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I was on the college football team. Small college. I never became a name in the sport, but it was fun.

One day, I got a groin pull and was taken to the locker room. It didn’t really hurt very much. I just couldn’t run. Walking was almost OK.

Our masseur was there, a gray-haired, bearded guy about 50-something years old with a bit of a stomach.

He suggested I get entirely naked. No problem, it was the team locker room after all.

He started with a quick and prefunctory massage of my neck, shoulders, ankles and calves as I lay face down on the table.

I reminded him it was a groin pull. He said he knew, but that it would be helpful if it started as a general massage.

His large, warm hands felt nice, so I was onboard with that. Nothing sexual, I just liked the warm, full, heavy touch on my body.

Still laying face down, he got to the business at hand, which was the groin area. He massaged the backs of my legs, and the lower butt, yes he actually touched my butt. I was really noticing his warm hands there. It felt nice. Very nice. Nicer than nice. I didn’t want him to ever stop. I noticed I was getting an erection, but since I was laying on my stomach, no one could see anything, although I was feeling a bit worried and embarrassed about it. I shifted a bit to get my weight off my boner. He didn’t say anything.

Mr. McClanahan continued the massage. In the process, his fingertips lightly brushed over the back of my scrotum a couple of times. I’m not gay, but I have to say that it was electrifying. Well, I was starting to feel a bit weird. A sort of shame. Guys aren’t supposed to enjoy the touch of other guys, at least not that way.

But by God, it was real. Very real. His touch was remarkable. I decided to go with it. Even if he couldn’t see my boner, he must have known something about what was going on. I didn’t hear him complain, although I was waiting for it. I figured at any moment he might stop and yell “You fucking perv!” or something. But no, he continued in silence.

More action on my butt. Then, weirdly, he stopped, with one hand on each half of my butt, and pulled slightly outward, so he could evidently see a great view of my anus.

“Looks OK.” he muttered quietly.

Then, Mr McClanahan offered something that really made me wonder – about him, about me, about a lot of things. “Since you’re here, do you want me to go ahead and do a prostate check?”

I had confusing thoughts. I didn’t realize massage practitioners did that sort of thing. I wasn’t even quite sure what a prostate check was, but had a general idea. Maybe my body, not my brain, was speaking for me, when after a brief hesitation, I said “Sure, I guess so.”

I felt him pour massage oil directly on my asshole. It was slightly cold. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, he started putting a finger directly into my butt. No one had ever done that before. Not even me. Oh, my goodness, it felt so great! I wanted more. I wanted his finger to be a foot long. He pressed forward or something, and I felt like I had to pee, but somehow better.

Slowly, he pulled his finger back out. I could swear it really was a foot long. Interesting.

“Roll over,” he commanded.

Oops, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. He’d see my boner, and I really didn’t want that. However, my parents raised me to call adults “sir,” and to do as I’m told. I did as I was told.

Laying face up on the table, my penis stuck straight up, like as telephone poll. I don’t recall seeing it that way very often. Usually it flops or at least half-flops toward my stomach. I must have been more turned on than I realized. And, by a fat, gray-haired man. Who would have figured? I told myself it wasn’t gay. Then, for a brief time, my mind started grappling with the situation, ‘So what if it is gay? Lots of guys are gay. On the other hand, when I look at a naked female, I get a boner, when I look at a naked guy, I don’t – usually.’ I gave up. ‘Whatever’ was my final thought as I just gave into Mr. McClanahan’s ministrations.

He massaged all around the left side of my body and upper leg just adjacent to my ballsack, making no effort not to touch it. My penis just stood up there, totally unattended. Now, I was starting to wish I was gay, or that Mr. McClanahan was, so he might actually touch it.

Wasn’t happening. My penis remained untouched. The massage continued for only another minute, then the double doors burst open. The whole team, all jubilant from winning, came crashing in, and every single guy saw me laying on the massage table with a huge hardon. It frightened me terribly. At the exact same time, it did something else to me. I felt the inevitable. My cock started jumping, and six or eight spurts of semen shot practically a foot into the air. Everyone saw it. There was nothing I could do. I’ve never felt such a collection of emotions in my life. Shock, shame, fear, excitement, pride, embarrassment, more shame, rebellion, and a delicious naughtiness.

Mr. McClanahan seemed to have blended into the woodwork. Where did he go? There was a semi-circle of big football jocks around me still in uniform, plus a couple of student reporters, and some people I didn’t know.

Now, reality was coming back to me. I was in big trouble. I’d probably be branded ‘gay,’ I’d get teased, basically, all hell would break loose.

Funny thing is it wasn’t happening yet. No one said anything. Dead silence. Then, after a moment, there was a bit of quiet chitchat about the game, and pretty soon, everyone was carrying on about the game, the university, going to the after-game party, and so on.

I had to go to the party, even though at that time, it was the last thing on earth I wanted. I went, expecting, well, I don’t even know. Maybe the end of my life as I knew it. But not going would be worse. Like an admission. Oddly, no one said anything at all about the ‘incident.’ The closest anyone came is when Judy, my semi-girlfriend at that time, asked how my ‘strain’ was doing. So, someone had told her at least that I had a groin pull. I never did find out exactly how much she knew. I never asked her, and she never said.

I wanted to hide in my dorm for the next few days, but I couldn’t. I was imagining all sorts of problems, like maybe a story about me getting an illicit massage in the college newspaper, maybe even pictures of me with my woodie on Facebook. I kept trying to figure out whether I had seen anyone with a phone taking pictures of me at that moment, and couldn’t decide if that might have happened.

Another thing I wondered about was Mr. McClanahan. Would the university fire him? Gosh, I hoped not. I was even imagining defending him. Like, I’d stand up in court and say it was my idea – that I talked him into it. Why did I want to do that? I have no idea. I just didn’t want him to be in trouble.

But nothing. Not a word from anyone to this day, and it’s been years. I’m now a professor at that same university. Mr. McClanahan and I see each other in the hallways, or in the quad from time to time. He’s very old now. He nods and says “Hi, how are the kids and the wife?” I say “Hi, How are you and Millie doing?” back.

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