"Hey kid, you okay?"

I was startled out of my pain, causing me to jump, only to elicit more pain. My grimace betrayed my manliness.

"Oh, that looks painful. Let me help you out." It was Coach Bryce Aldman, the part time PT. He was a stocky fellow, in his own right, possessing all the bumps and curves of an ex- high-maintenance jock type. The perennial coach, he wore the school's block cut gym shorts and a white t-shirt that bore the school logo above his left pec, but wore it with a young jock flair with the trademark wife-beater half visible through the light cotton material that draped over his supple frame. He had light brown hair, always closely buzzed, and a perfectly shaped head. Combined with his build, he was the quintessential teddy bear. Just graduated from the local college, never could quite tear himself away from his hometown. But then again, maybe he just couldn't get away. You could never tell with his demeanor. He always had a perky smile on his broad, round cheeks; always a glint in his eye that seemed to say that when he said he was happy to see you he meant it.

"Ooh, that does look painful," he remarked as he slipped his hand up my jacket, feeling the knot in my back through the cool, slick lycra. "Here, let me... uh, there." In seconds, he had me cradled in his arms with just a little effort or pain on my part. "We're going to have to work this thing out of you," he reassured. "I can't let one of my boy's go out with one of those on my watch, what will the other guys think?" he kidded.

All I could do was smile and watch him smile back. I mean, what else was I supposed to do. It was two or three steps before we got to his office; a Spartan room, situated with a solitary desk and a chair in one corner and a soft, padded massage table in the other. The only d‚cor on his walls was his diploma, neatly cased in a sparse wood-lined frame above his heavy, 1970s wood swivel chair and a couple of anatomy charts above the table. I couldn't tell if his decorative choices said more about his personality or his attachment to the position. I got the sense that he was, more or less, a simple, small town guy.

"You like it," he asked, half musingly. "I know its not much but it's home." I stifled a giggle that shook my knot awake. "Ooh, steady there, tiger," "watch out, buck-o," "kick back, turbo," seemed to be the extent of his conversational skills. It was cute in its own right, in its own paternal sort of way. I found it completely fitting, and it made me fall for him all the more.

It was two more steps from his doorway to the table. He set me down as gently as he could and, with greatest care, turned me onto my stomach. As soon as I was on top of the table he was all business. He asked me to take off my jacket and, if I felt comfortable, strip down to my skivvies. I'm sure the number of people who actually do feel comfortable being massaged in the nude would surprise me, but at that moment in my life, and even now, there's just something about all that constant touching and rubbing that always makes me bone up. Out of pre-emptive embarrassment I declined. He seemed to understand and was satisfied, for now, with me just taking off my jacket. I tried to do it on my own, but succeeded only in aggravating more tissue or something. I felt a little foolish, needing so much help to get undressed. I blushed again for the millionth time that evening.

He laid a reassuring hand on my exposed shoulder. "Just lie down and relax. Let me know if you feel uncomfortable or any pain." His voice took on a very soothing, educated tone. The words hummed in my ears, his baritone sound vibrated my mind into surrender as his hands rolled my flesh into submission. If any one man had found his calling, Bryce was this one man. His warm hands drew blood and restored flow towards my lumbar. In seconds, through his warmth, pressure and manipulation I could feel the knot just untie and disappear-the sensations made all the more pleasurable and elaborate through the lycra material.

"Feel good," he asked. All I could do was groan the deepest, most heartfelt groan. It started in my chest, rumbled up my esophagus, and shuddered out my sinuses. His fingers worked their magic up and down my spine. His electric touch loosened the right muscles in the right order, at just the right time.

"Man, you're tight all over. You didn't stretch did you?"

Sheepishly, I muttered something that resembled a "no."

He let out a hefty sigh. "Well, I suppose I can help you out before your entire body knots up on you. I have to get going, ya know." I blushed again. "Ah, man, there's no need for that. I was just kidding." I allowed myself a guilty giggle as his hands returned to my slender shoulders. He drew his hands across my back and the warmth from his fingers trickled like a waterfall, cascading down my muscles, drawing life and blood with it. Words fail me to describe the sensation I was feeling. It must have been a cross between sensory-overload and sensory deprivation. I was feeling so much that I almost felt nothing at all-nothing but the mystical hands of my mystic healer.

Before I knew it, he was tugging on the hem of my sweats and, without thinking, I raised my hips and off they slid. But before I grew cognizant of my return to near nudity, his hands drew out my senses into a complete, focused awareness of my calves. He would take each calve, alternatively, cupped in his hands in warmth before he worked his fingers between the muscles, breaking up the lactic acid and tension. He slowly worked his way up my thighs, working whole muscle groups in a similar fashion. His occasional stroke would glide across my inner thigh, causing me to shudder. He would draw his hands along the sensitive flesh, grabbing at the hamstring and groin muscles accessible from behind, working out the ligaments and muscles as best his ability while trying to avoid the inevitable contact with my hyper-sensitive balls. Each and every time the side of his hand would hit my sack I would shift and groan, uncomfortably. And even before he started to work the muscles in my butt I was unconsciously hard.

He massaged the muscle in large, open circles, pressing into the tissue with his thumb, grabbing the breadth of my hip for leverage. I was in heaven. The warmth of his touch, the grinding pressure on my crotch and the inadvertent and continual jerking of the singlet against the sensitive head had me on the brink of cumming without knowing it. My fists were tightly clenched and my breathing was staggered. The focus of his hands shifted upwards towards my obliques and lats and did nothing to abate my throbbing member. I neared the precipice of no return when he stopped. It was like hanging on the side of a cliff. I was acutely aware of my situation. The slightest touch would send me over the edge and Bryce was completely unaware. I held my breath, hoping that I could regain my composure before he made any more moves.

"All right champ," he said, "turn over." He slapped my back, his heavy, thick right hand lingered longer than I could bare and I began to convulse and shoot my load into my briefs. My toes curled and uncurled. My fist clenched and opened. I think Bryce was as stunned as I was. When my balls had sufficiently heaved their load and had sufficiently embarrassed me, my cheeks burned red once again.

"Wow," was all he said. After a three-second silence that lasted forever, "I've known plenty of guys poppin' wood because of massages, but you're my first exploder," he half mused to himself.

I was too embarrassed to acknowledge his words. He seemed proud of his accomplishment but I felt humiliated. I knew this would be the end of my social life. Bryce would tell all his friends, who would tell all my friends, and then I'd be done for. I knew it. I was on the brink of tears.

"Hey, hey, hey, little man. It's okay," he said in his reassuring tone. It hit me where I needed it. I choked up any sob that was about to trickle out. "It's okay, dude," he repeated. "Let's get you sitting up and cleaned off. It's no big deal, man." I began to feel a little less dirty for having soiled his table in such an innocent manner. "It's okay." His left arm was on my shoulder, reassuringly held me close to his chest. My cheek rested against his arm and I felt like everything was going to be okay between us. "This'll be our little secret, little man," he confessed. "No one needs to know about this unless you want them to, okay?" I nodded in agreement. "Good."

Through the whole ordeal I my boner still hadn't subsided. It tented the wet, stained singlet, sticking at an absurd 90-degree angle. I tried to cover myself with my hands, but was caught by Bryce. "Dude, after all that and after all that I just told you, you're still self conscious about me seeing your dick," he asked with a broad smile across his face. I couldn't tell if he was mocking me or if he was sincerely curious. I blushed again, a babe in his arms. "Dude, look, I've got a boner now. What you did was hot, and I'm not going to pretend that it didn't get me all riled up," he confessed. It was obviously true as he took a step back away from the massage table. His meshed, sport shorts were tenting as his own prodigious dick fought against gravity and the nylon material. He was trying to be unashamed for me. It was a sweet gesture that didn't go unnoticed. He started to swagger around the room, and we both watched his dick flop and bounce from under the thin shorts in an attempt to break the tension. I would giggle, he would smile, and we would both feel better.

Bryce stepped outside his office to retrieve my bag from the hallway so I could get a change of clothes. He walked back in, looking into my unzipped bag, pulling out a t-shirt and jean shorts. "Hmm, sorry, little man," he intoned dangerously, "it looks like this is all you got, here. What are you going to do for a change of clothes?" Oh no, he was right. My clothes were in my book-locker, and the locker-bay is closed. Great.

He read the worry on my face. "Don't worry, man. Maybe I have a change of clothes somewhere here." My teddy-bear hero to the rescue once again. He began to turn his office over, looking for anything that could be used for a t-shirt and a loincloth. "Sorry, bro," Bryce said, looking up from an emptied desk drawer, "no such luck." My excited countenance fell. I was doomed to walk home in a pair of soiled briefs.

Just then a light bulb flashed behind Bryce's eyes. He had an idea and there was no stopping him. He held up his finger, gesturing that I should hold any opinion until after he had finished. Confused, all I could do was watch-I couldn't interject even if I knew what to say. In seconds Bryce had his shorts kicked off his ankles and his boxers in his left hand. He stood in front of me, just about naked, with his thick, throbbing penis in his right hand. It was slightly darker than the rest of his body, surrounded by a mat of hair that connected to the hair on his thick legs. I had never seen pubic hair like this before. All I could do was stare. Bryce unconsciously stroked his 5-inch shaft and intermittently tugged at his low hanging balls. The length of his dick and the palm of his hand was shinny with the clear goop that seeped out of his piss-slit; a man obviously comfortable with being naked in front of others; being naked with a boner.

"Here," he offered me his large sized boxers. I was slightly embarrassed for the both of us, him standing there, in the nude, for my sake. Sheepishly, I took them from him, not one to reject so great a sacrifice, placed them beside me and hopped off the table. I turned my back as I slipped the straps off my shoulders and began rolling down the singlet. Bryce made no move on me, nor do I think, even now, that the whole ordeal was remotely sexual. If it was anything, it was absent-minded and automatic. I had a boner because I was a guy in puberty. He had a boner because he was a guy in his prime. We just happened to be in the same room. And thank God for that.

Just before he reached climax he realized what he was doing and snapped his hand, quickly, off of his cock. He scratched the back of his head and offered an awkward smile that gave way into a laugh. His red dick bounced with each guffaw, and I couldn't help but laugh. I dropped my soiled briefs and singlet to the floor, kicked them off my ankles and quickly drew up the offered replacement boxers.

They felt soft, warm, and clean. Reminds me of Bryce. I slid them up my thin legs and had to hold them, bunched up, against my waist. It was a silly sight. They kind of looked like knit plaid shorts to me, you know, the ones from the late eighties. He picked up my jeans from my duffle bag and offered them to me. I slipped them on, pulled up the belt nice and tight, and slipped on my t-shirt. I dropped the soiled clothes into my duffle to be washed at a later date.

Bryce pulled up his gym shorts, still tented by his dick; only this time a broad wet-spot started to form where his tip met the mesh. He helped me pack my junk back up and saw me to his office door.

"See you around school, buck-o," he said. I turned to walk out the locker room door to start the half-hour walk home. "Oh, and kid, great match tonight. You looked solid." I beamed with a pride that lit my path all the way back home. I left the gym a changed person that night. A little more confident in myself: a little more confident in my abilities. I had a borrowed pair of boxers and a borrowed sense of pride that I would soon grow into. •