PE Wrestling

From: WldCrazy5@aol.com

This is my first time submitting a story archive, so any and all feedback is appreciated (of course, flames will be quickly extinguished and ignored). All the usual warnings apply: if you shouldn’t be here, then don’t draw attention to yourself; if you don’t want to be here, and don’t like the idea of teen boys being sexually involved with each other, then go away (we don’t go to YOUR story/pic sites and harrass YOU).

This is a story of a young teen boy’s first sexual experience. It
is not true; it is a liberal view of a real experience of mine, combined
with fantasy. No names are real, but several characters are based on real
boys I knew back then. No animals, trees, people, or wood products were
harmed in the writing of this article.

———-

When I was twelve I moved from the safety and comfort of elementary
school to the terrors and horrors of junior high. I knew it would be very
different, that things would be done in ways that I was not used to, but I
really was unprepared for it. And to make matters worse, I had started
puberty that past summer.

Let me start by introducing myself. My name is Jimmy Hanson, and
back then I was what everyone would call a nerd. A total dork. My mom
still had my straight brown hair cut into a bowl shape, right down over my
ears and with bangs down to my eyebrows. My baby blue eyes would become my
best feature in high school, when I was able to wear contacts, but back
then I wore thick black glasses. I was in the middle of my second round
with braces. And to top it all off, I was a real shrimp; by far the
shortest kid in my grade at 4′, I weighed a mere 78 pounds. But perhaps
the worst of it all was the way my Mom dressed me. She would not buy me
jeans, and wouldn’t allow me to wear t-shirts or sweatshirts to school; it
was always “dress slacks” and polo or button-down shirts. Not a day would
go by where I wasn’t verbally and physically harrassed in the halls at
school.

For most boys like me, PE was their biggest nightmare, the class
they dreaded the most. This was not the case for me. I was miraculously
fairly-gifted athletically. While all the other boys were stronger than
me, I could hold my own skillwise in sports like baseball, basketball,
football, swimming, and running.

There was another reason that I liked PE so much: the locker room.
You see, by then I had started to develop an interest in boys. I didn’t
know I was gay, not having the knowledge or the experience to be able to
give meaning to my dreams, thoughts, and lingering looks, but it didn’t
really matter. I just enjoyed being in the locker room: watching the other
boys changing, seeing them in their underwear (or naked during swimming
block), and being able to hang out naked or in my underwear while
surrounded by lots of other boys. Sure I noticed that I was smaller down
there too, but at least I had started growing pubes (some of my bigger and
better-endowed classmates had yet to sprout a single hair). And then there
was the occasional hard-on that popped up in there. It was not that big a
deal, it happened to many of us in there, so nothing bad happened because
of it.

Until we started wrestling block. That’s where my problems in the
rest of school spilled over into this class. Because my lack of strength
resulted in my easily being the worse wrestler in the class. And the
harrassment began here too.

Our school had a fundraiser each year in September to raise money
for PE equipment. This year, they used some of the money to purchase
wrestling singlets for PE and for the school wrestling team. Since we had
to wear the singlet during wrestling block, they required us to wear
jockstraps during PE (the only time during the year that we had to). Most
of the boys hated wearing them, but I liked it; I liked the feel of nothing
covering my butt under the uniform, and I liked how the pouch felt on my
dick. Perhaps too much, though; the combination of the erotic feel of the
jock, combined with the intense bodily contact of wrestling (with hands
touching all over), caused me to have an erection during every wrestling
match that I was in.

And this did not go un-noticed by my opponent (or by the other boys
watching). All my matches ended the same way: me on my back after having
been pinned, my opponent looking down at me smirking, and a chorus of
giggles from the spectators as their eyes focused on the hard bulge in my
crotch. I pretended it didn’t bother me; I laughed it off and joked with
them about it, so nothing ever came of it. Until one day near the end of
January.

“TWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!” Coach Harris’ whistle told us to stop
running laps and gather round him. He was OK enough, but not my favorite
teacher; looking back now, I realize that he was a stereotypical jr. high
PE teacher who enjoyed bullying the weaker kids as much as some of the
other kids did.

When we had all flopped down on the floor around him, Coach started
giving out the first match-ups. When he came to me, I swear he looked at
me with a smirk before pitting me against Randy Archer.

More than any other kid in school, Randy Archer loved to bully me.
Plus, he had about a foot and thirty pounds on me. I knew I didn’t stand a
chance against him in wrestling; my only hope was to come out of it with
nothing more than another loss.

“Come on, peewee, let’s go. I wanna get this over with so I can
wrestle a REAL guy.” I looked up at Randy and followed him over to our
ring. I should have been concentrating on how to best wrestle him, but I
couldn’t help gawking at his body; it was everything that I liked. He was
one of the few that didn’t wear a t-shirt under his singlet, as I think he
liked showing off his toned upper body. His arms and shoulders were not
overly muscular (what thirteen-year-old is?), but had definite bulges and a
tone that mine sorely lacked. Where my chest seemed to be just a smooth
expanse of white skin with hardly a wrinkle, his showed off his developing
pecs. And in his armpits were patches of hair that would have made some
high schoolers jealous.

But Randy’s best features, in my opinion, were in his face. His
piercing green eyes drew me in and mesmerized me every time. He had full
lips that I envied. And his upper lip already showed the beginnings of a
mustache, something I would not have for another four years.

Randy’s hair, though, was what I liked the most. A natural
brown-haired boy, he had blond streaks through it that highlighted his good
looks perfectly. He styled it in a way I wish I could have, kind of a mix
of curls and a messy look.

Coach’s whistle broke into my daydreams, and I found myself in the
circle facing Randy. “OK boys, positions! First name I said (that would
be me) is on the bottom to start.” As Coach gave the instructions we got
ready: me on my hands and knees, Randy squatting over me with one arm
wrapped around me. I knew better than to await the starting whistle, so I
readied myself right away. Sure enough, I felt Randy’s body tensing to
begin.

“OK, on my whistle: one, two…” Just as the word ‘two’ left
Coach’s mouth, Randy struck. He pulled up and back, attempting to throw me
on my back before I was ready. But I was prepared. I swept back and out
with my leg, knocking Randy off-balance, and as his grip around me loosened
in his attempt to right himself, I was able to twist around and regain my
feet.

I had earned a point. But this served only to fuel Randy’s hatred
of me, and he quickly regained the upper hand. We spent the next several
minutes twisting around on the mat and each other, him repeatedly throwing
me down and me squirming out again.

Along with Randy’s legal wrestling moves were a mixture of illegal
arm twists, elbows and knees to my groin, and slaps to my face. Plus and
endless display of verbal jabs. “C’mon ya little punk, fight!” “What are
you, a sissy? Knock me down!”

Before long, the match had resulted in the usual for me: I was
completely hard in my jock. For once, though, Randy seemed not to notice,
and said nothing about it. However, I soon noticed a change in his
wrestling technique: he had me in such a position that I could not get
loose, in fact I could barely move, and one of his arms was twisted around
my thigh so that his wrist was right on top of my throbbbing erection. But
to my confusion, Randy was not moving much either; he didn’t seem to be
trying to move me into the pin position. His ONLY movement that I could
detect was his wrist pressing against my hard dick and moving up and down
against it.

Despite myself I liked the feelings his wrist were causing in me,
and I soon realized that I was thrusting my midsection against his arm. I
looked around at those watching us in alarm, afraid that they could tell
what was going on, but Randy’s body hid that part of me from their eyes.
Twisting my neck I looked up into Randy’s eyes, but they were staring off
into space, unfocused, a slight smile on his lips.

I soon realized that, if we continued our actions, I was going to
have a big problem. I had started shooting sperm several months ago and
knew that it wouldn’t be long before that happened here, and this was NOT a
good time or place for that. So, reluctantly, I stopped my thrusting
motions; however Randy did not stop rubbing his wrist against me down
there, and I began to panic. What could I do? It’s not like I could have
told him to stop, or said something like “Coach, Randy won’t stop jerking
me off!”

My breath started coming out in short gasps, and my whole body was
trying to thrash about in Randy’s grasp. It must have been obvious to him
that I was getting close; his wrist was rubbing even faster and pressing
harder, and I felt the familiar stirrings of am eruption. What was I going
to do? What COULD I do?

I tried pushing Randy’s hand away from me with my leg, but he was
too strong. The room turned kind of fuzzy and I felt my balls throb and
pull up, the signal that I was almost there. Maybe I could hold it in like
I hold it when I have to go pee really bad! My middle tensed up as I tried
to do just that, but it wasn’t working; I felt it starting to come up
through my erection, and knew I couldn’t stop it. Still, I held it in as
long as I could (mere seconds). Then, the inevitable happened.

My whole body jerked spasmodically, and I sucked in my breath. I
let out a soft groan as my hard penis throbbed and tensed under his wrist
(which was STILL rubbing and pressing against me). Finally I couldn’t hold
it in any longer, and I let go. I felt light-headed as my body was racked
by my strongest orgasm ever. Three hard blasts of cum shot out of my dick
into my jock. I was sure everyone could hear the squishy noises caused by
Randy’s movements against the wetness surrounding my dick. Thankfully, he
then stopped rubbing.

Until I realized what he was doing then. Randy’s hand now gripped
my dick through my uniform and jock, squeezing. I could feel it working
through the wetness, and was sure it was now seeping through my clothing.
Now everyone would think that I had wet my pants, or worse, would know what
HAD happened!

That’s exactly what went on then, with some help from Randy. As I
came down from my high his grip on me relaxed, but I was too drained to
move away on my own. He removed his arm from around me, and my legs
straightened out. This gave both of us a clear view of my crotch, and the
darkened area around my softening dick. I looked into his face, now
sneering at me.

“Hey guys, look what gayboy here did!” Randy shouted this loud
enough for everyone in the room to hear while still staring into my eyes,
then he turned to look at the other boys watching us. I heard a collection
of gasps and remarks.

“Omigod, the pansy wet his pants!”

“No, the little fag CREAMED his jock!”

Soon, everyone in the room (including Coach) was surrounding us.
Randy and I both lept to our feet, Randy pretending to push away from me in
disgust and me trying to hide the evidence of my shame. Hands were
pummeling me as I tried to break through the circle and get away, pushing
me back into the middle where they could continue to stare and jeer at me.
I looked down, and I swear the dark, damp spot had grown. Definnitely, I
could see streams of cum dripping down.

After several minutes I gave up trying to get away. I merely stood
there with my arms crossed, tears streaming silently down my cheeks.
Finally I looked over at Coach, standing in back of the circle laughing at
me like all the others.

It felt like hours that I stood there, surrounded by dozens of boys
(and one “man”) laughing hysterically and chattering on and on about what I
had done. The whole time I continued to stare at Coach, wishing he would
step in and help me. At last, he did do SOMETHING. He stepped in the
middle of the ring of boys and pushed a few aside, creating a slight
opening, and nodded his head towards the locker room. Putting my head down
I pushed my way out of the circle and ran, not stopping until I was
standing in front of my locker. I opened it and pulled out my underpants,
then walked over to the sink.

After stepping out of my shoes and pulling off my socks, I took off
the singlet and t- shirt. My cum had already dried and hardened, causing
my penis to stick to the inside of my jock. Knowing it would hurt if I
simply pulled the jock off, I decided to get it wet. I walked into the
shower room (which was never used, all of us wondering why it was there in
the first place) and turned one on, stepping under it just enough to drench
my midsection. This worked, enabling me to take my jock off pain-free.
After washing off my crotch area real well to remove my cum, I went back
and dried off with my t-shirt, then put my clothes on. The clock showed
that the dressdown bell for PE would ring in another 2 minutes so I grabbed
my clothes and walked out into the hall, leaving my jock and singlet
behind. I knew I would never use them again, at least not here.

This incident resulted in the rest of my sixth grade year being a
nightmare. I convinced my counselor to transfer me to a different PE
period with a different Coach, thinking that would help me escape the
memory of this embarrassment, but my classmates wouldn’t let that happen.
The next five months were an endless blur of hazings, harrassments, and
bullying. Over the summer I convinced my parents that problems with this
school caused me to fail most of my classes (I never told them about the
wrestling incident), and they were able to get me transferred to a
different school in September.

I never heard anyone mention this again. And I never told anyone
about it. Until now.

——–

Hope you enjoyed this story. I want to write more, this time
stories about my real experiences, so would appreciate constructive
feedback. Write me (Joey) at wldcrazy5@aol.com.