My Jock Memories

By AbsMan420


What makes one click on an online pop-up ad? I know there are people who make a study out of it, a career even, but I'm not one of them. Whether it's the eye-popping graphics or the explosive font of the text, or whether there's really some kind of truth to Freudian theory, I couldn't tell you. I don't know. There was SOMETHING about it that grabbed my attention. "Ever wish you'd been a jock in high school?" the text read, superimposed over rapid-fire images of athletes - the football player, the wrestler, the baseball player, the hockey freak. "Geeks wanting a new life, click here."

So I thought, "What the hell?" chuckled a little to myself, and I clicked on it. It's not like I was doing anything but surfing around anyway. A home page opened up in a new window.

"YOUR JOCK MEMORIES" it read. "Enter"

That led me to a registration page - a logo, with the familiar jock-images, and some instructional text. "Welcome to 'YOUR JOCK MEMORIES,' please complete the following fields, and proceed to your confidential qualification assessment."

Typical stuff - email address, establishing a password, nothing out of the ordinary. Within a minute I was registered and moving into the meat of the site. The "qualification assessment" came up first.

"The following questionnaire will help us establish your needs when entering our program. Please answer all of the following truthfully - remember, your anonymity and confidentiality is assured."

It began with a series of fields for personal information: height, weight, age, measurements a person might know - though I skipped the "Penis Length" field at first, finding that a little too intrusive, until the program refused to let me proceed without it - THAT was kind of embarrassing. I thought about lying, about giving myself a little boost, maybe, but I decided against it. What the hell difference did it make?

Then, individual questions began appearing. "What sports did you ACTUALLY play in high school? (Check as few as apply)" was the first. I clicked the buttons next to "Track" and "Cross Country" then hit return. Long-distance runner - sigh - was it any wonder I only weighed a buck-sixty?

"What sports do you WISH you'd played in high school? (Check as many as desired.)"

I clicked "Football," "Wrestling," - the contact sports my parents hadn't allowed me to play - and added "Bodybuilding" as an afterthought. True, I'd never had much interest in bodybuilding, but figured, what the hell? This was for fantasy purposes, wasn't it? A little extra muscle would make me look better in my fantasy singlet.

"Of the sports you selected, pick your favorite."

I clicked "Wrestling." On my TV, in the background, WWE "Raw" had just started - I could hear them screaming for Goldberg.

"Second favorite."

I clicked "Football."

"How would you best describe the fantasy-jock you? A) confident and cocky B) self-assured and silent C) friendly and humble?"

Well, aren't we always the opposite of ourselves in our fantasies? Isn't that the whole point?

Of course I picked "confident and cocky."

"Highlight other fantasy adjectives:"

I chose "arrogant," "blatant," and "uninhibited." I chose to be an alpha-male. I picked the jock-frat at college - that kind of stuff. I chose to be a hero, to score the winning touchdown. I confessed my desire to be the exact opposite of the loser I was - I mean, had been. I gave myself the anonymous freedom that only the internet can inspire - I gave myself permission to be truly honest.

The envy and jealousy of the jocks that I felt during my youth - that I'd thought I'd gotten over now that I was in my late-twenties - it all surfaced and spoke again. Reliving the teasing and the abusive treatment at their hands, I wrote about it at length in the essay section, how horrible it was to be the skinny, late-blooming geek around all those handsome, athletically-graceful, muscular boys. How, more than anything else in the world, I wished I could've been like them. Accepted instead of different.

Filling out the whole thing was exhausting, and took the better part of an hour. I actually felt drained when I finished, like I'd been testifying before court and wrung clean by the prosecutor - like I'd just had exhaustive sex. I couldn't even remember exactly what I wrote - I just knew it had all poured out of me. It actually felt cathartic.

And then it was over. Before I knew it, I was facing the "submit" button on the web site.

What makes you do the things you do on the web? Is it the feeling of security brought on by being in your own living room? I don't have an answer to that one, either. All I know is that I clicked "submit" before I really thought better of it. I was actually kind of curious to see what would happen next.

It turned out to be absolutely nothing.

The site took me to a "Thank you for your submission" page, but there were no links out of it - it was a dead end. When I tried to back up, the computer crashed.

I re-booted, and signed-on again. In my online history, I pulled up the "Your Jock Memories" home page, and as it began to load, the computer crashed for a second time.

The next time signing on, I went to a few other of my book-marked pages first, successfully testing my browser, but when I tried to load any of the "Jock" pages, I'd crash. Over and over again it happened, until I lost patience with it, and shrugged it off. Stupid, I thought to myself. Dumb-ass stupid fantasy shit. You've probably doomed yourself to non-stop spam.

I couldn't stop thinking about it, though. That night, I even masturbated to it - the whole jock-fantasy thing. The whole "if only I'd been a..." sports fantasy that all us normal men share. That little session online had brought up a whole lot of unresolved issues with me, apparently. The power of my orgasm only confirmed that.

And I kept coming back to it. When I masturbated the next morning, I used the same exact fantasy - me turning into a super-jock - I didn't alter it a bit - and I orgasmed just as explosively.

Sipping on my morning coffee, I was surprised to discover I had an erection when I signed-on to my web browser, merely at the thought of coming across some communication from that site last night. God, I guess I DO have issues.

Unfortunately, there was nothing. The usual amount of crap-mail, a note from my buddy Brad, but nothing out of the ordinary, certainly nothing from "Your Jock Memories."

Weirder still, there was nothing in my history trail, either. When I looked to find the web address, it didn't exist. My browser simply skipped from the last place I'd been before I took that little qualification exam to today's sign-on screen.

Curioser and curioser...

I wish I could say that I forgot about it over the next couple of days, but I didn't. As a matter of fact, I hate to confess that it became some prime masturbatory fodder. For some reason, I simply couldn't get the long-held juvenile fantasy of transforming into a jock overnight out of my head. It really turned me on.

It was a week to the day when I heard from them, just as I was about to give up all hope. I came home to a package on my doorstep. And okay, it freaked me out a little - I didn't give them my name - I don't remember filling-in a mailing-address field. I wasn't feeling as secure anymore - that precious feeling of anonymity had all-but dissolved.

There it was, plain brown wrapper, their familiar logo on the upper-left corner. (If nothing else, I quickly thought, at least I have proof they exist, now.) A little bigger than a shoe box, about five pounds, the address label read exactly the way I type my address - instead of using the second line for my apartment number, I just write it on the end of the first line (851 W53rd #6E) - the way it appeared here, exactly. Obviously, at some point, I submitted my address to them. Why don't I remember that?

So, I picked it up, went into my apartment, stared at it for a second or two while I shucked my coat, and finally opened it. And since I'm vowing to be completely honest - no matter how bad that makes me appear - I admit that I had a hard-on, okay? It was like an amazing fantasy-come-true. It was just a little weird. So, I had a hard-on. So what?

It WAS a box. Heavy plastic, like a security box you could buy at Sports Authority, or some hunting store - a lock-box for handguns. Like a security box, like a briefcase, it had a small rolling combination lock on the cover. Of course, it was locked.

A little card fell from the wrapping - I figured that this would have the combination on it, but it didn't. All that was printed on it, aside from the company logo, was a simple web address. I breathed a sigh, grabbed the box, adjusted my erection, and walked to the computer.

Oh, why do we do the things we do on the web?

It's just a fantasy, I thought to myself, already rationalizing. Are so many women flocking to go out with you that you can't afford yourself a little diversion? A little fantasy? Are you really disappointing any of your female admirers by staying in this evening and playing a little game with yourself?


So I logged on. Fuck it.

I called up my browser, and carefully typed in the address from the card, remembering what had happened before, how annoying it was to continually crash. This time, however, the page came right up.

"Welcome to YOUR JOCK MEMORIES," the text read. "Enter your name and password to access your personal memory package."

A couple of fields, a tap on "return," and I was in business.

"Hello, JERAMY. Welcome to your personal memory page. New links will become available to you as you successfully complete each section. Please be certain you have access to your pre-supplied YJM-Strong Box. Enjoy YOUR JOCK MEMORIES."

The first thing I did, before I clicked on anything, was to bookmark the page. After that, I glanced at the subheadings:

Section ONE: WRESTLING (Making Weight) Section TWO: FOOTBALL (Venting Aggression) Section THREE: BODYBUILDING (Attitude Adjustment)

They were all links, but "wrestling" was the only one functioning. Gotta start somewhere, I thought, and clicked on it. (Have I mentioned how powerful my erection was? I suppose I should.)

The new page popped up - background first, a silhouette of a wrestler with shiny, silver edges. It was a pretty slick image, actually. As I waited for the text to load - figuring that this was one of those "personalized stories" - I studied it. I remember getting in there close and really looking at it - it wasn't flat, the black of the shape. It had depth, too. There was something hidden in there, like in those poster-things. I remember searching for it. I remember really, really searching.

And I remember the orgasm I had when I finally found it - unbelievably powerful.

So powerful that it woke me up.

I mean, woke me up. I mean, sitting up in my bed and it's morning and suddenly feeling like, where the hell am I? - a startled kind of waking up. Like, it had all been a dream or something. A blackout. And it kind of freaked me out a little. I mean, I didn't remember GOING to bed, and suddenly it's morning and my whole night is gone and I don't remember a single fucking thing about it. A little panic.

I threw back the covers, intent on checking the rest of my apartment for clues - perhaps search through the computer log - when, jumping out of bed, I stopped dead in my tracks.

Not just that I was naked - and I NEVER slept in the nude, always boxers and a t-shirt - but that I was built, and I mean BUILT! I mean, there wasn't a shred of fat anywhere on me - I was so ripped up, in fact, that every groove of my abs, every fiber of my muscle, every attachment and tendon was clearly visible. I was an anatomy chart with tight skin.

I touched my tight pec, ran a hand down my sleek abs, flexed my arm. It was MY body. I was in my body.

I looked at myself in the wall-mirror across from my bed. The morning sunshine streamed in from the window next to me, lighting me from the side. What I saw in the mirror confirmed it - it was me, for sure, but I was in phenomenal shape. I looked like a Marine, like a college athlete at the moment of his physical prime - I had the compact musculature of a...

Well, frankly, I had the compact musculature of a college wrestler.

And then, almost the instant I thought the word "wrestler," another thought came on it's heels: "Well, why WOULDN'T I have the body of a wrestler? I AM a wrestler."

And in that instant, before I could even be confused by it, a lifetime of memories flooded into me. I'd been wrestling since sixth grade, when I'd joined the team only because my buddy Johnny C had, but soon found a love for it, staying with the sport long after Johnny C had given it up, too weak to keep the discipline.

I remembered long hours of practice, sweating my nuts off in that sauna we called a wrestling room at school. I remembered grueling workouts, painful cramps, impossible diets. Years of matches, humiliating defeats, motivating wins, my memories, I'd BEEN there - I remembered.

I remembered my high school wrestling coach, the way he always used to laugh at us when we'd throw a boner in practice. He'd say, "Go take care o' that," and motion us into the locker room, so we could beat-off quick and get on back. Happened to wrestlers all the time - dozens of times to me when I first started - wrestling's all about dominance, see, and a hard-on was a natural response. Coach made me wear a tight jockstrap under my singlet, so it wouldn't be so obvious during matches.

I won divisionals my sophomore year and went to state. In high school, I wrestled 189 - I went to 197 in college - I lost in the third round, but came back the next year and won my class. I remembered it as vividly as if it had happened to me yesterday. (They announced me by the wrong name, as I recall. They called me "Jake" over the P.A. instead of "Jeramy." The guys got some great laughs out of that. My teammates called me "Jake" for weeks afterward.) I remember how tough my opponent was, how he almost took it from me a couple of times. Once I had him in my control, though, my always-present erection told me I was gonna win for sure.

I remembered how great that felt. Best day of my life.

That was MY memory.

There was no denying it - it was all true. I'd been a wrestler almost all my life - I knew holds and maneuvers and strategies - I had a body that couldn't be denied, reflexes sharper than a cat's, flexibility superior to almost any faggot gymnast. However that web-site did it, it did it.

It'd made me a wrestler. It'd given me those memories.

And I got hard just thinking about them.

Looking at myself in the mirror, seeing the cock I so vividly remember for the first time, watching the way my tight muscles flexed - especially my lower abs, those sexy veins - I beat off. I thought back to middle school and pretended like I'd been sent to the locker room by the coach to "take care o' that," the way I remembered.

And I orgasmed just as hard as I used to then.

Naturally, the first thing I did after that was to log-on to the web-site. Not surprisingly, there was no trail, no evidence left that I'd had any activity on the web at all. A big nothing. I recalled book-marking the address, but when I tried to access it - here comes a shocker - the computer crashed.

Fuck it, I thought, lacking the patience to deal with it at the moment. I've got a new body to enjoy, anyway.

I would've gone to the gym first, but instead went to the athletic store where I bought myself a couple of singlets, more spandex shorts than you could comfortably stretch around the city's genitals, headgear, shoes - the works. I also picked up several different styles of jock straps, a thick waistband, a thin (called a "runner's jock"), three pairs of compression shorts, and a cup, just to be on the safe side. The gal who rang me out tried not to comment as she handled the many jocks. When our eyes met, I smiled at her, and saw her attraction to me.

This was gonna be awesome!

When I got home and slid on the singlet, my erection poking out against the material, when I saw myself in the mirror, it brought back all those incredible memories - me in high school, me in college - looking so powerful and athletic. A winner.

I wore the singlet underneath my gym clothes - I was determined to never take it off.

Of course, I did before I went out that night - it was a Saturday, after all. I squeezed into a tight, cotton-spandex short-sleeve shirt, more revealing that the singlet, if that was possible - it highlighted my abs, the tight cuts of my eight-pack.

I turned some heads, too - I talked to a lot of women that night. It was wild.

Unfortunately, every time we'd start talking, the conversation would turn to wrestling, and I'd start telling her about some match I'd just suddenly remembered or some harsh dieting story - and though they liked the subject, these chicks NEVER had the discipline for REAL diets - and she'd lose interest in me. Like, every time.

But I couldn't stop talking about it, either. I'd just gained a whole lifetime of memories in one night - I HAD to sort them out.

I ended up talking to this other guy at the bar who wasn't having any luck, either. Turned out he wrestled in high school, too, so we had something in common. He'd let himself fall out of shape, but it didn't matter. I was so happy to have someone to talk wrestling with that I didn't care about my failure with the women, either. Fuck 'em, women were always gonna be there. Being a jock was far more important.

This guy - I never caught his name - and I drank for a couple hours together, reliving our glory days - I was reliving and experiencing for the first time, which was cool. At last call, he and I stumbled out to the parking lot together. When we shook hands, I put a couple of moves on him, quickly containing him in a half-nelson against his car. He was chuckling until I pressed my erection into his ass. Yeah, I loved dominating these weak mother-fuckers.

When I got home, half-drunk though I was, ready to beat-off and hit the hay, I logged-on to check my email. Or at least, that was my rationalization. My hopes were answered when - surprise, surprise - a letter from "YOUR JOCK MEMORIES" was in my in-box.

"Congratulations, JERAMY," it read. "You have successfully completed Section One of YOUR JOCK MEMORIES. Please click on the link below to access Section Two - this link will remain active for twenty-four hours, only. Attempts to bookmark this link will result in user-terminal instability. Make sure to have your YJM-Strong Box within easy access. Thank you for using YOUR JOCK MEMORIES."

I snorted, remembering what happened to my computer every time I tried to re-access those pages, and decided to take this letter at it's word. I glanced at the Strong Box, sitting innocently there on my desk - I still didn't know the combination or the contents, damn it - and then clicked on the link.

It took me back to "my personal memory page" - but this time, both the Section One AND Section Two links were active. Section One was "WRESTLING," but Section Two was "FOOTBALL" -- "FOOTBALL (Venting Aggression)" actually, but who's a stickler for sub-headings?

Much as I had enjoyed the wrestling section, I clicked on "football," anyway.

Same sequence of events: the page came up, there was a background silhouette - this time of a football player in a three-point stance - same silvery, metallic edges, same strange depth of image, same feeling of losing oneself in the blackness...

Same incredible, mind-altering orgasm that jolted me awake yesterday.

This time, though, I wasn't as scared as yesterday. I woke suddenly in bed, for sure, spread-eagle on my back with only the thin top-sheet covering me, feeling the after-effects of my orgasm in whatever I was wearing - and from the familiar feel, the rough cotton, I was certain it was my jock strap - but this time, I wasn't as scared. I'd been expecting, maybe even hoping, that I'd find myself like this again. I was more nervous than scared.

I wanted to be as surprised with my body as I'd been yesterday, but I made the mistake of thinking the word "football" before I got a chance to get up and see.

Same thing - it just flooded over me like a great wave. The memories came pouring back. I remembered how I got into football in eighth grade just 'cause all the other guys were doing it. I never had much interest in football itself, but I sure did love to hit. Man, nothing felt better than putting some guy down on his ass, or knocking the shit through a line and getting a sack on some faggy quarterback.

I was a born linebacker, the coach said. Even though sometimes I played running back, cause of my speed and agility, I preferred defense.

I put on a ton of weight my junior and senior years, which drove my wrestling coach nuts, but I liked having the size. I put on muscle so easily. I remember the day I weighed-in heaviest on the team - with the lowest bodyfat - when I became the Alpha Male.

I'd usually wear a cropped, sleeveless t-shirt under my pads, and I liked to wear just that and a jock strap around the locker room. After a game, all sweaty and shit, I was a prime specimen. All the guys on my team revered me.

I remembered the games, the practices, losing myself in the feeling of dominance as I'd tackle my opponent - pressing my hard cock into him as I crushed him to the ground. I fuckin' OWNED that field.

I remember how we'd come in from a victory and celebrate, rough-housing and playing. I remember how we'd circle-jerk in the shower and get-off on our feelings of growing masculinity. I remember how I was almost always the one to initiate it.

In college, it got even more intense. There were a lot more guys like me, aggressive and hungry to play. It was a huge fuckin' step over high school. I remember getting into the jock frat, pledging and hazing and drinking like fish. Drunk on our power, we wrestled naked and jerked-off together, my brothers and I. It was some of the best times of my life.

I quit playing football when I hurt my knee my senior year. I was still able to wrestle, thank God, but my dream of playing pro-ball had to be abandoned. I remember being bitter about that for a long while. Something saved me, definitely, but in the moment that was lost to the haze.

Laying in bed now, remembering this for the first time, I knew too easily what my body would look like - there'd be no surprise. I'd spent a lot of hours staring at myself in the mirror, as I remembered all too well. Still, it wouldn't hurt to confirm.

I jumped up to look at myself in the mirror next to the bed, enjoying the way the light played against my solid shoulders and pecs. I was a big man, just like I remembered - two-hundred and thirty-five pounds at five percent bodyfat. Big, horse-heavy legs from hours of tackling dummies, and junky big arms from endless straight-bar curls and skull-crushers.

There I was in my tight jock-strap, my big cock, my pride, starting to swell. I'd have no problem beating off to this - I was looking just about perfect. I couldn't remember a time when I was happier with my body. Being a jock was the most satisfying thing in the world.

Bam! Bam! Bam! Feel that power? In almost no time, I fuckin' shot all over the place. I am man - hear me roar!

I kept the jock on, soaked though it was in my cum. I liked the way it felt, how it fit when wet - how fucking fantastic I looked in it. Before I went to the gym, I took one of my looser-fitting t-shirts and cut the bottom off of it, making it a half-shirt, like the one I used to wear under my pads. In my now-familiar uniform - half-tee and a jock - I was ready to start my day.

I watched "SportsCenter" to see if there happened to be any football news - unfortunately, since we were in the middle of baseball season, that's almost all there was, highlight-wise. I fuckin' hate baseball - what a faggy sport. Those guys gotta take steroids to fuckin' stand around in the sun. It's not a sport - it's a GAME.

Real jocks played real sports, contact sports - like football and wrestling.

I was so pumped, I threw on a pair of spandex shorts, then a pair of baggy gym shorts over them, then went to the gym, where I pounded through a leg workout. A couple of the local high school boys were all in awe of me, watching me squat, so I gave 'em some pointers - and a show. When I found out they played ball, we had plenty to talk about - I had plenty of anecdotes for them. I got off on the way they so obviously worshipped me, even though they were afraid to admit it, so I stripped down to my spandex shorts as quickly as I could. Let 'em see all the goods. Let 'em see power.

There was only one hot lady in the whole gym worth my time, but she called me "vain" when I talked to her and gave me the cold shoulder - bitch. She'd be lucky to get fucked by a guy like me. I shrugged her off.

When the boys were leaving, they came over and shook my hand, introducing themselves - I almost immediately forgot their names. "My buds call me Jake," I said, even though just the opposite was true. When I was in college, my frat brothers decided "Jeramy" wasn't tough enough for a linebacker with my temper, so they started calling me "Killer Jake." I remember they used to introduce me like that at pep rallies and at the start of home games. Anybody who knew me on the field called me "Jake." Anybody who knew me personally - my frat brothers and the like - called me "Jeramy" in private.

It had always been Killer Jake who'd started the circle jerks - "Killer Jake" had always been much more sexually mischievous than plain-old Jeramy. Certainly it was my "Jake-side" that got these two boys to beat-off with me in the locker room, the three of us standing in a tight circle near the showers. They were nervous and excited - I was laid-back and cocky.

It was so hot. And so easy.

When I got home from the gym, the first thing I did was sign-on to my web service. Hoping, hoping that there was an email from...


Yes, something from YOUR JOCK MEMORIES. I clicked it open, quick as I could.

"Congratulations, JERAMY," it read. "Or should we call you 'Killer Jake?' You have successfully completed Section Two of YOUR JOCK MEMORIES. Please click on the link below to access Section Three - this link will remain active for twenty-four hours. As before, attempts to bookmark this link will result in user-terminal instability. Make sure to have your YJM-Strong Box within easy access. Thank you for continuing to acquire YOUR JOCK MEMORIES."

I didn't even hesitate to click on it. Why would I? So far, it had given me the life of my dreams. I'd become the jock I'd always fantasized about being, the big fuckin' masculine powerhouse I wasted my youth longing for. It was all real.

My personal memory page came up. This time, the third link, "Section Three: BODYBUILDING (Attitude Adjustments)" was active, as well as the "WRESTLING" and "FOOTBALL" links.


I admit I never had much interest in bodybuilding - I'd added it to the initial list as an afterthought - wrestling and football were all I'd really cared about. But then I thought, what the hell? Would there be anything wrong with being a little bigger? Think of the power I felt now risen a notch or two, just as it had each of the other times. No need to resist.

I clicked on it.

So familiar now, the process, that I was erect just anticipating it. Sitting there before my computer, stripped of my half-shirt and spandex shorts, leaving myself in only my jock strap, my half-hard cock already fighting the material, I looked almost lovingly at the on-screen image.

The silhouette of a bodybuilder this time, in the almost-cliche double-biceps pose, otherwise the same as my other experiences. The silver, metallic edges racing around the smooth curves of the voluminous muscle, the strange depth to the blackness that was becoming easier and easier to fall into...

The orgasm.

The mind-numbing, life-changing orgasm.

And then I'm awake. Just like that - a jolt.

I'm awake in an unfamiliar bed - in unfamiliar surroundings. I'm in someone else's bedroom, and for the life of me, I don't know how I got here. I don't remember. I must've tied one on good, though, to end up goin' home with a stranger. Worse that I don't even remember it - I haven't blacked out since my college-days. Hope it wasn't some nasty, beer-goggle type I'd been with. My old frat brothers would laugh their asses off over that.

I've been sleeping in just a jock-strap, and the orgasm that woke me up is soaking the material, but I don't take it off. Truth be known, I've kind of always liked wearin' a cum-stained jock around - it's sexy. Must've been some hot scene last night, I think, if I'm layin' here in just my jock strap.

I get up out of bed and look around, hoping something in the room will jog my memory, but nothing really does. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror across from the bed and spend a few appreciative moments flexing for myself.

I have really never looked better. My high school football coach - Coach Thompson - got me into bodybuilding, because I put on size so easily. It drove my wrestling coach nuts, but I just went up a couple of weight classes, and he just dealt with it.

It was also my football coach who got me into 'roids. He'd been cycling himself, he told me, so he'd guide me. And he did, for like, my first three crucial years - I put on unbelievable size because of him. When I hurt my knee in college ball, it was my high school football coach who got me back into bodybuilding. I'd been in a funk for months, I remember, but suddenly, I found a purpose, and that purpose was muscle growth. Coach gave that to me.

Lost in these memories, I go from pose to pose, the same way I used to for Coach Thompson - in his office, after practice, as he'd sit there at his desk and beat himself off watching me - usually right after he'd given me a shot. I fuckin' loved doin' that for him! Same way I love lookin' at myself right now in this mirror, dressed only in this jock.

I'm huge.

A two-hundred sixty pound bodybuilder - a man in his prime - a slave to his body.

A total jock - a total stud.

I look around for something familiar - or the location of my mysterious partner - and I find my small gym bag - the one that I keep my jock-straps, my hot shorts, my singlets, my gear, that kind of stuff in - my PROFESSIONAL bag, as it were. I slide on a pair of black and white striped spandex shorts. On the floor by the computer desk, I find one of my half-shirts. It's so tight when I put it on, it barely, barely covers the base of my round pecs. My nipples - which point down, anyway - are exposed beneath the cut.

Then, strangest of all, I find my Juice Box sitting there next to the computer. It's the heavy-plastic strong-box that I keep my 'roids in. (Get it? My JUICE-box!) What the fuck was it doin' HERE?

It opens easy - the combination is my birthday, "0508" - and I see that it's definitely my stuff. My deca, my winstrol V, my sustenon250, all mine. There are also three pre-loaded syringes that are open, empty, and discarded - I don't know what they are. I don't remember buying them. Very mysterious, but I'll solve it later. I close the box and toss it into my gym bag.

There's a wallet sittin' here on the desk, too, so I look through it. Driver's License says the guy's name is "Jeramy Walters." Who the fuck is that? Is that the little geek there in the photo? Five-eight, a hundred sixty pounds? Jesus! What the fuck made me ever come home with that fag? Was it a job? What the fuck did we do? Did I let him give me some kind of shots?

There's two-hundred dollars in the wallet, so I take it, figuring, if this Jeramy Walters is gonna fuck with me - if he's gonna fuck with Killer Jake - he's gonna pay for it. He probably owes me, anyway.

I get out of there as quick as I can and grab a cab as soon as I get my bearings. It's about nine o'clock at night - I know just where I'm supposed to be.

"Take me to 'Jock's'," I tell the cabbie, who's obviously all gaga about my body because he keeps asking me stupid questions, trying to engage me in conversation. I ignore him as we drive downtown to the village.

I pay him out of the money I took from that guy Jeramy's wallet and head inside. Even this early in the evening, the club is hopping. The doormen let me quickly inside, before the guys in line start screaming and taking pictures. I should've just used the employee entrance around back, but the cabbie dropped me off out front.

I don't recognize the guy at the Host's stand - he's probably new, they have such turnover here (except with Talent). "Can I help you?" he says, giving me the up-and-down - Attitude! Like he wouldn't kill to get fucked by a guy like me. Little faggot.

"Yeah," I say. "My name's Jake. I work here."

The second I say my name, he visibly twitches, then shakes his head clear. "Oh, YOU'RE Jake!" he says, suddenly all smiles. "Mr. Thompson said to be expecting you!" He checks his watch. "Your awful late," he says. "You have a scheduled match in less than a half-hour. Can you be ready? Do you have a singlet with you?"

"I got one with me," I say, patting my gym bag. "I can be ready in five minutes. Can I go change?"

I walk through the main room of the club, past the bar and the service window. The place is packed, but everyone's focused on the wrestling ring, so nobody sees me go through. One of the bartenders waves to me, blowing me a lewd kiss. I flex my arm for him. Amidst the cheering for the match that's going on, I slip into the dressing room, which looks more like tacky theatre than locker room.

As I'm slipping my very tight singlet over my very ample thighs, I hear His voice behind me. "Ah, Jake," He says. "Eddie said you were here."

I turn around and face Him, this man I've known all my life, even though it seems like I'm seeing him for the first time. "Coach Thompson!" I say, and my cock is instantly erect.

He's so powerful and strong, masculine and massive, I worship Him. I've always worshipped Him - all my life - I remember it so clearly.

He checks his wristwatch. "You're awful late, Jake."

"I'm sorry, Coach," I say, bowing my head. "It's been kind of a strange day."

He smiles, reaching over and fondling my nuts. "I've got a good match for you tonight," He says. "You win, and you're gonna go huge at the auction later. You'll make us a fortune in stud-fees tonight."

"Speaking of which," I say, reaching over to the dressing table, "here's the money I got from the job that I did on the way over here. That Jeramy kid." I hand him the money, less the amount for the cab.

"Good boy," He says, pocketing the bills without counting them. "I appreciate you doin' that for me."

Even though I don't remember the job, I accept His compliment and hope this whole business is behind me and done with, so I won't ever have to think about this Jeramy-guy again.

"All right," He says. "I'll see you out there. Wrestle strong - this guy's good."

I smirk, pulling up my shoulder straps. "I'm better," I say. "You made me that way."

He smiles and says, "I sure did. Remember?" Before He leaves, He turns back to me and says, "Hey, don't wear the jock tonight. Give 'em a show!" He winks.

I smile back at him and pull my shoulder straps back down. "Whatever you say, Coach. You're the boss."

A couple minutes later, when they announce me - "Heeeeeeeeere's Killer Jake!" - I head out to the main ring in the middle of the club, the patrons drinking their beers and throwing their bills. They cheer for me as I flex for them. They applaud my erection.

They introduce my opponent, some new guy named Johnny Cena, who looks a lot like the guy who got me started in wrestling, all those years ago. Maybe he is. He's hot. I'm already erect as we square off against each other.

I'm gonna kick this mother-fucker's ass while all these faggots cheer me on. And then they're gonna bid on me, one of them rich enough - lucky enough - to get fucked by my champion cock later tonight. THAT lucky faggot's gonna know the time of his life - getting fucked by my jock bod, worshipping me.

I love this job. I love the Coach for getting it for me. I've got some great memories for when I'm old. My jock memories.

I take Cena down easily, and feel HIS erection against ME. Gonna be a great match.

A great life. •

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