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.

***

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.

The women’s coach had a key. Fat chance peddling that theory. Besides, it wasn’t Matt’s style to throw people under the bus. That was Roger’s thing.

“Well, Mustang,” Coach said to Matt, “you’re the guy with the key. Do you have anything to tell us?”

“I—” Matt stammered.

“It’s me.” Idabel stepped forward. “I did it. Mustang and I went out for pizza Saturday night. He left his keyring on the table when he went to take a leak. I took the key and then brought my girl here.”

Matt shook his head. Idabel didn’t have a “girl.” He’d nursed a crush for weeks, then watched the girl flirt with another dude at some bowling party. End of story.

“He’s lying, Coach!” Matt said. “I did it! I’m guilty!” He had no clue how he would deal with the accomplice issue. The only thing of which he was certain was that he would not let Idabel pay for his reckless romp with Todd. Correction: romps–plural. Matt had cum twice.

“I call ‘B.S,'” Roger said. He stooped down and scooped up the thong underwear. Held them up for all to see. “These are smalls. 28-30-inch waist. You’re what, Idabel? 36-inch waist?”

Idabel shrugged sheepishly. A sort of anything-for-love shrug.

Matt stared at Idabel. Why was he doing this? Did he really think he could just confess, ride out a two-game suspension, and go on with life? He’d have to name his “girl.”

Roger whirled towards Matt. “These look more your size, pretty boy. You’re a 32-inch waist, am I right?”

Matt was sick of Roger. Wished he’d smashed his face the first time he said “fag.” Disgusted that Roger was polluting Todd’s thong with his tiny hands.

Matt shoved him backwards, causing him to drop the thong. “For someone who claims not to wear man panties, you sure seem to know a lot about them! Are they yours, Roger? I mean they do have a small pouch, and, let’s face it, you don’t exactly have a big package.”

Roger’s eyes blazed pure hate. He balled his fists, squared his shoulders in preparation for a charge.

Matt braced for impact. This was not his first brawl. These things were common enough in locker rooms. Settling scores. Establishing pecking orders.

Matt knew there would be less than thirty seconds of real fighting before the other players rushed in and separated them. Half a minute. Enough time for Matt to execute a one-handed headlock followed by 3-4 quick upper cuts to Roger’s face. The next time that fucker said “fag” he’d be lisping it through swollen lips.

***

A few hours later, Matt sat in his dorm room. His right hand ached. Its knuckles were bruised and bloody. That was the least of his problems. When he’d tried sitting across from Idabel at dinner, his friend had mumbled that he wasn’t hungry after all. Went and scraped his food into the trash, ambled away. That was when Matt realized he had seriously fucked up. Idabel was not someone whose mother had ever had to tell him to clean his plate.

Welcome to life in the miserable AMP.

Who could have guessed that a pair of thong underwear could wreak such havoc? A stray meteor had killed the dinosaurs, reset the geological clock, and ushered in the mammals. Man panties were the meteor here. Matt was the dinosaur. An Extinction Level Event (ELE) as far as Matt was concerned.

Earlier that morning—in the blessed BMP—Matt had awakened with morning wood. Not unusual. What was unusual was that this one was twitchy, jonesing for a fix. Not appeased by promises to get it some ass later.

It was an irrational, insistent boner screaming to be stroked. Churning Matt’s stomach with a gnawing queasiness. Jangling his nerves with a clawing ache akin to caffeine withdrawal. Unlike other addictions that craved the injection/ingestion of a substance (heroin, tobacco, alcohol), this one required expulsion: the cock puking out its contents like ipecac syrup. Only then, post purging, would the dope sickness subside.

Luckily, Matt knew how to treat these symptoms.

He grabbed a towel and some lube. Sank onto the daybed. (Matt’s dorm room was the standard roommate configuration: two twin beds stacked in an “L”-shape. Since Matt had the room to himself, he had converted the lower one into a crude daybed.)

He leaned back and fished his cock out of his boxer briefs. His right hand clamped onto the familiar shaft. Curled around it by muscle memory. This would be quick work.

He caught a whiff of his own funk wafting from his exposed balls. It was a faint whisper of scent, lulling him hypnotically, like the smell of fresh brewed coffee drifting up from a downstairs kitchen. He stroked his balls with his left hand, combing the pubes with his nails, stirring the scent like a pig rooting out truffles.

He held his fingers up to his nose. Took a hit. It was musky, infused with testosterone, sweat, and piss—all male, even if it was himself.

Stripped off his boxer briefs and held them over his nose. Inhaled long drags while lightly stroking his cock.

Sure did.

Found the pouch of his briefs and sucked it into his mouth. Teased the flavor onto his tongue. His mind drifted in a mild euphoric haze. His hand grazed along his shaft, milking pre-cum from the tip, kneading it into his cock.

Images flooded his mind. Memories of his Locker Room Rendezvous with William. Skinny, big-headed William. On a bench in the locker room. Straining against the dildo stuffing his ass.

Matt spat out the damp boxer briefs. Pulled his feet onto the bed. Bent his long legs. Spread his knees. Raised his ass an inch. Arched his back.

William had been thusly posed on one end of the locker room bench while he rode the Matt-sized dildo. Matt, on the other end of the bench, had stroked himself to orgasm, talking softly to William the whole time as though it were his cock gliding in and out of William’s hole. Reminding William that in this fantasy the rest of the team was in the room, watching them. That Caleb stood nearby, stroking his Kraken, awaiting his turn.

Matt had retrieved a Kraken-sized dildo from his gym bag, smeared his own still-warm cum over the silicone shaft, and fastened the Kraken’s suction cup base to the bench near William. Replaced the Matt-sized dildo with the Kraken.

Had ordered William to accommodate the Kraken, to let the imaginary Caleb fuck him.

William had obliged. Aligned his hole with the Kraken’s cum-glistening tip. Used a hand to ease the silicone head inside him. Panted as each millimeter of the thing burrowed deeper, its length and girth stretching him, causing his testicles to retract, then disappear. The plunger that was the Kraken pushed ever upward in the syringe of William’s hole, forcing pre-cum to dribble out of his cock.

Sweat had glistened on William’s face. He’d wanted to know how much further there was to go. About an inch and a half.

William had moaned as if giving birth.

“Dahling,” William had joked, “I think I need an epidural.”

Matt had sat on the bench behind William, supporting William’s torso, stroking his face, encouraging him like a midwife.

Eventually the Kraken had bottomed out. The molded silicone scrotum at the dildo’s base brushed against William’s ass.

Only then had Matt handed William some lube, given him permission to tug his willy.

Matt, still behind William, supporting his weight, had pulled William’s mouth towards him, kissing him.

William had ridden the Kraken, sliding up and down its length, letting it explore reefs inside him no other dick had never breached.

Matt’s tongue probed William’s mouth, one of two slick, slithering things thrusting and rolling in William’s cavities.

Up. Down. Whimper. Tug. William had sucked Matt’s tongue deeper into his mouth in much the same way as his hole pulled at the pole inside it. Up. Down. Whimper. Tug.

William had spasmed through his orgasm. Shot jets that splattered onto Matt’s face, in his hair.

Back on that last innocent morning of BMP, Matt, still positioned as William had been while riding the Kraken, stroked his cock.

He lubed the index finger of his left hand. Probed his hole. Teased it open. Explored until he found his prostate. Wished the Kraken were here and not safely stored at the clubhouse.

Matt stroked his cock with his right hand, fingered himself with his left. Imagined himself as both top and bottom. Pitcher and catcher. A one-man team. When he finally came, it was a homerun. Out of the ballpark.

Sated, breathing hard, he wiped himself off. He did not wank often anymore. On the rare mornings when he did, he usually waited for all evidence of his arousal to subside before heading to the showers.

Not today.

Matt slipped on his shower shoes, threw a clean towel over his shoulder, grabbed his body wash and a washcloth, and headed—naked—down the hall. Parading naked to and from the communal shower was Matt’s signature move. Doing so post ejaculation, while his cock was in its resolution phase (deflating, not yet flaccid), was a first.

***

Roger charged into Matt, his head ramming Matt’s chest.

Matt’s left arm snaked out, yanked Roger into a headlock.

“STOP!” Coach bellowed.

Matt reluctantly obeyed. He released Roger and stepped away from the fray. There would be other opportunities to settle this score.

Roger staggered backward.

A sullen hush settled over the room.

“A few minutes ago, no one would take responsibility for these underthings,” Coach said, pointing to the thong underwear and fishnet stocking. “Now I’ve got three suspects.”

Roger scowled. “Idabel and Mustang confessed. I didn’t.”

Coach crossed his arms, glared at Roger. “Even after I told you I didn’t want to play Cinderella’s Prince, you took the role and tried figuring out whether the underwear fit Idabel or Mustang!”

“Even if I did, that doesn’t make me a suspect.”

“Agreed,” Coach said. “Then you got hoisted by your own petard. Mustang turned the tables on you! I wonder if maybe he’s right and the man panties are yours.”

Coach’s face was red with anger. He snatched up the thong underwear, held them out towards Roger. “Want to see if your foot fits into this glass slipper, Cinderella?”

Roger shook his head, stared at the floor.

Matt almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

Coach nodded at Roger. “Good choice. Now I can deal with the other two nitwits who are doing their level best to ruin my chances at a winning season.”

Coach let the thong underwear fall to the floor. He held up a finger. “How many fingers is that, Idabel?”

“One,” Idabel said.

“Mustang? Do you see more than one finger?”

Matt shook his head.

“Just checking to see if you two know how to count,” Coach said. “One. That’s all I needed. One guy to take responsibility for the man panties and the hooker hose. One guy to ride the bench for a couple of games, and the rest of us could move on.”

Coach paced back and forth like a caged lion. He was agitated. “Instead, it appears that I have two competing confessions. My hands are tied. I must turn it over to the Dean and let him sort it out…”

“…Unless…”

“Unless what?” Matt asked.

Coach slowed his pacing. “I’m wondering if maybe I misunderstood. That perhaps you two were trying to tell the same story—not competing ones. That you were trying to explain that you were only guilty of the bad judgment of having used Mustang’s key to give an unauthorized tour of this facility. That the real culprits here, the girl with the hooker hose, the guy with the man panties, are not students. That whatever they did, or did not do, while you were conducting your tour of this facility, is on them—not you.”

“Coach?” Idabel was confused.

Coach gave Idabel a salesman’s smile. “I was just wondering, Idabel. Obviously, only you and Mustang know what really happened.”

“That’s exactly what we were saying Coach!” Matt jumped in, improvising on the fly. He understood that Coach wanted out of this mess as much as he did. All that was needed was a story that cobbled Matt’s and Idabel’s earlier statements into a semi-plausible whole.

“Idabel’s sister and my brother met at our Friends University game,” Matt lied. “They hit it off. Started dating…”

Idabel shook his head. “I don’t have a sister.”

Matt elbowed Idabel. “What Idabel means, Coach, is that the young woman is not technically his sister. She’s his cousin. The two of them look so much alike that people jokingly refer to them as siblings.”

One of the seniors offered a mood lightening observation. “We are talking about McCurtain County, Coach. They’re known for sister-cousins and other odd forks of the family tree.”