll catch you in the showers," Gary added, smiling broadly, before turning his back and walking through the shower doorway.
I sat myself back down on the bench and removed my socks at a dawdles pace.
"You coming to the showers mate?" Another naked teammate sat down beside me and planted his hand on my dirt covered knee. "You'd better get your skates on."
"Sure. In a minute," I replied, smiling awkwardly at him, careful to avoid another eyeful of male genitalia. "Save me some hot water?"
"Should be enough hot water. There's some hot tubs in there too. Good game," he said as he slapped my thigh, in a congratulatory way, and stood before walking to the showers to join the others.
Just brilliant, I thought. If anything should lead to an embarrassing erection, it will be a heap of soaped up guys writhing around naked in a hot tub. I was lagging way behind, the last person left in the changing room, and I was still completely clothed in my playing gear.
I pulled my soiled rugby jersey over my head and chucked it into my open bag on the floor beside me. Then I sat contemplating for a bit. There sure was a racket coming from the showers. I could make out a version of We are the Champions, but it bore little resemblance to the one sung by Freddie Mercury. Occasionally, a chorus of laughter drowned out the attempt at a mass singalong. I rummaged in my bag and pulled out my clothes, which were folded neatly inside a plastic bag. I didn't seem that dirty. A bit of mud on my knees perhaps, but nothing much else to write home about. The clothes would hide most of it anyway, I decided. And I've never been one to sweat much during the game.
I held my black dress pants aloft at the waist and gave them a shake, hoping to smooth out any creases. Then I laid them out carefully on the seat beside me. Remaining seated, I slid off my dirty rugby shorts and threw them on top of the already discarded jersey in my bag. Sitting there in my underpants was about as naked as I was willing to get today. I hardly knew any of these guys after all.
As I stood, I pulled my pants up my legs and fastened the button around my waist. It was then I became aware of the sound of the cascading water in the shower area. Through the comparative silence came a shouting voice.
"Hey whizkid, Jeff mate. Get your arse over here into the showers. Come on man. Don't you like us mate?"
I instantly recognised the voice, if only for the addition of the word mate to the end of my name. It was that cheeky guy called Matt. The guy who had just played eighty minutes of rugby beside me in the centres.
"Hurry up mate," Matt joked. "We don't bite. Are you scared we're going to fuck you in the arse or something man?"
"Yea, come on Jeff. Matt's just dying for a piece of your arse. He sure as hell doesn't get any action from any of the chicks," yelled someone else, to uproarious laughter. "Don't worry, it won't hurt, Matt's got a small one anyway."
"Shit." I said quietly to myself. This isn't going to work. I reluctantly unfastened the button of my pants and pushed them down my legs, before removing them and throwing them untidily back in my bag.
. . . . .
It was just as expected. I stood briefly at the doorway to the showers, assessing the layout. There were no petitions ... no curtains ... no privacy. Just one giant open bathroom, with a heap of shower nozzles spread down three of the walls, and a large tub in one corner. Pretty much everything rugby players expect from their shower room. It was steamy, like a fog on a cold winters morning, especially looking from the door. Everyone was naked. I knew that much.
Suddenly, it seemed, I was the centre of attention. The talking became whispers. Guys turned their heads in my direction, and they squinted through the jets of water and streams of shampoo falling down their faces. Then their eyes followed me as I walked towards a vacant shower I had spotted at the very end of a side wall. I stood myself at the shower, facing the wall, and I placed my hand on the tap.
It was Gary Williamson who broke the ice. "You've gotta force that tap Jeff if you want hot water. Push it around hard. The showers are hopeless here. The club's trying to save money. You know, funds are tight." he said.
As I opened the faucet and the shower sparked into life, I heard some laughter behind me, across the way. I ignored it at first. I held my arms out in front of me and felt the temperature of the water with my hands. The sniggering continued.
"Hey mate. What are you doing?"
I turned my head. I could sense my teammate's eyes, as if I was the headline act at a circus. The voice was Matt's.
"What? Ah, you talking to me?," I asked. "What do you mean?"
"What are you doing?," repeated Matt. "You've still got your undies on mate."
