Hitting the Showers

Hitting the Showers
By Kiernan Kelly


I'm thirteen years old. Not physically, of course – I've been walking this planet for twenty-five years – but mentally. I'm absolutely adolescent when it comes to sex. Not doing it – I'm hardly a virgin – but talking about it never fails to reduce me into a snickering kid, blushing and sporting wood at the same time.

This tends to be a problem in my line of work. I'm a pitcher for a minor league baseball team, and any guy who's ever played on a team knows what happens between players after a game. There's a reason they call it "locker room" language, you know.

It never fails. We'll trot into the locker room, sweaty, dirty, euphoric if we've won, pissed-off if we didn't, and hit the showers. Jerseys are stripped off, cleats tossed, pants dropped, cups removed. Suddenly there's naked man-flesh everywhere, and all of it's honed and chiseled. Chests and backs covered with a slick sheen of sweat, asses twitching, cocks bobbing; balls hanging low…you get the picture. Add to that the bawdy talk, the towel-snapping and ass-swatting, and you can imagine my discomfort. Within minutes, I'm giggling like a schoolgirl and trying to hide an erection that's so hard I could use it to hit a home run.

That's the crux of my problem. I'm gay, and being in a roomful of naked, ripped men takes me straight – no pun intended - to my happy place. I try to be the first one into the showers so that I'm not tempted to stare – or worse, touch – any of the eye candy parading around me. Believe me, there are plenty of guys on my team who I fantasize about, and whom I wouldn't mind grabbing a handful of now and then.

Bubba Forester, the team's catcher, heads off that list. Lord, that man is pure perfection, from the top of his head to his little pinky toe. He's well over six-feet tall, and every inch of him is sculpted and defined. He's so hot he was asked to pose for a "Men of Baseball" calendar last year. He was Mr. January, posing in nothing but his catcher's mask and mitt.

I keep that calendar pinned up on the wall next to my bed. It's been January in my house for almost eight months now.

Anyway, we'd just won an away game, and everyone was in a great mood. Trotting off the field, we headed en masse to the locker room. In my mind I was picturing my route through the locker room to the showers. I always tried to plan it ahead of time, so that I could strip down, shower, and get the hell out before anyone noticed that I had a stiffie. Sometimes it actually worked.

Not this time.

It had started raining shortly before the winning run was hit, and was coming down in buckets before the end of the game. The ground was turning into a frothy sludge, slippery as butter on a hot skillet. I was running along behind the other players, when suddenly my foot skidded on a muddy patch of ground. I went airborne, and landed hard, flat on my back.

I think I might have actually blacked out for a second, because the next thing I know, Bubba's handsome face was hovering inches away from mine. Did I mention that Bubba has the most amazing eyes? They're a brilliant green, absolutely mesmerizing, framed by lush, black lashes.

I could smell him, strong and rangy after a hard played game. His scent filled my nostrils, adding to the discomfort that was growing between my thighs.

He has full lips, too, the kind that made a man want to pucker up and start kissing. At the moment, his lips were moving, and he was asking me if I was alright.

"Peters? Peters, answer me, son!"

"Hey, Bubba."

"Jesus, kid! You gave me a scare, for sure. Thought maybe you snapped your neck falling like you did. Can you move your toes? How's your neck feel? Should I call the coach?"

"Nah, I'm okay," I said, flexing my fingers and toes. I gingerly tested my neck, rolling it from side to side. Nothing creaked or cracked, and there wasn't much pain. I figured I'd live, and sat up. My ankle was sore, and I hoped it was just a strain and not anything more serious. Bubba helped me to my feet, and I swayed a bit, suddenly dizzy. His strong arm wrapped around my shoulders.

"Maybe I should call the coach, Peters."

"No, I'm fine. Just a little dizzy, is all." No coach. No medics, no hospital, no being benched for six weeks because I was fool enough to slip on a patch of mud.

Besides, it was worth the pain to feel Bubba's hard bicep digging into my back and his strong fingers holding my shoulder. Not to mention his body heat, which I could feel right through our uniforms.

"Come on," he said, helping me limp toward the locker rooms. Inside, he sat me down on a bench, sitting next to me. "Just breathe. You look a little green around the gills, Peters."

"I'm okay."

"That ankle feeling better?"

"Yeah. It's fine," I lied. It was sore, throbbing. I only hoped it wouldn't swell. I decided I could elevate it and put some ice on it back at the hotel.

"Well, let's give it a few minutes. I want to make sure you're not going to pass out under the showers and crack your noggin open on the tiles."

His few minutes stretched to thirty. By the time Bubba was convinced I hadn't concussed anything in my fall and let me up, the rest of the team had showered, dressed, and gone to the hotel.

It was just me and him, all alone in the locker room.
Well…me, him, and my hard-on, which was growing big enough to qualify as an extra person.

"You need help getting undressed?" Bubba asked as he stripped off his jersey. Suddenly my vision was filled by a broad expanse of silken skin, brown nipples, and a ridged stomach.

"N-no. I'm good," I managed to squeak.

"Shuck them clothes, then. We can share a cab to the hotel, since we done missed the bus." He took off his cleats, and dropped his pants. Standing next to me, his cock was at eye level. Thick and meaty, it hung down over his balls. He had big balls, too, more than a mouthful, shaved clean, just the way I liked them.

My problem got decidedly worse.

I nodded, wondering how in the Hell I was supposed to hide my hard-on. I had to do something – the cup I was wearing had grown far too tight for comfort. I slowly lifted my shirt, giving Bubba time to turn and walk to the showers. My eyes followed his ass as it hitched up and down with every step.

Naked, my cock was at full mast. I picked up a washcloth and held it in front of my crotch in a sad attempt to hide my raging erection.

Keeping my back to Bubba, I stepped under the showerhead opposite his, and turned on the cold water. It didn't help. Leaving the washcloth hanging over my dick like a cape for a one-eyed, chunky, eight-inch superhero, I reached for the soap.

Suddenly a wet towel snapped against my butt, making me squeal and nearly lose my footing on the slick tile floor. My ankle, sore from my last fall, twisted again and I felt myself going down, grabbing frantically at whatever my fingers could find purchase on. The last thing I needed was another fall – for sure I'd be spending the night in the emergency room.

"Oh, shit! Sorry, Peters! Oh, man…I wasn't thinking!" Bubba said, catching me in his arms. His skin felt slick and hot against mine, and suddenly I was only too aware that the only thing that separated my cock from his was a thin swatch of terrycloth.

He looked down between us, his eyebrows arching. Reaching between us, he plucked up the washcloth. "Holy shit, Peters," he mumbled.

I noticed two things, then. First, he used Irish Spring Soap. I could smell it. Secondly, he hadn't let go of me, even when he'd spotted my erection. In fact, he was staring at it as if he'd never seen one before.

Considering he had a substantial one of his own, I doubted that was the case.

Bubba's full lips tilted in a small smile, and his green eyes locked with mine. "Didn't know you was that way," he said. "Pretty good at hiding it, huh? Me? I ain't too particular, if you know what I mean."

"You're bisexual?" I asked incredulously. Then I giggled – the thirteen year-old in me coming out again. Luckily, Bubba laughed along with me.

"It don't matter much to me. If'n it's human and has a hole, I don't mind sticking it in for a taste," he grinned.

Well, lube me up and call me power-bottom! I giggled again, and looked down between us. Bubba's cock was filling, and he was rubbing it against mine. I found myself fascinated by the similarities and differences between our shafts. Both had nice, rounded heads. Both were about the same length and thickness. His dick was darker in color than mine, a nice rosy red, and it made a wonderful contrast against my pale cock. My balls were dusted with hair; his were clean-shaven.

Suddenly, Bubba leaned in and kissed me. It wasn't sweet or tender; it was hard and sloppy and hot. His hands slid around my hips and cupped my ass, squeezing and kneading them. It didn't matter that my butt was still a little sore from my fall – his fingers were magic, rubbing the ache right out of them.

I groaned, letting my head fall back so his lips could go to work on my throat. His teeth, good, strong, white ones, nipped; I knew I was going to have a few hickeys the next morning. Not that I cared – the only thing I was thinking of at the moment was his flesh, and how much of it I could wrap my hands around.

"Suck me?" he asked, and I jumped to it. Or rather, I lowered myself to it, as in sinking to my knees and opening my mouth like an obedient cocker spaniel.

He tasted of soap and musk, salty and bitter. I took him in all the way, until the head of his cock brushed the ridged flesh at the back of my throat. Using every trick I could think of, I strove to give him the best blowjob he'd ever gotten before. I sucked, I licked, I swallowed and hummed. My fingers worked his smooth balls, gently pulling and kneading them. Then I ducked my head lower and sucked them into my mouth for good measure.

Suddenly, he pulled away from me. He gave me a wink, then trotted out into the locker room, dripping puddles on the tile floor. For a minute, I thought the whole thing had been some sort of cruel joke. I was as hard as a college-level calculus problem, dripping more fluid than the showerhead. Was he going to leave me like this?

He returned moments later, his cock sheathed in a condom.

I felt immeasurably relieved.

"How do you want to do this?" Bubba asked. "Against the wall or out on the bench in the locker room?"

Both options were intriguing, but the wall was closer, and I needed him now. I didn't bother to answer. Instead, I turned around, braced my hands against the shower wall, spread my legs and stuck my ass out at him.

He took the hint.

A big hand massaged my ass, separating my cheeks. A thick finger tickled at my hole then pushed all the way in, a precursor of what was to follow. My cock dribbled precome as a tingle of pleasure flashed into a bolt when he curled his finger and found my prostate.

Bubba wasn't too keen on prep work, it seemed. His finger retreated, replaced in short order by the head of his cock. It stretched me wide, burning, slowly inching its way into my body.

He was taking his sweet time getting inside me, and by the time he was in balls-deep, I was backing into him, trying to get him to move.

"Fuck, you're tight!" He groaned from behind me. His hands massaged my lower back, then gripped my hips as he began to pump into me. I could hear his flesh slap against mine, muted only by the splashing of water from the shower. He moved slowly at first, then faster, until he was pounding himself into me.

Slap. Slap. Slapslap. Slapslapslapslap.

It has a good beat and I can dance to it, I thought wildly, the teenager inside me giggling like crazy. Then I didn't have any thoughts at all as I came hard, my head spinning, stars winking on behind my eyelids.

I was so wrapped up in my orgasm that I almost missed Bubba pulling out, ripping off his condom and shooting hot semen over my back. I didn't miss his scream, though. Bubba was very vocal when he came. I thought the team probably heard him all the way over to the hotel.

We grinned at each other afterwards, both too sated to say much. I was still limping, and Bubba noticed that my ankle had swelled up. He helped me limp to the bench, then called for the coach.

By the time the coach got there, we were both dressed, and Bubba's condom had been flushed down the toilet. There was no evidence anywhere that two of the coach's best players had just fucked like rabbits in the shower room.

***

The docs said that I'd shredded a tendon in my ankle, and I wound up sitting out the rest of the season. I still went to all the away games, though. Not because I was particularly excited about sitting in the dugout watching the other players, but because I found that I could be of help after the games. Bubba would invariably need a rub-down, or a massage, or at very least, a shower, and I was always very happy to give it to him, and vice-versa.

I've still got Bubba's calendar up in my room, although more often than not, I've got the real thing in bed next to me.

I mark off each day with a red felt marker, counting down to the start of the next season. Every time I do, I turn back the calendar to January, and flick a finger at the catcher's mitt that covers Bubba's privates.

Bubba giggles every time he sees me do it.


***

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