A gay story: Chapter 16: Manic Monday
The Higher Education of Matt Griffith
Chapter 16: Manic Monday
Monday, September 18, 1995
Copyright 2024. All characters in this story are fictional and are not meant to represent any living persons.
Note to readers: This chapter has 4 scenes. If you just want the sex, there is a combo flashback in scene 2 (Matt jacking off in the present, thinking about what happened with the Kraken and William, the untold portion.) The other scenes are character and plot development.
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Matt would never forget the moment his life went to shit. It would henceforth be divided into the Before Man Panties (BMP) era versus After Man Panties (AMP) one.
The last few minutes of Matt’s happy BMP life were spent in the locker room–about forty-three hours after he’d cum in Todd’s ass for the second time, which still put a smile on his face just thinking about it.
So, there he sat, kitting out for practice, same as everyone else. He was lacing his shoes, watching Caleb wrestle his giant dick (the Kraken) into a jock strap, enjoying the show, secretly rooting for the Kraken. Hoping it would borrow a trick from its Pufferfish cousins and swell up, as in pop a boner. A guy could dream, couldn’t he?
Elsewhere, guys were talking about Cal Ripken’s recent feat of surpassing Lou Gehrig’s record of 2,130 consecutive games. And girls. Always talking about girls.
Coach stormed into the room. Banged the door open, a sort of acoustic exclamation mark accompanying his entrance.
“Caleb, put that thing away!” Coach barked. “Play with it on your own time! Everyone, gather ’round!”
Matt and his teammates shuffled into a fidgety semicircle. They were rattled. This did not bode well.
“One of you is in deep dookie,” Coach snarled. If they’d been on the field, he would have said “shit.” He held a small, plastic bag in one hand.
Coach tossed the bag’s contents onto the floor. “Have a gander at what I found this morning. In this room.”
A pair of men’s black, thong underwear and a lone fishnet stocking landed on the cracked linoleum. Skidded into a crumpled pile. Matt didn’t know it yet, but that was the BMP/AMP demarcation, like the whole B.C. versus A.D. concept in reverse, where a baby’s birth hit reset on the whole counting years thing. Where, hey, at least if you lived in the A.D. part you had a smidgeon of a chance of spending your eternity in Heaven, assuming you managed to get yourself born in a Christian country and managed to get yourself saved, which was tricky considering everyone disagreed on what exactly that entailed.
That was still better than the alternative, the whole “drew the short straw” and got born in those B.C. years—whole millennia actually, in which case you were just shit-out-of-luck salvation-wise. Socrates? Buddha? Shit-out-of-luck.
Matt knew shit-out-of-luck. It came in the form of thong underwear and a fishnet stocking. These were Todd’s! Matt stared at them in disbelief. How was this even possible? He was certain he and Todd had policed the room before leaving. Hadn’t they?
Matt felt like someone was sitting on his chest, holding a hand over his mouth, making it hard for him to breathe.
“Only fags wear man panties like those,” said Roger, pointing to the thong underwear.
Several guys snickered.
Matt winced. A few weeks earlier Roger had used that word. Fag. Matt had heard the word myriad times over the years, but few people had mastered its elocution as well as Roger, sneering it, spitting out the “g” like rancid meat.
“Not my panties, Coach,” said one of the seniors.
“Not mine either,” echoed several voices.
Coach held up a hand to silence them. “Do I look like Prince Charming to you? Do you think I’m gonna hold out these man panties like a glass slipper, and watch you all slither your junk in them so I can figure out which of you is Cinderella?”
I’m not interested in denials,” Coach growled. “What I care about is admission. I need the responsible party to come forward. Do I need to remind you where we are?” (Hint: “locker room” was not the correct answer.)
“The God-fearing people who donate their hard-earned dollars to keep the lights on at this school don’t cotton to free love! They don’t want to hear about slinky underthings littering the locker room! Hell, Caleb, they’d take offense to that sideshow you were performing earlier!”
Coach paused, stared hard at his players. “In case you’re having trouble connecting the dots, gentlemen, this particular combination of slinky underthings—man panties plus women’s stocking—adds up to hanky-panky. In our locker room. Which points to one of you idiots. Someone has to step up. Be a man. Take responsibility. I’ll talk to the Dean. Maybe he’ll settle for a two-game suspension for that player. Otherwise—”
“Otherwise, what?” asked Roger.
“Otherwise, I must turn the matter over to the Dean. He investigates. This whole team falls under suspicion. We might have to forfeit the rest of the season. I could be fired. Those of you on scholarships could lose them. Is that enough ‘otherwise’ for you, Roger?”
It was certainly enough “otherwise” for Matt. He felt his stomach curdling.
A heavy silence settled over the room. Everyone looked around, trying to spot the guilty party.
Idabel stared at Matt.
Matt hesitated—and not out of cowardice. He was ready to claim ownership of the underwear, which weren’t even his, but that wasn’t the point. He had fucked the guy who’d worn them.
Matt was willing to face the consequences. The problem was the fishnet stocking. He would be expected to name his accomplice. That was where “no one” and “everyone” became a problem.
No one would believe Matt had come here alone and pranced around in a thong and fishnet stockings.
No one would believe him if he claimed the mystery woman was a non-student when it was common belief that he was dating Ava.
Everyone had seen Matt and Ava on dinner dates in the cafeteria. Everyone would assume the stocking was hers. And everyone knew that the only reason girls wore stockings like those was akin to lighting the Vacancy sign at a motel, i.e. “come and get it boys.”
Matt, the presumed straight male and popular athlete, would probably get away with a two-game suspension. Ava wouldn’t be so lucky. OC’s double standard was the stuff of legends. Ava could be expelled, almost certainly would be. Presumption of innocence was not a Biblical concept. Just the opposite: people were born guilty and it went downhill from there to the grave, which was why those B.C. people were shit-out-of-luck.
Matt was trying to puzzle out a workable solution when Roger broke the silence.
“Coach,” he said. “Why not ask the only other person with a key?”
Matt sighed. He’d wondered how long it would take them to reach this point. He was the only person in this room, besides Coach, who had a key to the building, loaned to him by Coach to expedite the whole clean-the-locker-room-for-a-month punishment. Sure, the maintenance department probably had a key somewhere, but they hadn’t been spotted in this building for ages. Hence the always leaking showers, the grimy linoleum floors.