The heat of the late afternoon sun beat down on all the students headed to the pool for swim team tryouts. I knew how to swim, but only competed in the warm summer months.
Immediately, when I entered the fenced-off area, I could see a stark contrast. In summer league, nearly everyone wore baggy swim trunks; sporting a speedo made you a target of ridicule. By comparison, high school team hopefuls almost all sported speedos, a particular style of googles, and a subset taller, leaner, and more muscular.
By the end of last school year, I'd accepted my attraction to guys but hadn't come out to anyone. The seniors were a veritable buffet, smooth, slim, and nearly naked. The immediate challenge was going to be hiding my boner, especially if speedos were uniform.
Few boys dressed in trunks, and they were just that, boys. I couldn't allow myself to be lumped in with the sophomores, juniors, and freshmen. I craved joining team speedo, rubbing elbows, and other things with the sexiest. It was my final year in high school too, and I wanted to try for a varsity letter and lose my virginity, preferably to one from the circle.
It was hard to miss Stanley, the class president and only openly gay guy I knew. The only guy who sported chest and facial hair. He turned 18 in the summer, like me, but he looked 25, perhaps five-10, biceps broad and thick, thighs like tree trunks, olive skin-tight over his defined physique.
One senior, especially, caught my eye, though. Someone I'd thought was hot for years.
Keith was over six feet tall with bleach-blond corkscrew hair, broad shoulders, square chest, six-pack, deep cum gutters, long legs, and a bulge plump as a plumb.
The speedo-clad elite athletes formed a circle on the deck next to the water, exchanging dirty jokes and jabs about each other's moms. Keith smiled widely and quickly, exposing his straight white teeth and dimples. His lightly freckled skin kissed with a faint tan.
I rummaged through my bag. When I noticed a shadow cast across my body, I turned. The sun burned over the shoulder of a silhouette.
"New this year?"
My mind scrambled. I was unprepared for any conversation, especially with the hottest guy in school.
"I'm Keith."
"I, uh, know you, Keith. We met," I said.
Incredulously, he responded, "Is that right?"
"We were in, uh, calculus together last year."
"You know what?" he said. "I think I remember you. You had longer hair, right?"
I broke into a smile, nodding.
Stanley approached, grabbing onto Keith's shoulder. He didn't turn back to look, "Bret, right?"
"You know my name?" I asked.
Stanley held more meat than Keith, more muscle, size, and definition.
He smiled, "I try to know as many people as I can," then winked at me with his piercing black eyes.
"Stanley, leave the guy alone," Keith pushed him playfully.
"Nah, I'm fuckin' wit' cha, Bret. I heard it just now."
The hot blond teammate turned back to me, dawning a fresh smile. "The team is a small powerhouse. We're happy you came out."
I thought, Let's not get ahead of ourselves, guys. Still, I kept fantasizing about the group as a front for some kind of hardcore sex cult packed with horny teenagers.
Keith chuckled, "We're a friendly group, don't be intimidated."
Shit. I must have been staring—such an idiot.
I said, "Ok." And the tall, sexy specimen returned to the water's edge.
Smooth man, smooth, I scolded myself. Good luck joining the sexy circle.
I shook my head.
If I wanted to rub shoulders with 'the' seniors, merely joining was insufficient. I'd need to look the part and improve my times.
All the fastest people swam in the furthest lanes next to the diving well. I made the team, but like many on the girls' team, relegated to the slow lanes. Keith and Stanley swam in neighboring lanes on the opposite side of the lanes.
Every time that fast and sexy blond lapped me, my technique suffered, and I couldn't stop staring at his graceful, powerful movements. His bare muscles were expressing through thin, lightly tanned skin, package suspended in the pouch of his suit.
I swelled when he made eyeshot. Consistently, watching him swim made my cock hurt. The hard-ons were out of control, and managing them was essential if I wanted to wear a speedo.
For years, I busted a nut every morning in the shower. After joining the team, I added one more nut after practice at home. Less than a week later, I concluded I needed another, ideally, right before practice. With ten minutes to walk to, change at, stretch, and hop in the pool, there wasn't enough time. I was sure I'd flash everyone if I got hard in the suit. I resolved to find a way.
I hoped I could convince Stanley to put in a word to the coach.
As if I was walking the plank, I approached Stanley. He was a nice enough guy, but I didn't want to be outed.
"Hey, uh, hi, Stan—"
"Oh, hey, what's up? Bret, right?" Stanley said, friendly and easy.
"Um, uh, I was wondering, if you might, uh, might help me, uh—"
"Is this about Keith?" he asked, his voice low and quiet.
Heat rushed to my face, my throat clenched.
"Hey, hey, it's ok."
"It's not that," I said.
"Really, it's ok."
"It's not that," I said, a little too loud.
"Ok, ok," he said, looking around.
He put his hand on my shoulder. I ripped it off.
Stanley frowned, looking down. "Sorry man, I shouldn't have—"
"No, no, I didn't mean—. I'm sorry, I wanted to ask you something." I said.
Stanley nodded.
"It's hard, uh, for me to, uh, get to practice on time."
I hesitated and swallowed. Stanley sat, patient.
"Would you ask, coach, if we, uh, could start practice, like, uh, maybe five minutes later?"
Stanley stood, arms folded, looking at his bare feet.
"Well, I mean, I can ask coach," again he glanced upward, a smile draped over his face. "If he says is 'no,' nothing lost, right?."
I nodded my head, forcing a smile.
"I'll tell you what he says, Bret," he added, punching me lightly in the shoulder, then grabbing hold and pulling his face to my ear. "Between us, Bret, you need to handle that thing in your suit, and don't stare at Keith so much."
I gulped, veins tightened in my neck.
Stanley grabbed my hand and placed a wadded, silky cloth in it.
A suit, a speedo suit. I hoped it would fit.
I spun my head, looking at Stanley, "Th—Thanks."
"Thank me by wearing it," he said, facing away, walking to the edge of the pool.
I saw Stanley talking to coach, but I couldn't hear what they said. Then, as we prepared to go home after workout, he announced there'd be a ten-minute time shift.
I mulled over what favor Stanley traded for the change and imagined the coach bent over a picnic table, the solid bronze-skinned swimmer pounding the hell out of him. I shivered.
That night, I stretched Stanley's suit over my growing shaft. In my mind, I held the idea that my junk was touching what his had. The speedo was tight but expected. My erection forced the front of the suit out forward. I leaned to one side, checking out the stretching pouch, and I saw exactly what I wished to avoid. Portions of my dick and balls were visible from the sides.
I'd never touched another guy's dick before. The speedo was the closest I'd been. I looped my thumbs through and under each side of the suit, pulling down. My cock sprung, slapping my lower stomach with a thud. I stepped out of the suit, picked it up, and took the speedo's crotch to my face. With a deep inhale, my shaft bounced. I didn't care if I was smelling my scent or his, but it could be his, and that was enough to get me going.
My classroom that semester was almost the closest building on campus to practice. It took me about 30 seconds to reach the pool, less if I ran. I planned to wear my new speedo under my pants all day. Then rush to the bathroom and rub one out before others arrived. I hoped everyone else would hang back rather than arrive as before.
I packed skin lotion in my old tattered backpack. During the day, it was difficult to focus on classwork, the smooth lycra gliding against my junk. Images of Stanley rubbing his dick on me superimposed over the classroom and lecture. Quickly, I had a new boner to conceal. Part of lunch went to busting out another one in a campus stall. And yet, during the period before practice, the lycra made me hard again. I pushed it to the side over the curve of my hip, bending it back under my jeans. I clenched my teeth; my brows pressed close. It hurt. Maybe there was no amount of prep that'd keep me from humiliating myself, outing myself. My eyes felt wet, my face tense. I sucked back the tears, refusing to let a single fall.
Sweat drenched my underarms and formed droplets on my forehead and under my eyes. My stupid teenage body conspired against me.
With my backpack straps draped over each hand, I held it in front of my erection. I hustled to the pool, crossed the deck into the bathroom, and locking the stall door behind me. I stood my pack on the floor, unzipped it, and removed my lotion: left hand holding the plastic bottle, right hand curved under the spout. I pressed down with the thumb of my palm, forming blobs in my hand. I dragged the front of my suit down. My cock flopped out, swaying in front of my navel. Footsteps. I stopped, frozen in place. My eyes on the door, two olive-brown feet strode into view.
A knuckle taped on the metal door twice.
A whisper, "Bret, hey."
