In SPORTS REHABILITATION-“Interviewing Dave,” the old jock is wearing out his welcome on the sports field, but the young sports reporter is interested in a lot more than just talking about the dude’s decline. He’s willing to lay hands on to help his hero over the hump. But does Dave want his help? The young boxer in BOXING-“Up for the Count,” finds himself in a similar situation. Will the young jock be willing to go all the way to help his hero? The young swim team hopeful in WATER POLO-“Learning to Swim,” has a totally different problem. He can’t swim. Can he impress the older members of the team with his enthusiasm and determination to learn? What does he bring to the challenge? ROWING takes off in an entirely different direction. Not exactly Dr. Frankenstein’s lab, but is it paranormal or mystical realism? ARCHERY tops it all with Greek heros and mountaintops, while the “Birthday Boys” in LIFEGUARD slams us back to earth, or rather the beach, where sometimes tragedy and celebration go hand in hand. The one constant in all the different settings: hot sexy jocks looking for action. Will our athletic heroes be able to overcome the obstacles life throws at them to find their happy ever after? Or at least their happy for now? Come play with them. You just might end up on the winning team.
I was a big ole country dude from the flats of Montana when I managed to hook an athletic scholarship to Western States U.
Notice I didn't say big ole dumb country dude. Guys in my part of the state might not have been too smart when it came to book learning, but once they corralled us together in Consolidated High we sure as hell learned a lot about body language quick enough.
Most of us grew up working out on little farms and ranches scattered around the state. We developed into well-built, well-hung young men and learned to take care of our private needs each in his own way, usually involving the help of friendly animals or cleverly constructed contraptions involving food by-products.
I remember packing some well-used rabbit-fur mitts and a selection of favorite corn cobs when I went off to WSU just so I'd be prepared to take care of my masculine urges. What I wasn't prepared for was the water polo team.
Lord knows, who came up with the idea of water polo at Western State. I figured it was because they didn’t need much in the way of athletic equipment. They already had a swimming pool. Just those stupid looking little caps so you could tell who was knocking whose teeth out and a pair of practically not-there swim trunks was all the guys would need. You could stuff that in the back pocket of your jeans and be ready. Throw in a ball and a bunch of chlorine happy bozos and you had yourself a team. And we had one of the best.
They were all big, good-looking, muscular, happy-go-lucky dudes who swam like sharks—and were hung like hell. You could almost count the inches and check the size of their knobs from the skimpy briefs they kept nearly yanking off each other when the action in the water got hot and heavy. Splashing around, sending up foam like a herd of horny porpoises, they were tough as hell and happy as mud-hole horn toads in mating season.
And no wonder. Coming from trying to keep from going crazy helping their folks scratch out a living on summer bone-dry or winter buried-in-snow-up-to-their-frozen-assholes homesteads, then suddenly being turned loose with a group of hot, fun-loving guys crashing around in endless pools of water was fucking seventh heaven, and the six preceding, too.
I wanted me some of that.